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diff --git a/9192-8.txt b/9192-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b089c02 --- /dev/null +++ b/9192-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24092 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Channings, by Mrs. Henry Wood + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost +no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use +it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this +eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Channings + +Author: Mrs. Henry Wood + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9192] +This file was first posted on September 14, 2003 +Last Updated: November 20, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHANNINGS *** + + + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charlie Kirschner, and the +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + + + + + + + + + +THE CHANNINGS + +A STORY + +By Mrs. Henry Wood + +Author Of “East Lynne,” “Johnny Ludlow,” Etc. _Two Hundred And Tenth +Thousand_ + + +1901 + + + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER I. -- THE INKED SURPLICE. + +CHAPTER II. -- BAD NEWS. + +CHAPTER III. -- CONSTANCE CHANNING. + +CHAPTER IV. -- NO HOLIDAY TO-DAY. + +CHAPTER V. -- ROLAND YORKE. + +CHAPTER VI. -- LADY AUGUSTA YORKE AT HOME. + +CHAPTER VII. -- MR. KETCH. + +CHAPTER VIII. -- THE ASSISTANT-ORGANIST. + +CHAPTER IX. -- HAMISH’S CANDLES. + +CHAPTER X. -- A FALSE ALARM. + +CHAPTER XI. -- THE CLOISTER KEYS. + +CHAPTER XII. -- A MISHAP TO THE BISHOP. + +CHAPTER XIII. -- MAD NANCE. + +CHAPTER XIV. -- KEEPING OFFICE. + +CHAPTER XV. -- A SPLASH IN THE RIVER. + +CHAPTER XVI. -- MUCH TO ALTER. + +CHAPTER XVII. -- SUNDAY MORNING AT MR. CHANNING’S, AND AT LADY +AUGUSTA’S. + +CHAPTER XVIII. -- MR. JENKINS ALIVE AGAIN. + +CHAPTER XIX. -- THE LOSS. + +CHAPTER XX. -- THE LOOMING OF AN AWFUL FEAR. + +CHAPTER XXI. -- MR. BUTTERBY. + +CHAPTER XXII. -- AN INTERRUPTED DINNER. + +CHAPTER XXIII. -- AN ESCORT TO THE GUILDHALL. + +CHAPTER XXIV. -- THE EXAMINATION. + +CHAPTER XXV. -- A MORNING CALL. + +CHAPTER XXVI. -- CHECKMATED. + +CHAPTER XXVII. -- A PIECE OF PREFERMENT. + +CHAPTER XXVIII. -- AN APPEAL TO THE DEAN. + +CHAPTER XXIX. -- A TASTE OF “TAN.” + +CHAPTER XXX. -- THE DEPARTURE. + +CHAPTER XXXI. -- ABROAD. + +CHAPTER XXXII. -- AN OMINOUS COUGH. + +CHAPTER XXXIII. -- NO SENIORSHIP FOR TOM CHANNING. + +CHAPTER XXXIV. -- GERALD YORKE MADE INTO A “BLOCK.” + +CHAPTER XXXV. -- THE EARL OF CARRICK. + +CHAPTER XXXVI. -- ELLEN HUNTLEY. + +CHAPTER XXXVII. -- THE CONSPIRATORS. + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. -- THE DECISION. + +CHAPTER XXXIX. -- THE GHOST. + +CHAPTER XL. -- MR. KETCH’S EVENING VISIT. + +CHAPTER XLI. -- THE SEARCH. + +CHAPTER XLII. -- AN OFFICIAL CEREMONY INTERRUPTED. + +CHAPTER XLIII. -- DRAGGING THE RIVER. + +CHAPTER XLIV. -- MR. JENKINS IN A DILEMMA. + +CHAPTER XLV. -- A NEW SUSPICION. + +CHAPTER XLVI. -- A LETTER FOR MR. GALLOWAY. + +CHAPTER XLVII. -- DARK CLOUDS. + +CHAPTER XLVIII. -- MUFFINS FOR TEA. + +CHAPTER XLIX. -- A CHÂTEAU EN ESPAGNE. + +CHAPTER L. -- REALLY GONE! + +CHAPTER LI. -- AN ARRIVAL IN A FLY. + +CHAPTER LII. -- A RELIC FROM THE BURIAL-GROUND. + +CHAPTER LIII. -- THE RETURN HOME. + +CHAPTER LIV. -- “THE SHIP’S DROWNED.” + +CHAPTER LV. -- NEWS FROM ROLAND. + +CHAPTER LVI. -- THE BROKEN PHIAL. + +CHAPTER LVII. -- A GHOST AGAIN. + +CHAPTER LVIII. -- BYWATER’S DANCE. + +CHAPTER LIX. -- READY. + +CHAPTER LX. -- IN WHAT DOES IT LIE? + + + + + + + + + I remember the gleams and glooms that dart + Across the schoolboy’s brain; + The song and the silence in the heart, + That in part are prophecies, and in part + Are longings wild and vain. + And the voice of that fitful song + Sings on and is never still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + Strange to me now are the forms I meet + When I visit the dear old town; + But the native air is pure and sweet, + And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, + As they balance up and down, + Are singing the beautiful song, + Are sighing and whispering still: + “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER I. -- THE INKED SURPLICE. + +The sweet bells of Helstonleigh Cathedral were ringing out in the +summer’s afternoon. Groups of people lined the streets, in greater +number than the ordinary business of the day would have brought forth; +some pacing with idle steps, some halting to talk with one another, +some looking in silence towards a certain point, as far as the eye could +reach; all waiting in expectation. + +It was the first day of Helstonleigh Assizes; that is, the day on +which the courts of law began their sittings. Generally speaking, +the commission was opened at Helstonleigh on a Saturday; but for some +convenience in the arrangements of the circuit, it was fixed this time +for Wednesday; and when those cathedral bells burst forth, they gave +signal that the judges had arrived and were entering the sheriff’s +carriage, which had gone out to meet them. + +A fine sight, carrying in it much of majesty, was the procession, as it +passed through the streets with its slow and stately steps; and although +Helstonleigh saw it twice a year, it looked at it with gratified eyes +still, and made the day into a sort of holiday. The trumpeters +rode first, blowing the proud note of advance, and the long line of +well-mounted javelin men came next, two abreast; their attire that of +the livery of the high sheriff’s family, and their javelins held in +rest. Sundry officials followed, and the governor of the county gaol +sat in an open carriage, his long white wand raised in the air. Then +appeared the handsome, closed equipage of the sheriff, its four horses, +caparisoned with silver, pawing the ground, for they chafed at the slow +pace to which they were restrained. In it, in their scarlet robes and +flowing wigs, carrying awe to many a young spectator, sat the judges. +The high sheriff sat opposite to them, his chaplain by his side, in his +gown and bands. A crowd of gentlemen, friends of the sheriff, followed +on horseback; and a mob of ragamuffins brought up the rear. + +To the assize courts the procession took its way, and there the short +business of opening the commission was gone through, when the judges +re-entered the carriage to proceed to the cathedral, having been joined +by the mayor and corporation. The sweet bells of Helstonleigh were +still ringing out, not to welcome the judges to the city now, but as an +invitation to them to come and worship God. Within the grand entrance +of the cathedral, waiting to receive the judges, stood the Dean of +Helstonleigh, two or three of the chapter, two of the minor canons, and +the king’s scholars and choristers, all in their white robes. The bells +ceased; the fine organ pealed out--and there are few finer organs in +England than that of Helstonleigh--the vergers with their silver maces, +and the decrepit old bedesmen in their black gowns, led the way to the +choir, the long scarlet trains of the judges held up behind: and places +were found for all. + +The Rev. John Pye began the service; it was his week for chanting. +He was one of the senior minor canons, and head-master of the college +school. At the desk opposite to him sat the Rev. William Yorke, a young +man who had only just gained his minor canonry. + +The service went on smoothly until the commencement of the anthem. In +one sense it went on smoothly to the end, for no person present, not +even the judges themselves, could see that anything was wrong. Mr. Pye +was what was called “chanter” to the cathedral, which meant that it was +he who had the privilege of selecting the music for the chants and other +portions of the service, when the dean did not do so himself. The anthem +he had put up for this occasion was a very good one, taken from the +Psalms of David. It commenced with a treble solo; it was, moreover, an +especial favourite of Mr. Pye’s; and he complacently disposed himself to +listen. + +But no sooner was the symphony over, no sooner had the first notes of +the chorister sounded on Mr. Pye’s ear, than his face slightly flushed, +and he lifted his head with a sharp, quick gesture. _That_ was not the +voice which ought to have sung this fine anthem; that was a cracked, +_passée_ voice, belonging to the senior chorister, a young gentleman +of seventeen, who was going out of the choir at Michaelmas. He had done +good service for the choir in his day, but his voice was breaking now; +and the last time he had attempted a solo, the bishop (who interfered +most rarely with the executive of the cathedral; and, indeed, it was not +his province to do so) had spoken himself to Mr. Pye on the conclusion +of the service, and said the boy ought not to be allowed to sing alone +again. + +Mr. Pye bent his head forward to catch a glimpse of the choristers, +five of whom sat on his side of the choir, the _decani_; five on the +opposite, or _cantori_ side. So far as he could see, the boy, Stephen +Bywater, who ought to have taken the anthem, was not in his place. There +appeared to be only four of them; but the senior boy with his clean, +starched surplice, partially hid those below him. Mr. Pye wondered where +his eyes could have been, not to have noticed the boy’s absence when +they had all been gathered round the entrance, waiting for the judges. + +Had Mr. Pye’s attention not been fully engrossed with his book, as the +service had gone on, he might have seen the boy opposite to him; for +there sat Bywater, before the bench of king’s scholars, and right in +front of Mr. Pye. Mr. Pye’s glance fell upon him now, and he could +scarcely believe it. He rubbed his eyes, and looked, and rubbed again. +Bywater there! and without his surplice! braving, as it were, the +head-master! What could he possibly mean by this act of insubordination? +Why was he not in his place in the school? Why was he mixing with +the congregation? But Mr. Pye could as yet obtain no solution to the +mystery. + +The anthem came to an end; the dean had bent his brow at the solo, but +it did no good; and, the prayers over, the sheriff’s chaplain ascended +to the pulpit to preach the sermon. He selected his text from St. John’s +Gospel: “That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is +born of the Spirit is spirit.” In the course of his sermon he pointed +out that the unhappy prisoners in the gaol, awaiting the summons to +answer before an earthly tribunal for the evil deeds they had committed, +had been led into their present miserable condition by the seductions +of the flesh. They had fallen into sin, he went on, by the indulgence of +their passions; they had placed no restraint upon their animal appetites +and guilty pleasures; they had sunk gradually into crime, and had now to +meet the penalty of the law. But did no blame, he asked, attach to those +who had remained indifferent to their downward course; who had never +stretched forth a friendly hand to rescue them from destruction; who had +made no effort to teach and guide in the ways of truth and righteousness +these outcasts of society? Were we, he demanded, at liberty to ignore +our responsibility by asking in the words of earth’s first criminal, “Am +I my brother’s keeper?” No; it was at once our duty and our privilege to +engage in the noble work of man’s reformation--to raise the fallen--to +seek out the lost, and to restore the outcast; and this, he argued, +could only be accomplished by a widely-disseminated knowledge of God’s +truth, by patient, self-denying labour in God’s work, and by a devout +dependence on God’s Holy Spirit. + +At the conclusion of the service the head-master proceeded to the +vestry, where the minor canons, choristers, and lay-clerks kept their +surplices. Not the dean and chapter; they robed in the chapter-house: +and the king’s scholars put on their surplices in the schoolroom. The +choristers followed Mr. Pye to the vestry, Bywater entering with them. +The boys grouped themselves together: they were expecting--to use their +own expression--a row. + +“Bywater, what is the meaning of this conduct?” was the master’s stern +demand. + +“I had no surplice, sir,” was Bywater’s answer--a saucy-looking boy +with a red face, who had a propensity for getting into “rows,” and, +consequently, into punishment. + +“No surplice!” repeated Mr. Pye--for the like excuse had never been +offered by a college boy before. “What do you mean?” + +“We were ordered to wear clean surplices this afternoon. I brought mine +to college this morning; I left it here in the vestry, and took the +dirty one home. Well, sir, when I came to put it on this afternoon, it +was gone.” + +“How could it have gone? Nonsense, sir! Who would touch your surplice?” + +“But I could _not_ find it, sir,” repeated Bywater. “The choristers know +I couldn’t; and they left me hunting for it when they went into the hall +to receive the judges. I could not go into my stall, sir, and sing the +anthem without my surplice.” + +“Hurst had no business to sing it,” was the vexed rejoinder of the +master. “You know your voice is gone, Hurst. You should have gone up to +the organist, stated the case, and had another anthem put up.” + +“But, sir, I was expecting Bywater in every minute. I thought he’d be +sure to find his surplice somewhere,” was Hurst’s defence. “And when he +did not come, and it grew too late to do anything, I thought it better +to take the anthem myself than to give it to a junior, who would be safe +to have made a mess of it. Better for the judges and other strangers to +hear a faded voice in Helstonleigh Cathedral, than to hear bad singing.” + +The master did not speak. So far, Hurst’s argument had reason in it. + +“And--I beg your pardon for what I am about to say, sir,” Hurst went on: +“but I hope you will allow me to assure you beforehand, that neither +I, nor my juniors under me, have had a hand in this affair. Bywater has +just told me that the surplice is found, and how; and blame is sure +to be cast upon us; but I declare that not one of us has been in the +mischief.” + +Mr. Pye opened his eyes. “What now?” he asked. “What is the mischief?” + +“I found the surplice afterwards, sir,” Bywater said. “This is it.” + +He spoke meaningly, as if preparing them for a surprise, and pointed to +a corner of the vestry. There lay a clean, but tumbled surplice, half +soaked in ink. The head-master and Mr. Yorke, lay-clerks and choristers, +all gathered round, and stared in amazement. + +“They shall pay me the worth of the surplice,” spoke Bywater, an angry +shade crossing his usually good-tempered face. + +“And have a double flogging into the bargain,” exclaimed the master. +“Who has done this?” + +“It looks as though it had been rabbled up for the purpose,” cried +Hurst, in schoolboy phraseology, bending down and touching it gingerly +with his finger. “The ink has been poured on to it.” + +“Where did you find it?” sharply demanded the master--not that he was +angry with the boys before him, but he felt angry that the thing should +have taken place. + +“I found it behind the screen, sir,” replied Bywater. “I thought I’d +look there, as a last resource, and there it was. I should think nobody +has been behind that screen for a twelvemonth past, for it’s over ankles +in dust there.” + +“And you know nothing of it, Hurst?” + +“Nothing whatever, sir,” was the reply of the senior chorister, spoken +earnestly. “When Bywater whispered to me what had occurred, I set it +down as the work of one of the choristers, and I taxed them with it. But +they all denied it strenuously, and I believe they spoke the truth. I +put them on their honour.” + +The head-master peered at the choristers. Innocence was in every +face--not guilt; and he, with Hurst, believed he must look elsewhere for +the culprit. That it had been done by a college boy there could be no +doubt whatever; either out of spite to Bywater, or from pure love of +mischief. The king’s scholars had no business in the vestry; but just at +this period the cathedral was undergoing repair, and they could enter, +if so minded, at any time of the day, the doors being left open for the +convenience of the workmen. + +The master turned out of the vestry. The cathedral was emptied of its +crowd, leaving nothing but the dust to tell of what had been, and the +bells once more went pealing forth over the city. Mr. Pye crossed the +nave, and quitted the cathedral by the cloister door, followed by the +choristers. The schoolroom, once the large refectory of the monks in +monkish days, was on the opposite side of the cloisters; a large room, +which you gained by steps, and whose high windows were many feet from +the ground. Could you have climbed to those windows, and looked from +them, you would have beheld a fair scene. A clear river wound under the +cathedral walls; beyond its green banks were greener meadows, stretching +out in the distance; far-famed, beautiful hills bounded the horizon. +Close by, were the prebendal houses; some built of red stone, some +covered with ivy, all venerable with age. Pleasant gardens surrounded +most of them, and dark old elms towered aloft, sheltering the rooks, +which seemed as old as the trees. + +The king’s scholars were in the schoolroom, cramming their surplices +into bags, or preparing to walk home with them thrown upon their arms, +and making enough hubbub to alarm the rooks. It dropped to a dead calm +at sight of the master. On holidays--and this was one--it was not +usual for the masters to enter the school after service. The school was +founded by royal charter--its number limited to forty boys, who were +called king’s scholars, ten of whom, those whose voices were the best, +were chosen choristers. The master marched to his desk, and made a sign +for the boys to approach, addressing himself to the senior boy. + +“Gaunt, some mischief has been done in the vestry, touching Bywater’s +surplice. Do you know anything of it?” + +“No, sir,” was the prompt answer. And Gaunt was one who scorned to tell +a lie. + +The master ranged his eyes round the circle. “Who does?” + +There was no reply. The boys looked at one another, a sort of stolid +surprise for the most part predominating. Mr. Pye resumed: + +“Bywater tells me that he left his clean surplice in the vestry this +morning. This afternoon it was found thrown behind the screen, tumbled +together, beyond all doubt purposely, and partially covered with ink. I +ask, who has done this?” + +“I have not, sir,” burst forth from most of the boys simultaneously. The +seniors, of whom there were three besides Gaunt, remained silent. But +this was nothing unusual; for the seniors, unless expressly questioned +or taxed with a fault, did not accustom themselves to a voluntary +denial. + +“I can only think this has been the result of accident,” continued the +head-master. “It is incredible to suppose any one of you would wantonly +destroy a surplice. If so, let that boy, whoever he may have been, speak +up honourably, and I will forgive him. I conclude that the ink must +have been spilt upon it, I say accidentally, and that he then, in his +consternation, tumbled the surplice together, and threw it out of sight +behind the screen. It had been more straightforward, more in accordance +with what I wish you all to be--boys of thorough truth and honour--had +he candidly confessed it. But the fear of the moment may have frightened +his better judgment away. Let him acknowledge it now, and I will forgive +him; though of course he must pay Bywater for another surplice.” + +A dead silence. + +“Do you hear, boys?” the master sternly asked. + +No answer from any one; nothing but continued silence. The master rose, +and his countenance assumed its most severe expression. + +“Hear further, boys. That it is one of you, I am convinced; and your +refusing to speak compels me to fear that it was _not_ an accident, but +a premeditated, wicked act. I now warn you, whoever did it, that if I +can discover the author or authors, he or they shall be punished with +the utmost severity, short of expulsion, that is allowed by the rules of +the school. Seniors, I call for your aid in this. Look to it.” + +The master left the schoolroom, and Babel broke loose--questioning, +denying, protesting, one of another. Bywater was surrounded. + +“Won’t there be a stunning flogging? Bywater, who did it? Do you know?” + +Bywater sat himself astride over the end of a bench, and nodded. The +senior boy turned to him, some slight surprise in his look and tone. + +“Do you know, Bywater?” + +“Pretty well, Gaunt. There are two fellows in this school, one’s at your +desk, one’s at the second desk, and I believe they’d either of them do +me a nasty turn if they could. It was one of them.” + +“Who do you mean?” asked Gaunt eagerly. + +Bywater laughed. “Thank you. If I tell now, it may defeat the ends of +justice, as the newspapers say. I’ll wait till I am sure--and then, let +him look to himself. _I_ won’t spare him, and I don’t fancy Pye will.” + +“You’ll never find out, if you don’t find out at once, Bywater,” cried +Hurst. + +“Shan’t I? You’ll see,” was the significant answer. “It’s some distance +from here to the vestry of the cathedral, and a fellow could scarcely +steal there and steal back without being seen by somebody. It was done +stealthily, mark you; and when folks go on stealthy errands they are +safe to be met.” + +Before he had finished speaking, a gentlemanly-looking boy of about +twelve, with delicate features, a damask flush on his face, and wavy +auburn hair, sprang up with a start. “Why!” he exclaimed, “I saw--” And +there he came to a sudden halt, and the flush on his cheek grew deeper, +and then faded again. It was a face of exceeding beauty, refined almost +as a girl’s, and it had gained for him in the school the _sobriquet_ of +“Miss.” + +“What’s the matter with you, Miss Charley?” + +“Oh, nothing, Bywater.” + +“Charley Channing,” exclaimed Gaunt, “do you know who did it?” + +“If I did, Gaunt, I should not tell,” was the fearless answer. + +“_Do_ you know, Charley?” cried Tom Channing, who was one of the seniors +of the school. + +“Where’s the good of asking that wretched little muff?” burst forth +Gerald Yorke. “He’s only a girl. How do you know it was not one of the +lay-clerks, Bywater? They carry ink in their pockets, I’ll lay. Or any +of the masons might have gone into the vestry, for the matter of that.” + +“It wasn’t a lay-clerk, and it wasn’t a mason,” stoically nodded +Bywater. “It was a college boy. And I shall lay my finger upon him as +soon as I am a little bit surer than I am. I am three parts sure now.” + +“If Charley Channing does not suspect somebody, I’m not here,” exclaimed +Hurst, who had closely watched the movement alluded to; and he brought +his hand down fiercely on the desk as he spoke. “Come, Miss Channing, +just shell out what you know; it’s a shame the choristers should lie +under such a ban: and of course we _shall_ do so, with Pye.” + +“You be quiet, Hurst, and let Miss Charley alone,” drawled Bywater. “I +don’t want him, or anybody else to get pummelled to powder; I’ll find +it out for myself, I say. Won’t my old aunt be in a way though, when +she sees the surplice, and finds she has another to make! I say, Hurst, +didn’t you croak out that solo! Their lordships in the wigs will be +soliciting your photograph as a keepsake.” + +“I hope they’ll set it in diamonds,” retorted Hurst. + +The boys began to file out, putting on their trenchers, as they +clattered down the steps. Charley Channing sat himself down in the +cloisters on a pile of books, as if willing that the rest should pass +out before him. His brother saw him sitting there, and came up to him, +speaking in an undertone. + +“Charley, you know the rules of the school: one boy must not tell of +another. As Bywater says, you’d get pummelled to powder.” + +“Look here, Tom. I tell you--” + +“Hold your tongue, boy!” sharply cried Tom Channing. “Do you forget +that I am a senior? You heard the master’s words. We know no brothers in +school life, you must remember.” + +Charley laughed. “Tom, you think I am a child, I believe. I didn’t enter +the school yesterday. All I was going to tell you was this: I don’t +know any more than you who inked the surplice; and suspicion goes for +nothing.” + +“All right,” said Tom Channing, as he flew after the rest; and Charley +sat on, and fell into a reverie. + +The senior boy of the school, you have heard, was Gaunt. The other three +seniors, Tom Channing, Harry Huntley, and Gerald Yorke, possessed a +considerable amount of power; but nothing equal to that vested in Gaunt. +They had all three entered the school on the same day, and had kept pace +with each other as they worked their way up in it, consequently not one +could be said to hold priority; and when Gaunt should quit the school at +the following Michaelmas, one of the three would become senior. Which, +you may wish to ask? Ah, we don’t know that, yet. + +Charley Channing--a truthful, good boy, full of integrity, kind and +loving by nature, and a universal favourite--sat tilted on the books. He +was wishing with all his heart that he had not seen something which +he had seen that day. He had been going through the cloisters in the +afternoon, about the time that all Helstonleigh, college boys included, +were in the streets watching for the sheriff’s procession, when he saw +one of the seniors steal (Bywater had been happy in the epithet) out of +the cathedral into the quiet cloisters, peer about him, and then throw +a broken ink-bottle into the graveyard which the cloisters enclosed. The +boy stole away without perceiving Charley; and there sat Charley now, +trying to persuade himself by some ingenious sophistry--which, however, +he knew _was_ sophistry--that the senior might not have been the one in +the mischief; that the ink-bottle might have been on legitimate duty, +and that he threw it from him because it was broken. Charles Channing +did not like these unpleasant secrets. There was in the school a code of +honour--the boys called it so--that one should not tell of another; and +if the head-master ever went the length of calling the seniors to his +aid, those seniors deemed themselves compelled to declare it, if the +fault became known to them. Hence Tom Channing’s hasty arrest of his +brother’s words. + +“I wonder if I could see the ink-bottle there?” quoth Charles to +himself. Rising from the books he ran through the cloisters to a certain +part, and there, by a dexterous spring, perched himself on to the frame +of the open mullioned windows. The gravestones lay pretty thick in the +square, enclosed yard, the long, dank grass growing around them; but +there appeared to be no trace of an ink-bottle. + +“What on earth are you mounted up there for? Come down instantly. You +know the row there has been about the walls getting defaced.” + +The speaker was Gerald Yorke, who had come up silently. Openly disobey +him, young Channing dared not, for the seniors exacted obedience in +school and out of it. “I’ll get down directly, sir. I am not hurting the +wall.” + +“What are you looking at? What is there to see?” demanded Yorke. + +“Nothing particular. I was looking for what I can’t see,” pointedly +returned Charley. + +“Look here, Miss Channing; I don’t quite understand you to-day. You were +excessively mysterious in school, just now, over that surplice affair. +Who’s to know you were not in the mess yourself?” + +“I think you might know it,” returned Charley, as he jumped down. “It +was more likely to have been you than I.” + +Yorke laid hold of him, clutching his jacket with a firm grasp. “You +insolent young jackanapes! Now! what do you mean? You don’t stir from +here till you tell me.” + +“I’ll tell you, Mr. Yorke; I’d rather tell,” cried the boy, sinking his +voice to a whisper. “I was here when you came peeping out of the college +doors this afternoon, and I saw you come up to this niche, and fling +away an ink-bottle.” + +Yorke’s face flushed scarlet. He was a tall, strong fellow, with a pale +complexion, thick, projecting lips, and black hair, promising fair to +make a Hercules--but all the Yorkes were finely framed. He gave young +Channing a taste of his strength; the boy, when shaken, was in his hands +as a very reed. “You miserable imp! Do you know who is said to be the +father of lies?” + +“Let me alone, sir. It’s no lie, and you know it’s not. But I promise +you on my honour that I won’t split. I’ll keep it in close; always, if I +can. The worst of me is, I bring things out sometimes without thought,” + he added ingenuously. “I know I do; but I’ll try and keep in this. You +needn’t be in a passion, Yorke; I couldn’t help seeing what I did. It +wasn’t my fault.” + +Yorke’s face had grown purple with anger. “Charles Channing, if you +don’t unsay what you have said, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your +life.” + +“I can’t unsay it,” was the answer. + +“You can’t!” reiterated Yorke, grasping him as a hawk would a pigeon. +“How dare you brave me to my presence? Unsay the lie you have told.” + +“I am in God’s presence, Yorke, as well as in yours,” cried the boy, +reverently; “and I will not tell a lie.” + +“Then take your whacking! I’ll teach you what it is to invent +fabrications! I’ll put you up for--” + +Yorke’s tongue and hands stopped. Turning out of the private +cloister-entrance of the deanery, right upon them, had come Dr. Gardner, +one of the prebendaries. He cast a displeased glance at Yorke, not +speaking; and little Channing, touching his trencher to the doctor, flew +to the place where he had left his books, caught them up, and ran out of +the cloisters towards home. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. -- BAD NEWS. + +The ground near the cathedral, occupied by the deanery and the prebendal +residences, was called the Boundaries. There were a few other houses in +it, chiefly of a moderate size, inhabited by private families. Across +the open gravel walk, in front of the south cloister entrance, was +the house appropriated to the headmaster; and the Channings lived in +a smaller one, nearly on the confines of the Boundaries. A portico led +into it, and there was a sitting-room on either side the hall. Charley +entered; and was going, full dash, across the hall to a small room where +the boys studied, singing at the top of his voice, when the old servant +of the family, Judith, an antiquated body, in a snow-white mob-cap and +check apron, met him, and seized his arm. + +“Hush, child! There’s ill news in the house.” + +Charley dropped his voice to an awe-struck whisper. “What is it, Judith? +Is papa worse?” + +“Child! there’s illness of mind as well as of body. I didn’t say +sickness; I said ill news. I don’t rightly understand it; the mistress +said a word to me, and I guessed the rest. And it was me that took in +the letter! _Me_! I wish I had put it in my kitchen fire first!” + +“Is it--Judith, is it news of the--the cause? Is it over?” + +“It’s over, as I gathered. ‘Twas a London letter, and it came by the +afternoon post. All the poor master’s hopes and dependencies for years +have been wrested from him. And if they’d give me my way, I’d prosecute +them postmen for bringing such ill luck to a body’s door.” + +Charles stood something like a statue, the bright, sensitive colour +deserting his cheek. One of those causes, Might _versus_ Right, of which +there are so many in the world, had been pending in the Channing family +for years and years. It included a considerable amount of money, which +ought, long ago, to have devolved peaceably to Mr. Channing; but Might +was against him, and Might threw it into Chancery. The decision of the +Vice-Chancellor had been given for Mr. Channing, upon which Might, in +his overbearing power, carried it to a higher tribunal. Possibly the +final decision, from which there could be no appeal, had now come. + +“Judith,” Charles asked, after a pause, “did you hear whether--whether +the letter--I mean the news--had anything to do with the Lord +Chancellor?” + +“Oh, bother the Lord Chancellor!” was Judith’s response. “It had to do +with somebody that’s an enemy to your poor papa. I know that much. Who’s +this?” + +The hall door had opened, and Judith and Charles turned towards it. A +gay, bright-featured young man of three and twenty entered, tall and +handsome, as it was in the nature of the Channings to be. He was the +eldest son of the family, James; or, as he was invariably styled, +Hamish. He rose six foot two in his stockings, was well made, and +upright. In grace and strength of frame the Yorkes and the Channings +stood A1 in Helstonleigh. + +“Now, then! What are you two concocting? Is he coming over you again +to let him make more toffy, Judy, and burn out the bottom of another +saucepan?” + +“Hamish, Judy says there’s bad news come in by the London post. I am +afraid the Lord Chancellor has given judgment--given it against us.” + +The careless smile, the half-mocking, expression left the lips of +Hamish. He glanced from Judith to Charles, from Charles to Judith. “Is +it sure?” he breathed. + +“It’s sure that it’s awful news of some sort,” returned Judith; “and the +mistress said to me that all was over now. They be all in there, but you +two,” pointing with her finger to the parlour on the left of the hall; +“and you had better go in to them. Master Hamish--” + +“Well?” returned Hamish, in a tone of abstraction. + +“You must every one of you just make the best of it, and comfort the +poor master. You are young and strong; while he--you know what _he_ is. +You, in special, Master Hamish, for you’re the eldest born, and were the +first of ‘em that I ever nursed upon my knee.” + +“Of course--of course,” he hastily replied. “But, oh, Judith! you don’t +know half the ill this must bring upon us! Come along, Charley; let us +hear the worst.” + +Laying his arm with an affectionate gesture round the boy’s neck, Hamish +drew him towards the parlour. It was a square, light, cheerful room. +Not the best room: that was on the other side the hall. On a sofa, +underneath the window, reclined Mr. Channing, his head and shoulders +partly raised by cushions. His illness had continued long, and now, it +was feared, had become chronic. A remarkably fine specimen of manhood he +must have been in his day, his countenance one of thoughtful goodness, +pleasant to look upon. Arthur, the second son, had inherited its +thoughtfulness, its expression of goodness; James, its beauty; but there +was a great likeness between all the four sons. Arthur, only nineteen, +was nearly as tall as his brother. He stood bending over the arm of his +father’s sofa. Tom, looking very blank and cross, sat at the table, his +elbows leaning on it. Mrs. Channing’s pale, sweet face was bent towards +her daughter’s, Constance, a graceful girl of one and twenty; +and Annabel, a troublesome young lady of nearly fourteen, was +surreptitiously giving twitches to Tom’s hair. + +Arthur moved from the place next his father when Hamish entered, as if +yielding him the right to stand there. A more united family it would be +impossible to find. The brothers and sisters loved each other dearly, +and Hamish they almost reverenced--excepting Annabel. Plenty of love the +child possessed; but of reverence, little. With his gay good humour, +and his indulgent, merry-hearted spirit, Hamish Channing was one to earn +love as his right, somewhat thoughtless though he was. Thoroughly well, +in the highest sense of the term, had the Channings been reared. Not of +their own wisdom had Mr. and Mrs. Channing trained their children. + +“What’s the matter, sir?” asked Hamish, smoothing his brow, and +suffering the hopeful smile to return to his lips. “Judith says some +outrageous luck has arrived; come express, by post.” + +“Joke while you may, Hamish,” interposed Mrs. Channing, in a low voice; +“I shrink from telling it you. Can you not guess the news?” + +Hamish looked round at each, individually, with his sunny smile, and +then let it rest upon his mother. “The very worst I can guess is not so +bad. We are all here in our accustomed health. Had we sent Annabel up +in that new balloon they are advertising, I might fancy it had capsized +with her--as it _will_ some day. Annabel, never you be persuaded to +mount the air in that fashion.” + +“Hamish! Hamish!” gently reproved Mrs. Channing. But perhaps she +discerned the motive which actuated him. Annabel clapped her hands. She +would have thought it great fun to go up in a balloon. + +“Well, mother, the worst tidings that the whole world could bring upon +us cannot, I say, be very dreadful, while we can discuss them as we are +doing now,” said Hamish. “I suppose the Lord Chancellor has pronounced +against us?” + +“Irrevocably. The suit is for ever at an end, and we have lost it.” + +“Hamish is right,” interrupted Mr. Channing. “When the letter arrived, +I was for a short time overwhelmed. But I begin to see it already in a +less desponding light; and by to-morrow I dare say I shall be cheerful +over it. One blessed thing--children, I say advisedly, a ‘blessed’ +thing--the worry will be over.” + +Charley lifted his head. “The worry, papa?” + +“Ay, my boy. The agitation--the perpetual excitement--the sickening +suspense--the yearning for the end. You cannot understand this, Charley; +you can none of you picture it, as it has been, for me. Could I have +gone abroad, as other men, it would have shaken itself off amidst the +bustle of the world, and have pressed upon me only at odd times and +seasons. But here have I lain; suspense my constant companion. It was +not right, to allow the anxiety so to work upon me: but I could not help +it; I really could not.” + +“We shall manage to do without it, papa,” said Arthur. + +“Yes; after a bit, we shall manage very well. The worst is, we are +behindhand in our payments; for you know how surely I counted upon this. +It ought to have been mine; it was mine by full right of justice, though +it now seems that the law was against me. It is a great affliction; but +it is one of those which may be borne with an open brow.” + +“What do you mean, papa?” + +“Afflictions are of two kinds. The one we bring upon ourselves, through +our own misconduct; the other is laid upon us by God for our own +advantage. Yes, my boys, we receive many blessings in disguise. Trouble +of this sort will only serve to draw out your manly energies, to make +you engage vigorously in the business of life, to strengthen your +self-dependence and your trust in God. This calamity of the lost lawsuit +we must all meet bravely. One mercy, at any rate, the news has brought +with it.” + +“What is that?” asked Mrs. Channing, lifting her sad face. + +“When I have glanced to the possibility of the decision being against +me, I have wondered _how_ I should pay its long and heavy costs; whether +our home must not be broken up to do it, and ourselves turned out upon +the world. But the costs are not to fall upon me; all are to be paid out +of the estate.” + +“That’s good news!” ejaculated Hamish, his face radiant, as he nodded +around. + +“My darling boys,” resumed Mr. Channing, “you must all work and do your +best. I had thought this money would have made things easier for you; +but it is not to be. Not that I would have a boy of mine cherish for a +moment the sad and vain dream which some do--that of living in idleness. +God has sent us all into the world to work; some with their hands, some +with their heads; all according to their abilities and their station. +You will not be the worse off,” Mr. Channing added with a smile, “for +working a little harder than you once thought would be necessary.” + +“Perhaps the money may come to us, after all, by some miracle,” + suggested Charley. + +“No,” replied Mr. Channing. “It has wholly gone from us. It is as much +lost to us as though we had never possessed a claim to it.” + +It was even so. This decision of the Lord Chancellor had taken it from +the Channing family for ever. + +“Never mind!” cried Tom, throwing up his trencher, which he had +carelessly carried into the room with him. “As papa says, we have our +hands and brains: and they often win the race against money in the long +run.” + +Yes. The boys had active hands and healthy brains--no despicable +inheritance, when added to a firm faith in God, and an ardent wish to +use, and not misuse, the talents given to them. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. -- CONSTANCE CHANNING. + +How true is the old proverb--“Man proposes but God disposes!” God’s ways +are not as our ways. His dealings with us are often mysterious. Happy +those, who can detect His hand in all the varied chances and changes of +the world. + +I am not sure that we can quite picture to ourselves the life that had +been Mr. Channing’s. Of gentle birth, and reared to no profession, +the inheritance which ought to have come to him was looked upon as +a sufficient independence. That it would come to him, had never been +doubted by himself or by others; and it was only at the very moment when +he thought he was going to take possession of it, that some enemy set up +a claim and threw it into Chancery. You may object to the word “enemy,” + but it could certainly not be looked upon as the act of a friend. By +every right, in all justice, it belonged to James Channing; but he who +put in his claim, taking advantage of a quibble of law, was a rich man +and a mighty one. I should not like to take possession of another’s +money in such a manner. The good, old-fashioned, wholesome fear would be +upon me, that it would bring no good either to me or mine. + +James Channing never supposed but that the money would be his some time. +Meanwhile he sought and obtained employment to occupy his days; to bring +“grist to the mill,” until the patrimony should come. Hoping, hoping, +hoping on; hope and disappointment, hope and disappointment--there was +nothing else for years and years; and you know who has said, that “Hope +deferred maketh the heart sick.” There have been many such cases in the +world, but I question, I say, if we can quite realize them. However, +the end had come--the certainty of disappointment; and Mr. Channing was +already beginning to be thankful that suspense, at any rate, was over. + +He was the head of an office--or it may be more correct to say the head +of the Helstonleigh branch of it, for the establishment was a London +one--a large, important concern, including various departments of +Insurance. Hamish was in the same office; and since Mr. Channing’s +rheumatism had become chronic, it was Hamish who chiefly transacted the +business of the office, generally bringing home the books when he left, +and going over them in the evening with his father. Thus the work +was effectually transacted, and Mr. Channing retained his salary. +The directors were contented that it should be so, for Mr. Channing +possessed their thorough respect and esteem. + +After the ill news was communicated to them, the boys left the parlour, +and assembled in a group in the study, at the back of the house, to talk +it over. Constance was with them, but they would not admit Annabel. A +shady, pleasant, untidy room was that study, opening to a cool, shady +garden. It had oil-cloth on the floor instead of carpeting, and books +and playthings were strewed about it. + +“What an awful shame that there should be so much injustice in the +world!” spoke passionate Tom, flinging his Euripides on the table. + +“But for one thing, I should be rather glad the worry’s over,” cried +Hamish. “We know the worst now--that we have only ourselves to trust +to.” + +“Our hands and brains, as Tom said,” remarked Charley. “What is the ‘one +thing’ that you mean, Hamish?” + +Hamish seized Charley by the waist, lifted him up, and let him drop +again. “It is what does not concern little boys to know: and I don’t see +why you should be in here with us, young sir, any more than Annabel.” + +“A presentiment that this would be the ending has been upon me for some +time,” broke in the gentle voice of Constance. “In my own mind I have +kept laying out plans for us all. You see, it is not as though we should +enjoy the full income that we have hitherto had.” + +“What’s that, Constance?” asked Tom hotly. “The decision does not touch +papa’s salary; and you heard him say that the costs were to be paid +out of the estate. A pretty thing it would be if any big-wigged Lord +Chancellor could take away the money that a man works hard for!” + +“Hasty, as usual, Tom,” she said with a smile. “You know--we all +know--that, counting fully upon this money, papa is behindhand in his +payments. They must be paid off now in the best way that may be found: +and it will take so much from his income. It will make no difference to +you, Tom; all you can do, is to try on heartily for the seniorship and +the exhibition.” + +“Oh, won’t it make a difference to me, though!” retorted Tom. “And +suppose I don’t gain it, Constance?” + +“Then you will have to work all the harder, Tom, in some other walk of +life. Failing the exhibition, of course there will be no chance of your +going up to the university; and you must give up the hope of entering +the Church. The worst off--the one upon whom this disappointment must +fall the hardest--will be Arthur.” + +Arthur Channing--astride on the arm of the old-fashioned sofa--lifted +his large deep blue eyes to Constance with a flash of intelligence: it +seemed to say, that she only spoke of what he already knew. He had been +silent hitherto; he was of a silent nature: a quiet, loving, tender +nature: while the rest spoke, he was content to think. + +“Ay, that it will!” exclaimed Hamish. “What will become of your articles +now, Arthur?” + +It should be explained that Arthur had entered the office of Mr. +Galloway, who was a proctor, and also was steward to the Dean and +Chapter. Arthur was only a subordinate in it, a clerk receiving pay--and +very short pay, too; but it was intended that he should enter upon +his articles as soon as this money that should be theirs enabled Mr. +Channing to pay for them. Hamish might well ask what would become of his +articles now! + +“I can’t see a single step before me,” cried Arthur. “Except that I must +stay on as I am, a paid clerk.” + +“What rubbish, Arthur!” flashed Tom, who possessed a considerable share +of temper when it was roused. “As if you, Arthur Channing, could remain +a paid clerk at Galloway’s! Why, you’d be on a level with Jenkins--old +Jenkins’s son. Roland Yorke _would_ look down on you then; more than he +does now. And that need not be!” + +The sensitive crimson dyed Arthur’s fair open brow. Of all the failings +that he found it most difficult to subdue in his own heart, pride bore +the greatest share. From the moment the ill news had come to his father, +the boy felt that he should have to do fierce battle with his pride; +that there was ever-recurring mortification laid up in store for it. +“But I _can_ battle with it,” he bravely whispered to himself: “and I +will do it, God helping me.” + +“I may whistle for my new cricket-bat and stumps now,” grumbled Tom. + +“And I wonder when I shall have my new clothes?” added Charley. + +“How selfish we all are!” broke forth Arthur. + +“Selfish?” chafed Tom. + +“Yes, selfish. Here we are, croaking over our petty disappointments, and +forgetting the worst share that falls upon papa. Failing this money, how +will he go to the German baths?” + +A pause of consternation. In their own grievances the boys had lost +sight of the hope which had recently been shared by them all. An eminent +physician, passing through Helstonleigh, had seen Mr. Channing, and +given his opinion that if he would visit certain medicinal spas in +Germany, health might be restored to him. When the cause should be +terminated in their favour, Mr. Channing had intended to set out. But +now it was given against him; and hope of setting out had gone with it. + +“I wish I could carry him on my back to Germany, and work to keep him +while he stayed there!” impulsively spoke Tom. “Wretchedly selfish we +have been, to dwell on our disappointments, by the side of papa’s. I +wish I was older.” + +Constance was standing against the window. She was of middle height, +thoroughly ladylike and graceful; her features fair and beautiful, and +her dark-blue eyes and smooth white brow wonderfully like Arthur’s. She +wore a muslin dress with a delicate pink sprig upon it, the lace of +its open sleeves falling on her pretty white hands, which were playing +unconsciously with a spray of jessamine, while she listened to her +brothers as each spoke. + +“Tom,” she interposed, in answer to the last remark, “it is of no use +wishing for impossibilities. We must look steadfastly at things as they +exist, and see what is the best that can be made of them. All that you +and Charles can do is to work well on at your studies--Annabel the same; +and it is to be hoped this blow will take some of her thoughtlessness +out of her. Hamish, and Arthur, and I, must try and be more active than +we have been.” + +“You!” echoed Arthur. “Why, what can you do, Constance?” + +A soft blush rose to her cheeks. “I tell you that I have seemed to +anticipate this,” she said, “and my mind has busied itself with plans +and projects. I shall look out for a situation as daily governess.” + +A groan of anger burst from Tom. His quick temper, and Arthur’s pride, +alike rose up and resented the words. “A daily governess! It is only +another name for a servant. Fine, that would be, for Miss Channing!” + +Constance laughed. “Oh, Tom! there are worse misfortunes at sea. I would +go out wholly, but that papa would not like to spare me, and I must take +Annabel for music and other things of an evening. Don’t look cross. It +is an excellent thought; and I shall not mind it.” + +“What will mamma say?” asked Tom, ironically. “You just ask her!” + +“Mamma knows,” replied Constance. “Mamma has had her fears about the +termination of the lawsuit, just as I have. Ah! while you boys were +laughing and joking, and pursuing your sports or your studies of a +night, I and mamma would be talking over the shadowed future. I told +mamma that if the time and the necessity came for turning my education +and talents to account, I should do it with a willing heart; and +mamma, being rather more sensible than her impetuous son Tom, cordially +approved.” + +Tom made a paper bullet and flung it at Constance, his honest eyes half +laughing. + +“So should I approve,” said Hamish. “It is a case, taking into +consideration my father’s state, in which all of us should help who are +able. Of course, were you boys grown up and getting money, Constance +_should_ be exempt from aiding and abetting; but as it is, it is +different. There will be no disgrace in her becoming a governess; and +Helstonleigh will never think it so. She is a lady always, and so she +would be if she were to turn to and wash up dishes. The only doubt is--” + +He stopped, and looked hesitatingly at Constance. As if penetrating his +meaning, her eyes fell before his. + +“--Whether Yorke will like it,” went on Hamish, as though he had not +halted in his sentence. And the pretty blush in Constance Channing’s +face deepened to a glowing crimson. Tom made a whole heap of bullets at +once, and showered them on to her. + +“So Hamish--be quiet, Tom!--you may inquire all over Helstonleigh +to-morrow, whether any one wants a governess; a well-trained young lady +of twenty-one, who can play, sing, and paint, speak really good +English, and decent French, and has a smattering of German,” rattled +on Constance, as if to cover her blushes. “I shall ask forty guineas a +year. Do you think I shall get it?” + +“I think you ought to ask eighty,” said Arthur. + +“So I would, if I were thirty-one instead of twenty-one,” said +Constance. “Oh dear! here am I, laughing and joking over it, but it is a +serious thing to undertake--the instruction of the young. I hope I shall +be enabled to do my duty in it. What’s that?” + +It was a merry, mocking laugh, which came from the outside of the +window, and then a head of auburn hair, wild and entangled, was pushed +up, and in burst Annabel, her saucy dark eyes dancing with delight. + +“You locked me out, but I have been outside the window and heard it +all,” cried she, dancing before them in the most provoking manner. +“Arthur can only be a paid clerk, and Constance is going to be a +governess and get forty guineas a year, and if Tom doesn’t gain his +exhibition he must turn bell-ringer to the college, for papa can’t pay +for him at the university now!” + +“What do you deserve, you wicked little picture of deceit?” demanded +Hamish. “Do you forget the old story of the listener who lost his ears?” + +“I always do listen whenever I can, and I always will,” avowed Annabel. +“I have warned you so a hundred times over, and now I warn you again. I +wish Tom _would_ turn bell-ringer! I’d make him ring a peal that should +astonish Helstonleigh, the day Constance goes out as governess. Shan’t +I have a fine time of it! It’s lessons for me now, morning, noon, and +night,--she’s always worrying me; but, once let us get her back turned, +and I shall have whole holiday! She may think I’ll do my lessons with +her at night; but I won’t!” + +The boys began to chase her round the table. She was almost a match for +all four--a troublesome, indulged, sunny-hearted child, who delighted in +committing faults, that she might have the pleasure of avowing them. She +flew out into the garden, first knocking over Constance’s paint-box, and +some of them went after her. + +At that moment Mr. Yorke came in. You have seen him once before, in +his place in Helstonleigh Cathedral: a tall, slender man, with pale, +well-formed features, and an attractive smile. His dark eyes rested on +Constance as he entered, and once more the brilliant colour lighted up +her face. When prospects should be a little better--that is, when Mr. +Yorke should have a sufficient living bestowed upon him--Constance was +to become his wife. His stipend from the minor canonry was at present +trifling. + +“Judith met me in the hall as I was going into the parlour, and told me +I had better come here,” he observed. “She said bad news had arrived for +Mr. Channing.” + +“Yes,” answered Hamish. “The lawsuit is lost.” + +“Lost!” echoed Mr. Yorke. + +“Irrevocably. We were discussing ways and means amongst ourselves,” said +Hamish, “for of course this changes our prospects materially.” + +“And Constance is going out as a governess, if she can find any one to +take her, and Arthur is to plod on with Joe Jenkins, and Tom means to +apply for the post of bell-ringer to the cathedral,” interposed the +incorrigible Annabel, who had once more darted in, and heard the last +words. “Can you recommend Constance to a situation, Mr. Yorke?” + +He treated the information lightly; laughed at and with Annabel; but +Constance noticed that a flush crossed his brow, and that he quitted the +subject. + +“Has the inked surplice been found out, Tom,--I mean the culprit?” + +“Not yet, Mr. Yorke.” + +“Charles, you can tell me who it was, I hear?” + +There was a startled glance for a moment in Charles’s eye, as he looked +up at Mr. Yorke, and an unconscious meaning in his tone. + +“Why, do _you_ know who it was, sir?” + +“Not I,” said Mr. Yorke. “I know that, whoever it may have been deserves +a sound flogging, if he did it willfully.” + +“Then, sir, why do you suppose I know?” + +“I met Hurst just now, and he stopped me with the news that he was sure +Charley Channing could put his hand upon the offender, if he chose to do +it. It was not yourself, was it Charley?” + +Mr. Yorke laughed as he asked the question. Charley laughed also, but in +a constrained manner. Meanwhile the others, to whom the topic had been +as Sanscrit, demanded an explanation, which Mr. Yorke gave, so far as he +was cognizant of the facts. + +“What a shame to spoil a surplice! Have you cause to suspect any +particular boy, Charley?” demanded Hamish. + +“Don’t ask him in my presence,” interrupted Tom in the same hurried +manner that he had used in the cloisters. “I should be compelled in +honour to inform the master, and Charley would have his life thrashed +out of him by the school.” + +“Don’t _you_ ask me, either, Mr. Yorke,” said Charles; and the tone +of his voice, still unconsciously to himself, bore a strange serious +earnestness. + +“Why not?” returned Mr. Yorke. “I am not a senior of the college school, +and under obedience to its head-master.” + +“If you are all to stop in this room, I and Tom shall never get our +lessons done,” was all the reply made by Charles, as he drew a chair to +the table and opened his exercise books. + +“And I never could afford that,” cried Tom, following his example, and +looking out the books he required. “It won’t do to let Huntley and Yorke +get ahead of me.” + +“Trying for the seniorship as strenuously as ever, Tom?” asked Mr. +Yorke. + +“Of course I am,” replied Tom Channing, lifting his eyes in slight +surprise. “And I hope to get it.” + +“Which of the three stands the best chance?” + +“Well,” said Tom, “it will be about a neck-and-neck race between us. My +name stands first on the rolls of the school; therefore, were our merits +equal, in strict justice it ought to be given to me. But the master +could pass me over if he pleased, and decide upon either of the other +two.” + +“Which of those two stands first on the rolls?” + +“Harry Huntley. Yorke is the last. But that does not count for much, +you know, Mr. Yorke, as we all entered together. They enrolled us as our +initial letters stood in the alphabet.” + +“It will turn wholly upon your scholastic merits, then? I hear--but +Helstonleigh is famous for its gossip--that in past times it has +frequently gone by favour.” + +“So it has,” said Tom Channing, throwing back his head with a whole +world of indignation in the action. “Eligible boys have been passed +over, and the most incapable dolt set up above them; all because his +friends were in a good position, and hand-in-glove with the head-master. +I don’t mean Pye, you know; before he came. It’s said the last case was +so flagrant that it came to the ears of the dean, and he interfered +and forbade favour for the future. At any rate, there’s an impression +running through the school that merit and conduct, taken together, will +be allowed fair play.” + +“Conduct?” echoed Arthur Channing. + +Tom nodded:--“Conduct is to be brought in, this time. One day, when the +first desk fell into a row with the head-master, through some mischief +we had gone into out of school, he asked us if we were aware that +our conduct, as it might be good or ill, might gain or lose us the +seniorship. Yorke, who is bold enough, you know, for ten, remarked that +that was a new dodge, and the master overheard the words, and said, +Yes, he was happy to say there were many new ‘dodges’ he had seen fit to +introduce, which he trusted might tend to make the school different from +what it had been. Of course we had the laugh at Yorke; but the master +took no more notice of it. Since then, I assure you, Mr. Yorke, our +behaviour has been a pattern for young ladies--mine, and Huntley’s, and +Yorke’s. We don’t care to lose a chance.” + +Tom Channing nodded sagaciously as he concluded, and they left the room +to him and Charles. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. -- NO HOLIDAY TO-DAY. + + “Now, Constance, that we have a moment alone, what is this about you?” began Mr. Yorke, as they stood together in the garden. + +“Annabel said the truth--that I do think of going out as daily +governess,” she replied, bending over a carnation to hide the blush +which rose to her cheeks, a very rival to the blushing flower. “It is a +great misfortune that has fallen upon us--at least we can only look at +it in that light at present, and will, beyond doubt, be productive of +some embarrassment. Do you not see, William, that it is incumbent upon +us all to endeavour to lighten this embarrassment, those of us who can +do so? I must assume my share of the burden.” + +Mr. Yorke was silent. Constance took it for granted that he was +displeased. He was of an excellent family, and she supposed he disliked +the step she was about to take--deemed it would be derogatory to his +future wife. + +“Have you fully made up your mind?” he at length asked. + +“Yes. I have talked it over with mamma--for indeed she and I both seem +to have anticipated this--and she thinks with me, that it is what I +ought to do. William, how could I reconcile it to my conscience not to +help?” she continued. “Think of papa! think of his strait! It appears to +be a plain duty thrown in my path.” + +“By yourself, Constance?” + +“Not by myself,” she whispered, lifting for a moment her large blue +eyes. “Oh, William, William, do not be displeased with me! do not forbid +it! It is honourable to work--it is right to do what we can. Strive to +see it in the right light.” + +“Let that carnation alone, Constance; give your attention to me. What if +I do forbid it?” + +She walked a little forward, leaving the carnation bed, and halted under +the shade of the dark cedar tree, her heart and colour alike fading. Mr. +Yorke followed and stood before her. + +“William, I must do my duty. There is no other way open to me, by +which I can earn something to help in this time of need, except that +of becoming a governess. Many a lady, better born than I, has done it +before me.” + +“A daily governess, I think you said?” + +“Papa could not spare me to go out altogether; Annabel could not spare +me either; and--” + +“I would not spare you,” he struck in, filling up her pause. “Was that +what you were about to say, Constance?” + +The rosy hue stole over her face again, and a sweet smile to her lips: +“Oh, William, if you will only sanction it! I shall go about it then +with the lightest heart!” + +He looked at her with an expression she did not understand, and shook +his head. Constance thought it a negative shake, and her hopes fell +again. “You did not answer my question,” said Mr. Yorke. “What if I +forbid it?” + +“But it seems to be my duty,” she urged from between her pale and parted +lips. + +“Constance, that is no answer.” + +“Oh, do not, do not! William, do not you throw this temptation in my +way--that of choosing between yourself and a plain duty that lies before +me.” + +“The temptation, as you call it, must be for a later consideration. Why +will you not answer me? What would be your course if I forbade it?” + +“I do not know. But, Oh, William, if you gave me up--” + +She could not continue. She turned away to hide her face from Mr. Yorke. +He followed and obtained forcible view of it. It was wet with tears. + +“Nay, but I did not mean to carry it so far as to cause you real grief, +my dearest,” he said, in a changed tone. “Though you brought it on +yourself,” he added, laughing, as he bent his face down. + +“How did I bring it on myself?” + +“By doubting me. I saw you doubted me at the first, when Annabel spoke +of it in the study. Constance, if you, possessed as you are of great +acquirements, refused from any notion of false pride, to exert them for +your family in a time of need, I should say you were little fitted for +the wife of one whose whole duty it must be to do his Master’s work.” + +“You will sanction the measure then?” she rejoined, her countenance +lighting up. + +“How could you doubt me? I wish I could make a home at once to take you +to; but as you must remain in this a little longer, it is only fair +that you should contribute to its maintenance. We all have to bend to +circumstances. I shall not love my wife the less, because she has had +the courage to turn her talents to account. What could you be thinking +of, child?” + +“Forgive me, William,” she softly pleaded. “But you looked so grave and +were so silent.” + +Mr. Yorke smiled. “The truth is, Constance, I was turning in my mind +whether I could not help to place you, and pondering the advantages and +disadvantages of a situation I know of. Lady Augusta is looking out for +a daily governess.” + +“Is she?” exclaimed Constance. “I wonder whether--I--should suit her?” + +Constance spoke hesitatingly. The thought which had flashed over her own +mind was, whether Lady Augusta Yorke could afford to pay her +sufficient remuneration. Probably the same doubt had made one of the +“disadvantages” hinted at by Mr. Yorke. + +“I called there yesterday, and interrupted a ‘scene’ between Lady +Augusta and Miss Caroline,” he said. “Unseemly anger on my lady’s part, +and rebellion on Carry’s, forming, as usual, its chief features.” + +“But Lady Augusta is so indulgent to her children!” interrupted +Constance. + +“Perniciously indulgent, generally; and when the effects break out in +insolence and disobedience, then there ensues a scene. If you go there +you will witness them occasionally, and I assure you they are not +edifying. You must endeavour to train the girls to something better than +they have been trained to yet, Constance.” + +“If I do go.” + +“I knew how long it would last, Lady Augusta’s instructing them +herself,” resumed Mr. Yorke. “It is not a month since the governess +left.” + +“Why does she wish to take a daily governess instead of one in the +house?” + +“_Why_ Lady Augusta does a thing, is scarcely ever to be accounted for, +by herself or by any one else!” replied Mr. Yorke. “Some convenience, or +inconvenience, she mentioned to me, about sleeping arrangements. Shall +I ascertain particulars for you, Constance; touching salary and other +matters?” + +“If you please. Papa is somewhat fastidious; but he could not object +to my going there; and its being so very near our own house would be a +great point of--” + +“Constance!” interrupted a voice at this juncture. “Is Mr. Yorke there?” + +“He is here, mamma,” replied Constance, walking forward to Mrs. +Channing, Mr. Yorke attending her. + +“I thought I heard you enter,” she said, as Mr. Yorke took her hand. +“Mr. Channing will be pleased to see you, if you will come in and chat +with him. The children have told you the tidings. It is a great blow to +their prospects.” + +“But they seem determined to bear it bravely,” he answered, in a hearty +tone. “You may be proud to have such children, Mrs. Channing.” + +“Not proud,” she softly said. “Thankful!” + +“True. I am obliged to you for correcting me,” was the clergyman’s +ingenuous answer, as he walked, with Mrs. Channing, across the hall. +Constance halted, for Judith came out of the kitchen, and spoke in a +whisper. + +“And what’s the right and the wrong of it, Miss Constance? _Is_ the +money gone?” + +“Gone entirely, Judith. Gone for good.” + +“For good!” groaned Judith; “I should say for ill. Why does the Queen +let there be a Lord Chancellor?” + +“It is not the Lord Chancellor’s fault, Judith. He only administers the +law.” + +“Why couldn’t he just as well have given it _for_ your papa, as against +him?” + +“I suppose he considers that the law is on the other side,” sighed +Constance. + +Judith, with a pettish movement, returned to her kitchen; and at that +moment Hamish came downstairs. He had changed his dress, and had a pair +of new white gloves in his hand. + +“Are you going out to-night, Hamish?” + +There was a stress on the word “to-night,” and Hamish marked it. “I +promised, you know, Constance. And my staying away would do no good; it +could not improve things. Fare you well, my pretty sister. Tell mamma I +shall be home by eleven.” + +“It’ll be a sad cut-down for ‘em all,” muttered Judith, gazing at Hamish +round the kitchen door-post. “Where he’ll find money for his white +gloves and things now, is beyond my telling, the darling boy! If I could +but get to that Lord Chancellor!” + +Had you possessed the privilege of living in Helstonleigh at the time of +which this story treats--and I can assure you you might live in a less +privileged city--it is possible that, on the morning following the above +events, your peaceful slumbers might have been rudely broken by a noise, +loud enough to waken the seven sleepers of Ephesus. + +Before seven o’clock, the whole school, choristers and king’s scholars, +assembled in the cloisters. But, instead of entering the schoolroom for +early school, they formed themselves into a dense mass (if you ever saw +schoolboys march otherwise, I have not), and, treading on each other’s +heels, proceeded through the town to the lodgings of the judges, in +pursuance of a time-honoured custom. There the head-boy sent in his name +to the very chamber of the Lord Chief Justice, who happened this time to +have come to the Helstonleigh circuit. “Mr. Gaunt, senior of the college +school”--craving holiday for himself, and the whole fry who had attended +him. + +“College boys!” cried his lordship, winking and blinking, as other less +majestic mortals do when awakened suddenly out of their morning sleep. + +“Yes, my lord,” replied the servant. “All the school’s come up; such a +lot of ‘em! It’s the holiday they are asking for.” + +“Oh, ah, I recollect,” cried his lordship--for it was not the first time +he had been to Helstonleigh. “Give one of my cards to the senior boy, +Roberts. My compliments to the head-master, and I beg he will grant the +boys a holiday.” + +Roberts did as he was bid--he also had been to Helstonleigh before with +his master--and delivered the card and message to Gaunt. The consequence +of which was, the school tore through the streets in triumph, shouting +“Holiday!” in tones to be heard a mile off, and bringing people in white +garments, from their beds to the windows. The least they feared was, +that the town had taken fire. + +Back to the house of the head-master for the pantomime to be played +through. This usually was (for the master, as wise on the subject as +they were, would lie that morning in bed) to send the master’s servant +into his room with the card and the message; upon which permission for +the holiday would come out, and the boys would disperse, exercising +their legs and lungs. No such luck, however, on this morning. The +servant met them at the door, and grinned dreadfully at the crowd. + +“Won’t you catch it, gentlemen! The head-master’s gone into school, and +is waiting for you; marking you all late, of course.” + +“Gone into school!” repeated Gaunt, haughtily, resenting the +familiarity, as well as the information. “What do you mean?” + +“Why, I just mean that, sir,” was the reply, upon which Gaunt felt +uncommonly inclined to knock him down. But the man had a propensity +for grinning, and was sure to exercise it on all possible occasions. +“There’s some row up, and you are not to have holiday,” continued the +servant; “the master said last night I was to call him this morning as +usual.” + +At this unexpected reply, the boys slunk away to the college schoolroom, +their buoyant spirits sunk down to dust and ashes--figuratively +speaking. They could not understand it; they had not the most distant +idea what their offence could have been. Gaunt entered, and the rest +trooped in after him. The head-master sat at his desk in stern state: +the other masters were in their places. “What is the meaning of this +insubordination?” the master sharply demanded, addressing Gaunt. “You +are three-quarters of an hour behind your time.” + +“We have been up to the judges, as usual, for holiday, sir,” replied +Gaunt, in a tone of deprecation. “His lordship sends his card and +compliments to you, and--” + +“Holiday!” interrupted the master. “Holiday!” he repeated, with +emphasis, as if disbelieving his own ears. “Do you consider that the +school deserves it? A pretty senior you must be, if you do.” + +“What has the school done, sir?” respectfully asked Gaunt. + +“Your memory must be conveniently short,” chafed the master. “Have you +forgotten the inked surplice?” + +Gaunt paused. “But that was not the act of the whole school, sir. It was +probably the act of only one.” + +“But, so long as that one does not confess, the whole school must +bear it,” returned the master, looking round on the assembly. “Boys, +understand me. It is not for the fault itself--that may have been, as I +said yesterday, the result of accident; but it is the concealment of the +fault that makes me angry. Will you confess now?--he who did it?” + +No; the appeal brought forth no further result than the other had done. +The master continued: + +“You may think--I speak now to the guilty boy, and let him take these +words to himself--that you were quite alone when you did it; that no eye +was watching. But let me remind you that the eye of God was upon you. +What you refuse to tell, He can bring to light, if it shall so please +Him, in His own wonderful way, His own good time. There will be no +holiday to-day. Prayers.” + +The boys fell into their places, and stood with hanging heads, something +like rebellion working in every breast. At breakfast-time they +were dismissed, and gathered in the cloisters to give vent to their +sentiments. + +“Isn’t it a stunning shame?” cried hot Tom Channing. “The school ought +not to suffer for the fault of one boy. The master has no right--” + +“The fault lies in the boy, not in the master,” interrupted Gaunt. “A +sneak! a coward! If he has a spark of manly honour in him, he’ll speak +up now.” + +“As it has come to this, I say Charley Channing should be made to +declare what he knows,” said one. “He saw it done!” + +“Who says he did?” quickly asked Tom Channing. + +“Some one said so; and that he was afraid to tell.” + +Gaunt lifted his finger, and made a sign to Charles to approach. “Now, +boy”--as the latter obeyed--“you will answer _me_, remember. The master +has called the seniors to his aid, and I order you to speak. Did you see +this mischief done?” + +“No, I did not!” fearlessly replied little Channing. + +“If he doesn’t know, he suspects,” persisted Hurst. “Come, Miss +Channing.” + +“We don’t declare things upon suspicion, do we, Mr. Gaunt?” appealed +Charles. “I may suspect one; Hurst may suspect another; Bywater said +he suspected two; the whole school may be suspicious, one of another. +Where’s the use of that?” + +“It is of no use,” decided Gaunt. “You say you did not see the surplice +damaged?” + +“I did not; upon my word of honour.” + +“That’s enough,” said Gaunt. “Depend upon it, the fellow, while he was +at it, took precious good precautions against being seen. When he gets +found out, he had better not come within reach of the seniors; I warn +him of that: they might not leave him a head on his shoulders, or a +tooth in his mouth.” + +“Suppose it should turn out to have been a senior, Mr. Gaunt?” spoke +Bywater. + +“Suppose you should turn out to be an everlasting big donkey?” retorted +the senior boy. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER V. -- ROLAND YORKE. + +Just without the Boundaries, in a wide, quiet street, called Close +Street, was the office of Richard Galloway, Esquire, Proctor, and +Steward to the Dean and Chapter. Excepting for this solitary office, the +street consisted of private houses, and it was one of the approaches to +the cathedral, though not the chief one. Mr. Galloway was a bachelor; +a short, stout man, shaped like a cask, with a fat, round face, round, +open, grey eyes--that always looked as if their owner was in a state of +wonder--and a little round mouth. But he was a shrewd man and a capable; +he was also, in his way, a dandy; dressed scrupulously in the fashion, +with delicate shirt fronts and snow-white wristbands; and for the last +twenty-five years, at least, had been a mark for all the single ladies +of Helstonleigh to set their caps at. + +Of beauty, Mr. Galloway could boast little; but of his hair he was +moderately vain: a very good head of hair it was, and curled naturally. +But hair, let it be luxuriant enough to excite the admiration of a whole +army of coiffeurs, is, like other things in this sublunary world of +ours, subject to change; it will not last for ever; and Mr. Galloway’s, +from a fine and glossy brown, turned, as years went on, to sober +grey--nay, almost to white. He did not particularly admire the change, +but he had to submit to it. Nature is stronger than we are. A friend +hinted that it might be “dyed.” Mr. Galloway resented the suggestion: +anything false was abhorrent to him. When, however, after an illness, +his hair began to fall off alarmingly, he thought it no harm to use +a certain specific, emanating from one of her Majesty’s physicians; +extensively set forth and patronized as an undoubted remedy for hair +that was falling off. Mr. Galloway used it extensively in his fear, for +he had an equal dread both of baldness and wigs. The lotion not only had +the desired effect, but it had more: the hair grew on again luxuriantly, +and its whiteness turned into the finest flaxen you ever saw; a light +delicate flaxen, exactly like the curls you see upon the heads of +blue-eyed wax dolls. This is a fact: and whether Mr. Galloway liked it, +or not, he had to put up with it. Many would not be persuaded but that +he had used some delicate dye, hitherto unknown to science; and the +suspicion vexed Mr. Galloway. Behold him, therefore, with a perfect +shower of smooth, fair curls upon his head, equal to any young beau. + +It was in this gentleman’s office that Arthur Channing had been placed, +with a view to his becoming ultimately a proctor. To article him to Mr. +Galloway would take a good round sum of money; and this had been put off +until the termination of the suit, when Mr. Channing had looked forward +to being at his ease, in a pecuniary point of view. There were two +others in the same office. The one was Roland Yorke, who was articled; +the other was Joseph Jenkins, a thin, spare, humble man of nine and +thirty, who had served Mr. Galloway for nearly twenty years, earning +twenty-five shillings a week. He was a son of old Jenkins, the bedesman, +and his wife kept a small hosiery shop in High Street. Roland Yorke was, +of course, not paid; on the contrary, he had paid pretty smartly to +Mr. Galloway for the privilege of being initiated into the mysteries +belonging to a proctor. Arthur Channing may be said to have occupied a +position in the office midway between the two. He was to _become_ on the +footing of Roland Yorke; but meanwhile, he received a small weekly sum +in remuneration of his services, as Joe Jenkins did. Roland Yorke, +in his proud moods, looked down upon him as a paid clerk; Mr. Jenkins +looked up to him as a gentleman. It was a somewhat anomalous position; +but Arthur had held his own bravely up in it until this blow came, +looking forward to a brighter time. + +In the years gone by, one of the stalls in Helstonleigh Cathedral was +held by the Reverend Dr. Yorke: he had also some time filled the office +of sub-dean. He had married, imprudently, the daughter of an Irish peer, +a pretty, good-tempered girl, who was as fond of extravagance as she was +devoid of means to support it. She had not a shilling in the world; it +was even said that the bills for her trousseau came in afterwards to Dr. +Yorke: but people, you know, are given to scandal. Want of fortune had +been nothing, had Lady Augusta only possessed ordinary prudence; but she +spent the doctor’s money faster than he received it. + +In the course of years Dr. Yorke died, leaving eight children, and +slender means for them. There were six boys and two girls. Lady Augusta +went to reside in a cheap and roomy house (somewhat dilapidated) in the +Boundaries, close to her old prebendal residence, and scrambled on in +her careless, spending fashion, never out of debt. She retained their +old barouche, and _would_ retain it, and was a great deal too fond of +ordering horses from the livery stables and driving out in state. Gifted +with excellent qualities had her children been born; but of training, +in the highest sense of the word, she had given them none. George, the +eldest, had a commission, and was away with his regiment. Roland, the +second, had been designed for the Church, but no persuasion could induce +him to be sufficiently attentive to his studies to qualify himself for +it; he was therefore placed with Mr. Galloway, and the Church honours +were now intended for Gerald. The fourth son, Theodore, was also in the +college school, a junior. Next came two girls, Caroline and Fanny, and +there were two little boys still younger. + +Haughty, self-willed, but of sufficiently honourable nature, were +the Yorkes. If Lady Augusta had only toiled to foster the good, and +eradicate the evil, they would have grown up to bless her. Good soil was +there to work upon, as there was in the Channings; but, in the case of +the Yorkes, it was allowed to run to waste, or to generate weeds. In +short, to do as it pleased. + +A noisy, scrambling, uncomfortable sort of home was that of the Yorkes; +the boys sometimes contending one with another, Lady Augusta often +quarrelling with all. The home of the Channings was ever full of love, +calm, and peace. Can you guess where the difference lay? + +On the morning when the college boys had gone up to crave holiday of +the judges, and had not obtained it--at least not from the +head-master--Arthur Channing proceeded, as usual, to Mr. Galloway’s, +after breakfast. Seated at a desk, in his place, writing--he seemed to +be ever seated there--was Mr. Jenkins. He lifted his head when Arthur +entered, with a “Good morning, sir,” and then dropped it again over his +copying. + +“Good morning,” replied Arthur. And at that moment Mr. Galloway--his +flaxen curls in full flow upon his head, something like rings--came +forth from his private room. “Good morning, sir,” Arthur added, to his +master. + +Mr. Galloway nodded a reply to the salutation. “Have you seen anything +of Yorke?” he asked. “I want that deed that he’s about finished as soon +as possible.” + +“He will not be an instant,” said Arthur. “I saw him coming up the +street.” + +Roland Yorke bustled in; a dark young man of twenty-one, with large but +fine features, and a countenance expressive of indecision. + +“Come, Mr. Yorke, you promised to be here early to-day. You know that +deed is being waited for.” + +“So I am early, sir,” returned Roland. + +“Early! for _you_ perhaps,” grunted Mr. Galloway. “Get to it at once.” + +Roland Yorke unlocked a drawer, collected sundry parchments together, +and sat down to his desk. He and Arthur had their places side by side. +Mr. Galloway stood at a table, and began sorting some papers that were +upon it. + +“How is Mr. Channing this morning, Arthur?” + +“Much as usual, thank you, sir. Certain news, which arrived last night, +has not tended to cheer him.” + +“It is true, then?” remarked Mr. Galloway. “I heard a rumour of it.” + +“Oh, it’s true enough,” said Arthur. “It is in all the morning papers.” + +“Well, there never was a more unjust decision!” emphatically spoke +Mr. Galloway. “Mark you, I am not reflecting on the Lord Chancellor’s +judgment. I have always said that there were one or two nasty points in +that suit, which the law might get hold of; but I know the whole +cause by heart, from beginning to end; and that money was as much your +father’s, as this coat, that I have on, is mine. Tell him I’ll come in +one of these fine evenings, and abuse the injustice of our laws with +him,--will you?” + +“Yes, sir,” replied Arthur. + +“What’s this row in the college school about a destroyed surplice, and +the boys not getting their holiday through it?” resumed Mr. Galloway. + +“Oh, are they not savage!” struck in Roland Yorke. “The first thing +Tod did, when he came home to breakfast, was to fling over his bowl +of coffee, he was in such a passion. Lady Augusta--she came down to +breakfast this morning, for a wonder--boxed his ears, and ordered him to +drink water; but he went into the kitchen, and made a lot of chocolate +for himself.” + +“What are the particulars? How was it done? I cannot understand it at +all,” said Mr. Galloway. + +“Bywater left his clean surplice yesterday in the vestry, and some one +threw ink over it--half soaked it in ink, so the choristers told Tom,” + answered Arthur Channing. “In the afternoon--they had service late, you +know, sir, waiting for the judges--Bywater was not in his place to sing +the anthem, and Hurst sang it, and it put the master out very much.” + +“Put him out all the more that he has no one to punish for it,” laughed +Roland Yorke. “Of course Bywater couldn’t appear in his stall, and sing +the anthem, if he had no surplice to put on; and the master couldn’t tan +him for not doing it. I know this, if it had happened while I was in +the college school, I’d just have skinned some of the fellows alive, but +what I’d have made them confess.” + +“Suppose you had skinned the wrong party?” cynically observed Mr. +Galloway. “You are too hasty with your tongue, Roland Yorke. My nephew, +Mark, ran in just now to tell me of the holiday being denied, and that +was the first I had heard of the affair. Mark thinks one of the seniors +was in it; not Gaunt.” + +Arthur Channing and Roland Yorke both looked up with a sharp, quick +gesture. Gaunt excepted, the only senior, besides their respective +brothers, was Harry Huntley. + +“It is not likely, sir,” said Arthur. + +“A senior do it!” scoffed Roland Yorke. “What a young idiot Mark +Galloway must be, to think that!” + +“Mark does not seem to think much about it on his own account,” said Mr. +Galloway. “He said Bywater thought so, from some cause or other; and has +offered to bet the whole school that it will turn out to be a senior.” + +“Does he, though!” cried Yorke, looking puzzled. “Bywater’s a cautious +fellow with his money; he never bets at random. I say, sir, what else +did Galloway tell you?” + +“That was all,” replied Mr. Galloway. And if you wonder at a staid old +proctor chattering about this desultory news with his clerks in business +hours, it may be explained to you that Mr. Galloway took the greatest +possible interest, almost a boyish interest, in the college school. It +was where he had been educated himself, where his nephews were being +educated; he was on intimate terms with its masters; knew every boy in +it to speak to; saw them troop past his house daily in their progress to +and fro; watched them in their surplices in a Sunday, during morning +and afternoon service; was cognizant of their advancement, their +shortcomings, their merits, and their scrapes: in fact, the head-master +could not take a greater interest in the doings of the collegiate +school, than did Mr. Galloway. Whether of work, or whether of gossip, +his ears were ever open to listen to its records. Besides, they were not +so overburdened with work in that office, but that there was ample time +for discussing any news that might be agreeable to its master. His work +was light; his returns were heavy; his stewardship alone brought him in +several hundreds a year. + +“The Reverend Mr. Pye seems uncommonly annoyed about it, sir,” + Mr. Jenkins ventured to put in. To interrupt, or take part in any +conversation, was not usual with him, unless he could communicate little +tit-bits of information touching the passing topic. “You are aware that +Mr. Harper, the lay-clerk, lodges at our house, sir. Well, Mr. Pye came +round last night, especially to question him about it.” + +“What could Harper tell?” asked Mr. Galloway. + +“He could not tell anything; except that he would answer for the +lay-clerks knowing nothing of the transaction. The master said he never +supposed the lay-clerks did know anything of it, but he had his reasons +for putting the question. He had been to the masons, too, who are +repairing the cathedral; and they declared to the master, one and all, +that they had not been into the vestry yesterday, or even round to that +side of the college where the vestry is situated.” + +“Why should the master take it up so pertinaciously?” wondered Roland +Yorke. + +“I’m sure I don’t know, sir. He was like one in a fever, so excited over +it, Harper said.” + +“Did he talk to you about it, Jenkins?” asked Mr. Galloway. + +“I did not see him, sir; it was Harper told me afterwards,” was the +reply of Jenkins, as he subsided to his writing again. + +Just at this juncture, who should come in view of the window but the +head-master himself. He was passing it with a quick step, when out flew +Mr. Galloway, and caught him by the button. Roland Yorke, who was ever +glad of a pretext for idleness, rose from his stool, and pushed his +nose close up to the nearest pane, to listen to any colloquy that might +ensue; but, the window being open, he might have heard without leaving +his seat. + +“I hear the boys have not a holiday to-day, Pye,” began Mr. Galloway. + +“No, that they have not,” emphatically pronounced the master; “and, if +they go on as they seem to be going on now, I’ll keep them without it +for a twelvemonth. I believe the inking of that surplice was a concocted +plan, look you, Galloway, to--” + +“To what?” asked Mr. Galloway, for the master stopped short. + +“Never mind, just yet. I have my strong suspicions as to the guilty boy, +and I am doing what I can to convert them into proofs. If it be as I +suspect now, I shall expel him.” + +“But what could it have been done for?” debated Mr. Galloway. “There’s +no point in the thing, that I can see, to ink and damage a surplice. If +the boy to whom it belonged had been inked, one might not have wondered +so much.” + +“I’ll ‘point him,’” cried the master, “if I catch the right one.” + +“Could it have been one of the seniors?” returned the proctor, all his +strong interest awakened. + +“It was one who ought to have known better,” evasively returned the +master. “I can’t stop to talk now, Galloway. I have an errand to do, and +must be back to duty at ten.” + +He marched off quickly, and Mr. Galloway came indoors again. “Is that +the way you get on with your business, Mr. Yorke?” + +Yorke clattered to his desk. “I’ll get on with it, sir. I was listening +to what the master said.” + +“It does not concern you, what he said. It was not one of your brothers +who did it, I suppose?” + +“No, that it was not,” haughtily spoke Roland Yorke, drawing up his head +with a proud, fierce gesture. + +Mr. Galloway withdrew to his private room, and for a few minutes silence +supervened--nothing was to be heard but the scratching of pens. But +Roland Yorke, who had a great antipathy to steady work, and as great a +love for his own tongue, soon began again. + +“I say, Channing, what an awful blow the dropping of that expected money +must be for you fellows! I’m blest if I didn’t dream of it last night! +If it spoilt my rest, what must it have done by yours!” + +“Why! how could you have heard of it last night?” exclaimed Arthur, +in surprise. “I don’t think a soul came to our house to hear the news, +except Mr. Yorke: and you were not likely to see him. He left late. It +is in every one’s mouth this morning.” + +“I had it from Hamish. He came to the party at the Knivetts’. Didn’t +Hamish get taken in!” laughed Roland. “He understood it was quite a +ladies’ affair, and loomed in, dressed up to the nines, and there he +found only a bachelor gathering of Dick’s. Hamish was disappointed, I +think; he fancied he was going to meet Ellen Huntley; and glum enough he +looked--” + +“He had only just heard of the loss,” interrupted Arthur. “Enough to +make him look glum.” + +“Rubbish! It wasn’t that. He announced at once that the money was +gone for good and all, and laughed over it, and said there were worse +disasters at sea. Knivett said he never saw a fellow carry ill news off +with so high a hand. Had he been proclaiming the accession of a fortune, +instead of the loss of one, he could not have been more carelessly +cheerful. Channing, what on earth shall you do about your articles?” + +A question that caused the greatest pain, especially when put by Roland +Yorke; and Arthur’s sensitive face flushed. + +“You’ll have to stop as a paid clerk for interminable years! Jenkins, +you’ll have him for your bosom companion, if you look sharp and make +friends,” cried Roland, laughing loudly. + +“No, sir, I don’t think Mr. Arthur Channing is likely to become a paid +clerk,” said Jenkins. + +“Not likely to become a paid clerk! why, he _is_ one. If he is not one, +I’d like to know who is. Channing, you know you are nothing else.” + +“I may be something else in time,” quietly replied Arthur, who knew how +to control his rebellious spirit. + +“I say, what a rum go it is about that surplice!” exclaimed Roland +Yorke, dashing into another topic. “It’s not exactly the mischief itself +that’s rum, but the master seem to be making so much stir and mystery +over it! And then the hint at the seniors! They must mean Huntley.” + +“I don’t know who they _mean_,” said Arthur, “but I am sure Huntley +never did it. He is too open, too honourable--” + +“And do you pretend to say that Tom Channing and my brother Ger are not +honourable?” fiercely interrupted Roland Yorke. + +“There you go, Yorke; jumping to conclusions! It is not to be credited +that any one of the seniors did it: still less, if they had done it, +that they would not acknowledge it. They are all boys of truth and +honour, so far as I believe. Huntley, I am sure, is.” + +“And of Tom, also, I conclude you feel sure?” + +“Yes, I do.” + +“And I am sure of Ger Yorke. So, if the master is directing his +suspicion to the seniors, he’ll get floored. It’s odd what can have +turned it upon them.” + +“I don’t think the master suspects the seniors,” said Arthur. “He called +them to his aid.” + +“You heard what he just now said to Galloway. Jenkins, there is a knock +at the door.” + +Jenkins went to open it. He came back, and said Mr. Yorke was wanted. + +Roland lazily proceeded to the outer passage, and, when he saw who was +standing there, he put himself into a passion. “What do you mean by +presuming to come to me here?” he haughtily asked. + +“Well, sir, perhaps you’ll tell me where I am to come, so as to get to +see you?” civilly replied the applicant, one who bore the appearance of +a tradesman. “It seems it’s of no use going to your house; if I went ten +times a day, I should get the same answer--that you are not at home.” + +“Just take yourself off,” said Roland. + +“Not till you pay me; or tell me for certain when you will pay me, and +keep your promise. I want my money, sir, and I must have it.” + +“We want a great many things that we can’t get,” returned Roland, in a +provokingly light tone. “I’ll pay you as soon as I can, man; you needn’t +be afraid.” + +“I’m not exactly afraid,” spoke the man. “I suppose if it came to it, +Lady Augusta would see that I had the money.” + +“You hold your tongue about Lady Augusta. What’s Lady Augusta to you? +Any odds and ends that I may owe, have nothing to do with Lady Augusta. +Look here, Simms, I’ll pay you next week.” + +“You have said that so many times, Mr. Yorke.” + +“At any rate, I’ll pay you part of it next week, if I can’t the whole. I +will, upon my honour. There! now you know that I shall keep my word.” + +Apparently satisfied, the man departed, and Roland lounged into the +office again with the same idle movements that he had left it. + +“It was that confounded Simms,” grumbled he. “Jenkins, why did you say I +was in?” + +“You did not tell me to say the contrary, sir. He came yesterday, but +you were out then.” + +“What does he want?” asked Arthur. + +“Wanted me to pay him a trifle I owe; but it’s not convenient to do +it till next week. What an Eden this lower world might be, if debt had +never been invented!” + +“You need not get into debt,” said Arthur. “It is not compulsory.” + +“One _might_ build a mud hut outside the town walls, and shut one’s +self up in it, and eat herbs for dinner, and sleep upon rushes, and +turn hermit for good!” retorted Roland. “_You_ need not talk about debt, +Channing.” + +“I don’t owe much,” said Arthur, noting the significance of Yorke’s +concluding sentence. + +“If you don’t, some one else does.” + +“Who?” + +“Ask Hamish.” + +Arthur went on writing with a sinking heart. There was an undercurrent +of fear running within him--had been for some time--that Hamish did +owe money on his own private score. But this allusion to it was not +pleasant. + +“How much do you owe?” went on Roland. + +“Oh, a twenty-pound note would pay my debts, and leave me something out +of it,” said Arthur, in a joking tone. The fact was, that he did not +owe a shilling to any one. “Jenkins, do you know what I am to set about +next?” he continued; “I have filled in this lease.” + +Jenkins was beginning to look amidst some papers at his elbow, in answer +to the appeal; but at that moment Mr. Galloway entered, and despatched +Arthur to get a cheque cashed at the bank. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. -- LADY AUGUSTA YORKE AT HOME. + + “If you don’t put away that trash, Caroline, and go upstairs and practise, I’ll make you go! Strewing the table in that manner! Look what a pickle the room is in!” + +The words came from Lady Augusta Yorke, a tall, dark woman, with high +cheek-bones; and they were spoken at a height that might not have been +deemed orthodox at court. Miss Caroline Yorke, a young demoiselle, with +a “net” that was more frequently off her head than on it, slip-shod +shoes, and untidy stockings, had placed a quantity of mulberry leaves on +the centre table, and a silkworm on each leaf. She leisurely proceeded +with her work, bringing forth more silkworms from her paper trays, +paying not the least attention to her mother. Lady Augusta advanced, and +treated her to a slight tap on the ear, her favourite mode of correcting +her children. + +“Now, mamma! What’s that for?” + +“Do you hear me, you disobedient child? I will have this rubbish put +away, I say. Goodness, Martha! don’t bring any one in here!” broke off +Lady Augusta, as a maid appeared, showing in a visitor. “Oh, it is you, +William! I don’t mind you. Come in.” + +It was the Reverend William Yorke who entered. He was not altogether a +favourite of Lady Augusta’s. Though only distantly related to her late +husband, he yet bore the name of Yorke; and when he came to Helstonleigh +(for he was not a native of the place), and became a candidate for a +vacant minor canonry, Lady Augusta’s pride had taken fire. The minor +canons were looked upon by the exclusives of the cathedral as holding +a very inferior position amidst the clergy, and she resented that one +belonging to her should descend to set up his place amongst them. + +Mr. Yorke shook hands with Lady Augusta, and then turned to look at the +leaves and silkworms. “Are you doing that for ornament, Caroline?” + +“Ornament!” wrathfully cried Lady Augusta. “She is doing it to waste +time, and to provoke me.” + +“No, I am not, mamma,” denied Miss Caroline. “My poor silkworms never +have anything but lettuce leaves. Tod brought these for me from the +bishop’s garden, and I am looking at the silkworms enjoying the change.” + +“Tod is in hot water,” remarked Mr. Yorke. “He was fighting with another +boy as I came through the cloisters.” + +“Then he’ll come home with his clothes torn, as he did the last time he +fought!” exclaimed Lady Augusta, in consternation. “I think no one ever +had such a set of children as mine!” she peevishly continued. “The boys +boisterous as so many wild animals, and the girls enough to drive one +crazy, with their idle, disobedient ways. Look at this room, William! +encumbered from one end to the other! things thrown out of hand by +Caroline and Fanny! As to lessons, they never open one. For three days +I have never ceased telling Caroline to go and practise, and she has +not attempted to obey me! I shall go out of my mind with one thing or +another; I know I shall! Nice dunces they’ll grow up.” + +“Go and practise now, Caroline,” said Mr. Yorke. “I will put your +silkworms up for you.” + +Caroline pouted. “I hate practising.” + +He laid his hand gently upon her, gazing at her with his dark, pleasant +eyes, reproachful now; “But you do not hate obeying your mamma? You must +never let it come to that, Caroline.” + +She suffered him to lead her to the door, went docilely enough to +the drawing-room, and sat down to the piano. Oh, for a little better +training for those children! Mr. Yorke began placing the silkworms in +the trays, and Lady Augusta went on grumbling. + +“It is a dreadful fate--to be left a widow with a heap of unruly +children who will not be controlled! I must find a governess for the +girls, and then I shall be free from them for a few hours in the day. +I thought I would try and save the money, and teach them myself; but I +might just as well attempt to teach so many little wild Indians! I am +not fitted for teaching; it is beyond me. Don’t you think you could hear +of a governess, William? You go about so much.” + +“I have heard of one since I saw you yesterday,” he replied. “A young +lady, whom you know, is anxious to take a situation, and I think she +might suit you.” + +“Whom I know?” cried Lady Augusta. “Who is it?” + +“Miss Channing.” + +Lady Augusta looked up in astonishment. “Is _she_ going out as +governess? That comes of losing this lawsuit. She has lost no time in +the decision.” + +“When an unpalatable step has to be taken, the sooner it is set about, +the less will be the cost,” remarked Mr. Yorke. + +“Unpalatable! you may well say that. This will be the climax, will it +not, William?” + +“Climax of what?” + +“Of all the unpleasantness that has attended your engagement with Miss +Channing--” + +“I beg your pardon, Lady Augusta,” was the interruption of Mr. Yorke. +“No unpleasantness whatever has attended my engagement with Miss +Channing.” + +“I think so, for I consider her beneath you; and, therefore, that it +is nothing but unpleasant from beginning to end. The Channings are very +well in their way, but they are not equal to the Yorkes. You might make +this a pretext for giving her up.” + +Mr. Yorke laughed. “I think her all the more worthy of me. The only +question that is apt to arise within me is, whether I am worthy of her. +As we shall never agree upon this point, Lady Augusta, it may not be +worth while to discuss it. About the other thing? I believe she would +make an admirable governess for Caroline and Fanny, if you could obtain +her.” + +“Oh, I dare say she would do _that_. She is a lady, and has been well +educated. Would she want a large salary?” + +“Forty guineas a year, to begin with.” + +Lady Augusta interrupted him with a scream. “I never could give half +of it! I am sure I never could. What with housekeeping expenses, and +milliners’ bills, and visiting, and the boys everlastingly dragging +money out of me, I have scarcely anything to spare for education.” + +“Yet it is more essential than all the rest. Your income, properly +apportioned, would afford--” + +Another scream from Lady Augusta. Her son Theodore--Tod, +familiarly--burst into the room, jacketless, his hair entangled, blood +upon his face, and his shirt-sleeves in shreds. + +“You rebellious, wicked fright of a boy!” was the salutation of my lady, +when she could recover breath. + +“Oh, it’s nothing, mamma. Don’t bother,” replied Master Tod, waving her +off. “I have been going into Pierce, senior, and have polished him off +with a jolly good licking. He won’t get me into a row again, I’ll bet.” + +“What row did he get you into?” + +“He’s a nasty, sneaking tattler, and he took and told something to +Gaunt, and Gaunt put me up for punishment, and I had a caning from old +Pye. I vowed I’d pay Pierce out for it, and I have done it, though he is +a sight bigger than me.” + +“What was it about?” inquired Mr. Yorke. “The damaged surplice?” + +“Damaged surplice be hanged!” politely retorted the young gentleman, +who, in gaining the victory, appeared to have lost his temper. “It was +something concerning our lessons at the third desk, if you must know.” + +“You might be civil, Tod,” said Lady Augusta. “Look at your shirt! Who, +do you suppose, is going to mend that?” + +“It can go unmended,” responded Master Tod. “I wish it was the fashion +to go without clothes! They are always getting torn.” + +“I wish it was!” heartily responded my lady. + +That same evening, in returning to her house from a visit, Constance +Channing encountered Mr. Yorke. He turned to walk with her to the door. + +“I intended to call this afternoon, Constance, but was prevented from +doing so,” he observed. “I have spoken to Lady Augusta.” + +“Well?” she answered with a smile and a blush. + +“She would be very glad of _you_; but the difficulty, at first, appeared +to be about salary. However, I pointed out a few home truths, and she +admitted that if the girls were to be educated, she supposed she must +pay for it. She will give you forty guineas a year; but you are to call +upon her and settle other details. To-morrow, if it should be convenient +to you.” + +Constance clasped her hands. “I am so pleased!” she exclaimed, in a low +tone. + +“So am I,” said Mr. Yorke. “I would rather you went to Lady Augusta’s +than to a stranger’s. And do, Constance, try and make those poor girls +more what they ought to be.” + +“That I shall try, you may be sure, William. Are you not coming in?” + +“No,” said Mr. Yorke, who had held out his hand on reaching the door. He +was pretty constant in his evening visits to the Channings, but he had +made an engagement for this one with a brother clergyman. + +Constance entered. She looked in the study for her brothers, but +only Arthur was there. He was leaning his elbow upon the table in a +thoughtful mood. + +“Where are they all?” inquired Constance. + +“Tom and Charles have gone to the cricket match. I don’t think Hamish +has come in.” + +“Why did you not go to cricket also?” + +“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “I did not feel much inclination for +cricket this evening.” + +“You looked depressed, Arthur, but I have some good news for you,” + Constance said, bending over him with a bright smile. “It is settled +about my going out, and I am to have forty guineas a year. Guess where +it is to?” + +Arthur threw his arm round Constance, and they stood together, looking +at the trailing honeysuckle just outside the window. “Tell me, darling.” + +“It is to Lady Augusta’s. William has been talking to her, and she would +like to have me. Does it not seem lucky to find it so soon?” + +“_Lucky_, Constance?” + +“Ah, well! you know what I think, Arthur, though I did say ‘lucky,’” + returned Constance. “I know it is God who is helping us.” + +Very beautiful, very touching, was the simple trustfulness reposed in +God, by Constance and Arthur Channing. The good seed had been sown on +good ground, and was bringing forth its fruit. + +“I was deep in a reverie when you interrupted me, Constance,” Arthur +resumed. “Something seems to whisper to me that this loss, which we +regard as a great misfortune, may turn out for good in the end.” + +“In the end! It may have come for our good now,” said Constance. +“Perhaps I wanted my pride lowered,” she laughed; “and this has come to +do it, and is despatching me out, a meek governess.” + +“Perhaps we all wanted it,” cried Arthur, meaningly. “There are other +bad habits it may stop, besides pride.” He was thinking of Hamish and +his propensity for spending. “Forty guineas you are to have?” + +“Yes,” said Constance. “Arthur, do you know a scheme that I have in my +head? I have been thinking of it all day.” + +“What is it? Stay! here is some one coming in. It is Hamish.” + +Hamish entered with the account-books under his arm, preparatory to +going over them with his father. Constance drew him to her. + +“Hamish, I have a plan in my head, if we can only carry it out. I am +going to tell it you.” + +“One that will set the river on fire?” cried gay, laughing Hamish. + +“If we--you and I, and Arthur--can only manage to earn enough money, and +if we can observe strict economy at home, who knows but we may send papa +to the German baths yet?” + +A cloud came over Hamish’s face, and his smile faded. “I don’t see how +_that_ is to be done.” + +“But you have not heard of my good luck. I am going to Lady Augusta’s, +and am to have forty guineas a year. Now, if you and Arthur will help, +it may be easy. Oh, Hamish, it would be worth any effort--any struggle. +Think how it would be rewarded. Papa restored to health! to freedom from +pain!” + +A look of positive pain seated itself on Hamish’s brow. “Yes,” he +sighed, “I wish it could be done.” + +“But you do not speak hopefully.” + +“Because, if I must tell you the truth, I do not feel hopefully. I fear +we could not do it: at least until things are brighter.” + +“If we do our very best, we might receive great help, Hamish.” + +“What help?” he asked. + +“God’s help,” she whispered. + +Hamish smiled. He had not yet learnt what Constance had. Besides, Hamish +was just then in a little trouble on his own account: he knew very well +that _his_ funds were wanted in another quarter. + +“Constance, dear, do not look at me so wistfully. I will try with all my +might and main, to help my father; but I fear I cannot do anything yet. +I mean to draw in my expenses,” he went on, laughing: “to live like any +old screw of a miser, and never squander a halfpenny where a farthing +will suffice.” + +He took his books and went in to Mr. Channing. Constance began training +the honeysuckle, her mind busy, and a verse of Holy Writ running through +it--“Commit thy way unto the Lord, and put thy trust in Him, and He +shall bring it to pass.” + +“Ay!” she murmured, glancing upwards at the blue evening sky: “our +whole, whole trust in patient reliance; and whatsoever is best for us +will be ours.” + +Annabel stole up to Constance, and entwined her arms caressingly round +her. Constance turned, and parted the child’s hair upon her forehead +with a gentle hand. + +“Am I to find a little rebel in you, Annabel? Will you not try and make +things smooth for me?” + +“Oh, Constance, dear!” was the whispered answer: “it was only my +fun last night, when I said you should not take me for lessons in an +evening. I will study all day by myself, and get my lessons quite ready +for you, so as to give you no trouble in the evening. Would you like to +hear me my music now?” + +Constance bent to kiss her. “No, dear child; there is no necessity for +my taking you in an evening, until my days shall be occupied at Lady +Augusta Yorke’s.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. -- MR. KETCH. + +Mrs. Channing sat with her children. Breakfast was over, and she had +the Bible open before her. Never, since their earliest years of +understanding, had she failed to assemble them together for a few +minutes’ reading, morning and evening. Not for too long at once; she +knew the value of _not tiring_ young children, when she was leading them +to feel an interest in sacred things. She would take Hamish, a little +fellow of three years old, upon her knee, read to him a short Bible +story, suited to his age, and then talk to him. Talk to him in a soft, +loving, gentle tone, of God, of Jesus, of heaven; of his duties in this +world; of what he must do to attain to everlasting peace in the +next. Day by day, step by step, untiringly, unceasingly, had she thus +laboured, to awaken good in the child’s heart, to train it to holiness, +to fill it with love of God. As the other children came on in years, +she, in like manner, took them. From simple Bible stories to more +advanced Bible stories, and thence to the Bible itself; with other books +at times and seasons: a little reading, a little conversation, Gospel +truths impressed upon them from her earnest lips. Be you very sure that +where this great duty of all duties is left unfulfilled by a mother, a +child is not brought up as it ought to be. Win your child towards heaven +in his early years, and he will not forget it when he is old. + +It will be as a very shield, compassing him about through life. He may +wander astray--there is no telling--in the heyday of his hot-blooded +youth, for the world’s temptations are as a running fire, scorching all +that venture into its heat; but the good foundation has been laid, and +the earnest, incessant prayers have gone up, and he will find his way +home again. + +Mrs. Channing closed the Bible, and spoke, as usual. It was all that +teaching should be. Good lessons as to this world; loving pictures +of that to come. She had contrived to impress them, not with the too +popular notion that heaven was a far-off place up in the skies some +vague, millions of miles away, and to which we might be millions of +years off; but that it was very near to them: that God was ever present +with them; and that Death, when he came, should be looked upon as a +friend, not an enemy. Hamish was three and twenty years old now, and he +loved those minutes of instruction as he had done when a child. They had +borne their fruit for him, and for all: though not, perhaps, in an equal +degree. + +The reading over, and the conversation over, she gave the book to +Constance to put away, and the boys rose, and prepared to enter upon +their several occupations. It was not the beginning of the day for Tom +and Charles, for they had been already to early school. + +“Is papa so very much worse to-day, mamma?” asked Tom. + +“I did not say he was worse, Tom,” replied Mrs. Channing. “I said he had +passed a restless night, and felt tired and weak.” + +“Thinking over that confounded lawsuit,” cried hot, thoughtless Tom. + +“Thomas!” reproved Mrs. Channing. + +“I beg your pardon, mamma. Unorthodox words are the fashion in school, +and one catches them up. I forget myself when I repeat them before you.” + +“To repeat them before me is no worse than repeating them behind me, +Tom.” + +Tom laughed. “Very true, mamma. It was not a logical excuse. But I am +sure the news, brought to us by the mail on Wednesday night, is enough +to put a saint out of temper. Had there been anything unjust in it, had +the money not been rightly ours, it would have been different; but to be +deprived of what is legally our own--” + +“Not legally--as it turns out,” struck in Hamish. + +“Justly, then,” said Tom. “It’s too bad--especially as we don’t know +what we shall do without it.” + +“Tom, you are not to look at the dark side of things,” cried Constance, +in a pretty, wilful, commanding manner. “We shall do very well without +it: it remains to be proved whether we shall not do better than with +it.” + +“Children, I wish to say a word to you upon this subject,” said Mrs. +Channing. “When the news arrived, I was, you know, almost overwhelmed +by it; not seeing, as Tom says, what we were to do without the money. In +the full shock of the disappointment, it wore for me its worst aspect; +a far more sombre one than the case really merited. But, now that I have +had time to see it in its true light, my disappointment has subsided. +I consider that we took a completely wrong view of it. Had the decision +deprived us of the income we enjoy, then indeed it would have been +grievous; but in reality it deprives us of nothing. Not one single +privilege that we possessed before, does it take from us; not a single +outlay will it cost us. We looked to this money to do many things with; +but its not coming renders us no worse off than we were. Expecting it +has caused us to get behindhand with our bills, which we must gradually +pay off in the best way we can; it takes from us the power to article +Arthur, and it straitens us in many ways, for, as you grow up, you grow +more expensive. This is the extent of the ill, except--” + +“Oh, mamma, you forget! The worst ill of all is, that papa cannot now go +to Germany.” + +“I was about to say that, Arthur. But other means for his going thither +may be found. Understand me, my dears: I do not see any means, or chance +of means, at present: you must not fancy that; but it is possible that +they may arise with the time of need. One service, at any rate, the +decision has rendered me.” + +“Service?” echoed Tom. + +“Yes,” smiled Mrs. Channing. “It has proved to me that my children are +loving and dutiful. Instead of repining, as some might, they are already +seeking how they may make up, themselves, for the money that has not +come. And Constance begins it.” + +“Don’t fear us, mother,” cried Hamish, with his sunny smile. “We will be +of more use to you yet than the money would have been.” + +They dispersed--Hamish to his office, Arthur to Mr. Galloway’s, Tom and +Charles to the cloisters, that famous playground of the college school. +Stolen pleasures, it is said, are sweetest; and, just because there +had been a stir lately amongst the cathedral clergy, touching the +desirability of forbidding the cloisters to the boys for play, so much +the more eager were they to frequent them. + +As Arthur was going down Close Street, he encountered Mr. Williams, the +cathedral organist, striding along with a roll of music in his hand. +He was Arthur’s music-master. When Arthur Channing was in the choir, a +college schoolboy, he had displayed considerable taste for music; and +it was decided that he should learn the organ. He had continued to take +lessons after he left the choir, and did so still. + +“I was thinking of coming round to speak to you to-day, Mr. Williams.” + +“What about?” asked the organist. “Anything pressing?” + +“Well, you have heard, of course, that that suit is given against us, +so I don’t mean to continue the organ. They have said nothing to me at +home; but it is of no use spending money that might be saved. But I see +you are in too great a hurry, to stay to talk now.” + +“Hurry! I am hurried off my legs,” cried the organist. “If a dozen or +two of my pupils would give up learning, as you talk of doing, I should +only be obliged to them. I have more work than I can attend to. And +now Jupp must go and lay himself up, and I have the services to attend +myself, morning and afternoon!” + +Mr. Jupp was assistant-organist. An apprentice to Mr. Williams, but just +out of his time. + +“What’s the matter with Jupp?” asked Arthur. + +“A little bit of fever, and a great deal of laziness,” responded Mr. +Williams. “He is the laziest fellow alive. Since his uncle died, and +that money came to him, he doesn’t care a straw how things go. He was +copyist to the cathedral, and he gave that up last week. I have asked +Sandon, the lay-clerk, if he will take the copying, but he declines. He +is another lazy one.” + +The organist hurried off. Arthur strove to detain him for another word +or two, but it was of no use. So he continued his way to Mr. Galloway’s. + +Busy enough were his thoughts there. His fingers were occupied with +writing, but his mind went roaming without leave. This post of copyist +of music to the cathedral, which appeared to be going begging; why +should not he undertake it, if Mr. Williams would give it to him? He +was quite able to do so, and though he very much disliked music-copying, +that was nothing: he was not going to set up dislikes, and humour them. +He had only a vague idea what might be the remuneration; ten, or twelve, +or fifteen pounds a year, he fancied it might bring in. Better that, +than nothing; it would be a beginning to follow in the wake that +Constance had commenced; and he could do it of an evening, or at other +odd times. “I won’t lose an hour in asking for it,” thought Arthur. + +At one o’clock, when he was released from the office, he ran through the +Boundaries to the cloisters, intending to pass through them on his way +to the house of the organist, that being rather a nearer road to it, +than if he had gone round the town. The sound of the organ, however, +struck upon his ear, causing him to assume that it was the organist who +was playing. Arthur tried the cathedral door, found it open, and went +it. + +It was Mr. Williams. He had been trying some new music, and rose from +the organ as Arthur reached the top of the stairs, no very pleasant +expression on his countenance. + +“What is the matter?” asked Arthur, perceiving that something had put +him out. + +“I hate ingratitude,” responded Mr. Williams. “Jenkins,” he called out +to the old bedesman, who had been blowing for him, “you may go to your +dinner; I shan’t want you any more now.” + +Old Jenkins hobbled down from the organ-loft, and Mr. Williams continued +to Arthur: + +“Would you believe that Jupp has withdrawn himself utterly?” + +“From the college?” exclaimed Arthur. + +“From the college, and from me. His father comes to me, an hour ago, and +says he is sure Jupp’s in a bad state of health, and he intends to send +him to his relatives in the Scotch mountains for some months, to try and +brace him up. Not a word of apology, for leaving me at a pinch.” + +“It will be very inconvenient for you,” said Arthur. “I suppose that new +apprentice of yours is of no use yet for the services?” + +“Use!” irascibly retorted Mr. Williams, “he could not play a psalm if it +were to save his life. I depended upon Jupp. It was an understood thing +that he should remain with me as assistant; had it not been, I should +have taken good care to bring somebody on to replace him. As to +attending the services on week-days myself, it is next door to an +impossibility. If I do, my teaching will be ruined.” + +“I wish I was at liberty,” said Arthur; “I would take them for you.” + +“Look here, Channing,” said the organist. “Since I had this information +of old Jupp’s, my brain has been worrying itself pretty well, as you may +imagine. Now, there’s no one I would rather trust to take the week-day +services than you, for you are fully capable, and I have trained you +into my own style of playing: I never could get Jupp entirely into it; +he is too fond of noise and flourishes. It has struck me that perhaps +Mr. Galloway might spare you: his office is not overdone with work, and +I would make it worth your while.” + +Arthur, somewhat bewildered at the proposal, sat down on one of the +stools, and stared. + +“You will not be offended at my saying this. I speak in consequence of +your telling me, this morning, you could not afford to go on with your +lessons,” continued the organist. “But for that, I should not have +thought of proposing such a thing to you. What capital practice it would +be for you, too!” + +“The best proof to convince you I am not offended, is to tell you what +brings me here now,” said Arthur in a cordial tone. “I understood, this +morning, that you were at a loss for some one to undertake the copying +of the cathedral music: I have come to ask you to give it to me.” + +“You may have it, and welcome,” said Mr. Williams. “That’s nothing; I +want to know about the services.” + +“It would take me an hour, morning and afternoon, from the office,” + debated Arthur. “I wonder whether Mr. Galloway would let me go an hour +earlier and stay an hour later to make up for it?” + +“You can put the question to him. I dare say he will: especially as he +is on terms of friendship with your father. I would give you--let me +see,” deliberated the organist, falling into a musing attitude--“twelve +pounds a quarter. Say fifty pounds a year; if you stay with me so long. +And you should have nothing to do with the choristers: I’d practise them +myself.” + +Arthur’s face flushed. It was a great temptation: and the question +flashed into his mind whether it would not be well to leave Mr. +Galloway’s, as his prospects there appeared to be blighted, and embrace +this, if that gentleman declined to allow him the necessary hours of +absence. Fifty pounds a year! “And,” he spoke unconsciously aloud, +“there would be the copying besides.” + +“Oh, that’s not much,” cried the organist. “That’s paid by the sheet.” + +“I should like it excessively!” exclaimed Arthur. + +“Well, just turn it over in your mind. But you must let me know at once, +Channing; by to-morrow at the latest. If you cannot take it, I must find +some one else.” + +Arthur Channing went out of the cathedral, hardly knowing whether he +stood on his head or his heels. “Constance said that God would help us!” + was his grateful thought. + +Such a whirlwind of noise! Arthur, when he reached the cloisters, found +himself in the midst of the college boys, who were just let out of +school. Leaping, shouting, pushing, scuffling, playing, contending! +Arthur had not so very long ago been a college boy himself, and enjoyed +the fun. + +“How are you, old fellows--jolly?” + +They gathered around him. Arthur was a favourite with them; had been +always, when he was in the school. The elder boys loftily commanded off +the juniors, who had to retire to a respectful distance. + +“I say, Channing, there’s the stunningest go!” began Bywater, dancing a +triumphant hornpipe. “You know Jupp? Well, he has been and sent in word +to Williams that he is going to die, or something of that sort, and it’s +necessary he should be off on the spree, to get himself well again. +Old Jupp came this morning, just as college was over, and said it: and +Williams is in the jolliest rage; going to be left without any one to +take the organ. It will just pay him out, for being such a tyrant to us +choristers.” + +“Perhaps I am going to take it,” returned Arthur. + +“You?--what a cram!” + +“It is not, indeed,” said Arthur. “I shall take it if I can get leave +from Mr. Galloway. Williams has just asked me.” + +“Is that true, Arthur?” burst forth Tom Channing, elbowing his way to +the front. + +“Now, Tom, should I say it if it were not true? I only hope Mr. Galloway +will throw no difficulty in my way.” + +“And do you mean to say that you are going to be cock over us +choristers?” asked Bywater. + +“No, thank you,” laughed Arthur. “Mr. Williams will best fill that +honour. Bywater, has the mystery of the inked surplice come to light?” + +“No, and be shot to it! The master’s in a regular way over it, though, +and--” + +“And what do you think?” eagerly interrupted Tod Yorke, whose face was +ornamented with several shades of colour, blue, green, and yellow, the +result of the previous day’s pugilistic encounter: “my brother Roland +heard the master say he suspected one of the seniors.” + +Arthur Channing looked inquiringly at Gaunt. The latter tossed his head +haughtily. “Roland Yorke must have made some mistake,” he observed to +Arthur. “It is perfectly out of the question that the master can suspect +a senior. I can’t imagine where the school could have picked up the +notion.” + +Gaunt was standing with Arthur, as he spoke, and the three seniors, +Channing, Huntley, and Yorke, happened to be in a line facing them. +Arthur regarded them one by one. “You don’t look very like committing +such a thing as that, any one of you,” he laughed. “It is curious where +the notion can have come from.” + +“Such absurdity!” ejaculated Gerald Yorke. “As if it were likely Pye +would suspect one of us seniors! It’s not credible.” + +“Not at all credible that you would do it,” said Arthur. “Had it been +the result of accident, of course you would have hastened to declare it, +any one of you three.” + +As Arthur spoke, he involuntarily turned his eyes on the sea of faces +behind the three seniors, as if searching for signs in some countenance +among them, by which he might recognize the culprit. + +“My goodness!” uttered the senior boy, to Arthur. “Had any one of those +three done such a thing--accident or no accident--and not declared it, +he’d get his name struck off the rolls. A junior may be pardoned for +things that a senior cannot.” + +“Besides, there’d be the losing his chance of the seniorship, and of the +exhibition,” cried one from the throng of boys in the rear. + +“How are you progressing for the seniorship?” asked Arthur, of the +three. “Which of you stands the best chance?” + +“I think Channing does,” freely spoke up Harry Huntley. + +“Why?” + +“Because our progress is so equal that I don’t think one will get ahead +of another, so that the choice cannot be made that way; and Channing’s +name stands first on the rolls.” + +“Who is to know if they’ll give us fair play and no humbug?’ said Tom +Channing. + +“If they do, it will be what they have never given yet!” exclaimed +Stephen Bywater. “Kissing goes by favour.” + +“Ah, but I heard that the dean--” + +At this moment a boy dashed into the throng, scattering it right and +left. “Where are your eyes?” he whispered. + +Close upon them was the dean. Arm in arm with him, in his hat and apron, +walked the Bishop of Helstonleigh. The boys stood aside and took off +their trenchers. The dean merely raised his hand in response to the +salutation--he appeared to be deep in thought; but the bishop nodded +freely among them. + +“I heard that the dean found fault, the last time the exhibition fell, +and said favour should never be shown again, so long as he was Dean of +Helstonleigh,” said Harry Huntley, when the clergy were beyond hearing, +continuing the sentence he had been interrupted in. “I say that, with +fair play, it will be Channing’s; failing Channing, it will be mine; +failing me, it will be Yorke’s.” + +“Now, then!” retorted Gerald Yorke. “Why should you have the chance +before me, pray?” + +Huntley laughed. “Only that my name heads yours on the rolls.” + +Once in three years there fell an exhibition for Helstonleigh College +school, to send a boy to Oxford. It would be due the following +Easter. Gaunt declined to compete for it; he would leave the school +at Michaelmas; and it was a pretty generally understood thing that +whichever of the three mentioned boys should be appointed senior in his +place, would be presented with the exhibition. Channing and Yorke most +ardently desired to gain it; both of them from the same motive--want of +funds at home to take them to the university. If Tom Channing did +not gain it, he was making up his mind to pocket pride, and go as a +servitor. Yorke would not have done such a thing for the world; all the +proud Yorke blood would be up in arms, at one of their name appearing +as a servitor at Oxford. No. If Gerald Yorke should lose the exhibition, +Lady Augusta must manage to screw out funds to send him. He and Tom +Channing were alike designed for the Church. Harry Huntley had no such +need: the son of a gentleman of good property, the exhibition was of +little moment to him, in a pecuniary point of view; indeed, a doubt had +been whispered amongst the boys, whether Mr. Huntley would allow Harry +to take advantage of it, if he did gain it, for he was a liberal-minded +and just man. Harry, of course, desired to be the successful one, for +fame’s sake, just as ardently as did Channing and Yorke. + +“I’m blessed if here isn’t that renowned functionary, Jack Ketch!” + +The exclamation came from young Galloway. Limping in at one of the +cloister doors, came the cloister porter, a surly man of sixty, whose +temper was not improved by periodical attacks of lumbago. He and the +college boys were open enemies. The porter would have rejoiced in +denying them the cloisters altogether; and nothing had gladdened his +grim old heart like the discussion which was said to have taken place +between the dean and chapter, concerning the propriety of shutting out +the boys and their noise from the cloisters, as a playground. He bore +an unfortunate name--Ketch--and the boys, you may be very sure, did not +fail to take advantage of it, joining to it sundry embellishments, more +pointed than polite. + +He came up, a ragged gig-whip in his hand, which he was fond of smacking +round the throng of boys. He had never yet ventured to touch one of +them, and perhaps it was just as well for him that he had not. + +“Now, you boys! be off, with your hullabaloo! Is this a decent noise to +make around gentlefolks’ doors? You don’t know, may be, as Dr. Burrows +is in town.” + +Dr. Burrows happened to live in a house which had a door opening to the +cloisters. The boys retorted. The worst they gave Mr. Ketch was “chaff;” + but his temper could bear anything better than that, especially if it +was administered by the senior boy. + +“Dear me, who’s this?” began Gaunt, in a tone of ultra politeness. +“Boys, do you see this gentleman who condescends to accost us? I really +believe it is Sir John Ketch. What’s that in his hand?--a piece of +rope? Surely, Mr. Ketch, you have not been turning off that unfortunate +prisoner who was condemned yesterday? Rather hasty work, sir; was it +not?” + +Mr. Ketch foamed. “I tell you what it is, sir. You be the senior boy, +and, instead of restraining these wicked young reptiles, you edges +‘em on! Take care, young gent, as I don’t complain of you to the dean. +Seniors have been hoisted afore now.” + +“Have they, really? Well, you ought to know, Mr. Calcraft. There’s +the dean, just gone out of the cloisters; if you make haste, Calcraft, +you’ll catch him up. Put your best foot foremost, and ask him if he +won’t report Mr. Gaunt for punishment.” + +The porter could have danced with rage; and his whip was smacking +ominously. He did not dare advance it too near the circle when the +senior boy was present, or indeed, when any of the elder boys were. + +“How’s your lumbago, Mr. Ketch?” demanded Stephen Bywater. “I’d advise +you to get rid of that, before the next time you go on duty; it might be +in your way, you know. Never was such a thing heard of, as for the chief +toppler-off of the three kingdoms to be disabled in his limbs! What +_would_ you do? I’m afraid you’d be obliged to resign your post, and +sink into private life.” + +“Now I just vow to goodness, as I’ll do all I can to get these cloisters +took from you boys,” shrieked old Ketch, clasping his hands together. +“There’s insults as flesh and blood can’t stand; and, as sure as I’m +living, I’ll pay you out for it.” + +He turned tail and hobbled off, as he spoke, and the boys raised “three +groans for Jack Ketch,” and then rushed away by the other entrance to +their own dinners. The fact was, the porter had brought ill will upon +himself, through his cross-grained temper. He had no right whatever to +interfere between the boys and the cloisters; it was not his place to do +so. The king’s scholars knew this; and, being spirited king’s scholars, +as they were, would not stand it. + +“Tom,” said Arthur Channing, “don’t say anything at home about the +organ. Wait and see if I get it, first. Charley did not hear; he was +ordered off with the juniors.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. -- THE ASSISTANT-ORGANIST. + +Things often seem to go by the rule of contrary. Arthur returned to the +office at two o’clock, brimful of the favour he was going to solicit of +Mr. Galloway; but he encountered present disappointment. For the first +time for many weeks, Mr. Galloway did not make his appearance in the +office at all; he was out the whole of the afternoon. Roland Yorke, to +whom Arthur confided the plan, ridiculed it. + +“Catch me taking such a task upon myself! If I could play the organ +like a Mendelssohn, and send the folks into ecstasies, I’d never saddle +myself with the worry of doing it morning and afternoon. You’ll soon be +sick of the bargain, Channing.” + +“I should never be sick of it, if I did it for nothing: I am too fond of +music for that. And it will be a very easy way of earning money.” + +“Not so easy as making your mother stump up,” was the reply. And if your +refinement turns from the expression, my good reader, I am sorry you +should have to read it; but it is what Mr. Roland Yorke _said_. “I had a +regular scene with Lady Augusta this morning. It’s the most unreasonable +thing in the world, you know, Channing, for her to think I can live +without money, and so I told her--said I must and would have it, in +fact.” + +“Did you get it?” + +“Of course I did. I wanted to pay Simms, and one or two more trifles +that were pressing; I was not going to have the fellow here after me +again. I wish such a thing as money had never been invented!” + +“You may as well wish we could live without eating.” + +“So I do, sometimes--when I go home, expecting a good dinner, and +there’s only some horrid cold stuff upon the table. There never was a +worse housekeeper than Lady Augusta. It’s my belief, our servants must +live like fighting cocks; for I am sure the bills are heavy enough, and +_we_ don’t get the benefit of them.” + +“What made you so late this afternoon?” asked Arthur. + +“I went round to pay Simms, for one thing; and then I called in upon +Hamish, and stayed talking with him. Wasn’t he in a sea of envy when I +told him I had been scoring off that Simms! He wished he could do the +same.” + +“Hamish does not owe anything to Simms!” cried Arthur, with hasty +retort. + +“Doesn’t he?” laughed Roland Yorke. “That’s all you know about it. Ask +him yourself.” + +“If you please, sir,” interposed Mr. Jenkins, at this juncture, “I shall +soon be waiting for that paper. Mr. Galloway directed me to send it off +by post.” + +“Bother the paper!” returned Roland; but, nevertheless, he applied +himself to complete it. He was in the habit of discoursing upon private +topics before Jenkins without any reserve, regarding him as a perfect +nonentity. + +When Arthur went home in the evening, he found Mr. Galloway sitting with +his father. “Well,” cried the proctor, as Arthur entered, “and who has +been at the office this afternoon?” + +“No one in particular, sir. Oh yes, there was, though--I forgot. The +dean looked in, and wanted to see you.” + +“What did he want?” + +“He did not say, sir. He told Jenkins it would do another time.” Arthur +left his father and Mr. Galloway together. He did not broach the subject +that was uppermost in his heart. Gifted with rare delicacy of feeling, +he would not speak to Mr. Galloway until he could see him alone. To +prefer the request in his father’s presence might have caused Mr. +Galloway more trouble in refusing it. + +“I can’t think what has happened to Arthur this evening!” exclaimed one +of them. “His spirits are up to fever heat. Tell us what it is, Arthur?” + +Arthur laughed. “I hope they will not be lowered to freezing point +within the next hour; that’s all.” + +When he heard Mr. Galloway leaving, he hastened after him, and overtook +him in the Boundaries. + +“I wanted to say a few words to you, sir, if you please?” + +“Say on,” said Mr. Galloway. “Why did you not say them indoors?” + +“I scarcely know how I shall say them now, sir; for it is a very great +favour that I have to ask you, and you may be angry, perhaps, at my +thinking you might grant it.” + +“You want a holiday, I suppose?” + +“Oh no, sir; nothing of that sort. I want--” + +“Well?” cried Mr. Galloway, surprised at his hesitation; but now that +the moment of preferring the request had come, Arthur shrank from doing +it. + +“Could you allow me, sir--would it make very much difference--to allow +me--to come to the office an hour earlier, and remain in it an hour +later?” stammered Arthur. + +“What for?” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, with marked surprise. + +“I have had an offer made me, sir, to take the cathedral organ at +week-day service. I should very much like to accept it, if it could be +managed.” + +“Why, where’s Jupp?” uttered Mr. Galloway. + +“Jupp has resigned. He is ill, and is going out for his health. I’ll +tell you how it all happened,” went on Arthur, losing diffidence now +that he was fairly launched upon his subject. “Of course, this failure +of the suit makes a great difference to our prospects at home; it +renders it incumbent upon us to do what we can to help--” + +“Why does it?” interrupted Mr. Galloway. “It may make a difference to +your future ease, but it makes none to your present means.” + +“There is money wanted in many ways, sir; a favourable termination to +the suit was counted upon so certainly. For one thing, it is necessary +that my father should try the German baths.” + +“Of course, he must try them,” cried Mr. Galloway. + +“But it will cost money, sir,” deprecated Arthur. “Altogether, we have +determined to do what we can. Constance has set us the example, by +engaging herself as daily governess at Lady Augusta’s. She goes on +Monday.” + +“Very commendable of her,” observed the proctor, who loved a gossip like +any old woman. “I hope she’ll not let those two unruly girls worry her +to death.” + +“And I was casting about in my mind, this morning, what I could do to +help, when I met the organist,” proceeded Arthur. “He chanced to say +that he could find no one to take the music copying. Well, sir, I +thought it over, and at one o’clock I went to ask him to give it to me. +I found him at the organ, in a state of vexation. Jupp had resigned his +post, and Mr. Williams had no one to replace him. The long and the short +of it is, sir, that he offered it to me.” + +“And did you accept it?” crossly responded Mr. Galloway. + +“Of course I could not do that, sir, until I had spoken to you. If it +were possible that I could make up the two hours to you, I should be +very glad to take it.” + +“And do it for nothing, I suppose?” + +“Oh no. He would give me fifty pounds a year. And there would be the +copying besides.” + +“That’s a great deal!” cried Mr. Galloway. “It appears to me to be good +pay,” replied Arthur. “But he would lose a great deal more than that, +if he had to attend the cathedral himself. He said it would ruin his +teaching.” + +“Ah! self-interest--two for himself and one for you!” ejaculated the +proctor. “What does Mr. Channing say?” + +“I have said nothing at home. It was of no use telling them, until I had +spoken to you. Now that my prospects are gone--” + +“What prospects?” interrupted Mr. Galloway. + +“My articles to you, sir. Of course there’s no chance of that now.” + +Mr. Galloway grunted. “The ruin that Chancery suits work! Mark you, +Arthur Channing, this is such a thing as was never asked a proctor +before--leave of absence for two hours in the best part of the day! If I +grant it, it will be out of the great friendship I bear your father.” + +“Oh, sir! I shall never forget the obligation.” + +“Take care you don’t. You must come and work for two hours before +breakfast in a morning.” + +“Willingly--readily!” exclaimed Arthur Channing, his face glowing. “Then +may I really tell Mr. Williams that I can accept it?” + +“If I don’t say yes, I suppose you’d magnify me into a sullen old bear, +as bad as Ketch, the porter. You may accept it. Stop!” thundered Mr. +Galloway, coming to a dead standstill. + +Arthur was startled. “What now, sir?” + +“Are you to be instructor to those random animals, the choristers?” + +“Oh no: I shall have nothing to do with that.” + +“Very good. If you _had_ taken to them, I should have recommended you to +guard against such a specimen of singing as was displayed the other day +before the judges.” + +Arthur laughed; spoke a word of heartfelt thanks; and took his way +off-hand to the residence of the organist as light as any bird. + +“I have obtained leave, Mr. Williams; I may take your offer!” he +exclaimed with scant ceremony, when he found himself in that gentleman’s +presence, who was at tea with his wife. “Mr. Galloway has authorized me +to accept it. How do you do, Mrs. Williams?” + +“That’s a great weight off my mind, then!” cried the organist. “I set +that dolt of an apprentice of mine to play the folks out of college, +this afternoon, when service was over, and--of all performances! Six +mistakes he made in three bars, and broke down at last. I could have +boxed his ears. The dean was standing below when I went down. ‘Who was +that playing, Mr. Williams?’ he demanded. So, I told him about Jupp’s +ill-behaviour in leaving me, and that I had offered the place to you. +‘But is Channing quite competent?’ cried he--for you know what a +fine ear for music the dean has:--‘besides,’ he added, ‘is he not at +Galloway’s?’ I said we hoped Mr. Galloway would spare you, and that I +would answer for your competency. So, mind, Channing, you must put on +the steam, and not disgrace my guarantee. I don’t mean the steam of +_noise_, or that you should go through the service with all the stops +out.” + +Arthur laughed; and, declining the invitation to remain and take tea, he +went out. He was anxious to declare the news at home. A few steps on his +road, he overtook Hamish. + +“Where do you spring from?” exclaimed Hamish, passing his arm within +Arthur’s. + +“From concluding an agreement that will bring me in fifty pounds a +year,” said Arthur. + +“Gammon, Master Arthur!” + +“It is _not_ gammon, Hamish. It is sober truth.” + +Hamish turned and looked at him, aroused by something in the tone. “And +what are you to do for it?” + +“Just pass a couple of hours a day, delighting my own ears and heart. Do +you remember what Constance said, last night? Hamish, it is _wonderful_, +that this help should so soon have come to me!” + +“Stay! Where are you going?” interrupted Hamish, as Arthur was turning +into a side-street. + +“This is the nearest way home.” + +“I had rather not go that way.” + +“Why?” exclaimed Arthur, in surprise. “Hamish, how funny you look! What +is the matter?” + +“Must I tell you? It is for your ear alone, mind. There’s a certain +tradesman’s house down there that I’d rather not pass; he has a habit of +coming out and dunning me. Do you remember Mr. Dick Swiveller?” + +Hamish laughed gaily. He would have laughed on his road to prison: it +was in his nature. But Arthur seemed to take a leap from his high ropes. +“Is it Simms?” he breathed. + +“No, it is not Simms. Who has been telling you anything about Simms, +Arthur? It is not so very much that I owe Simms. What is this good luck +of yours?” + +Arthur did not immediately reply. A dark shadow had fallen upon his +spirit, as a forerunner of evil. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. -- HAMISH’S CANDLES. + +Old Judith sat in her kitchen. Her hands were clasped upon her knees, +and her head was bent in thought. Rare indeed was it to catch Judith +indulging in a moment’s idleness. She appeared to be holding soliloquy +with herself. + +“It’s the most incomprehensible thing in the world! I have heard of +ghosts--and, talking about ghosts, that child was in a tremor, last +night, again--I’m sure he was. Brave little heart! he goes up to bed +in the dark on purpose to break himself of the fear. I went in for them +shirts missis told me of, and he started like anything, and his face +turned white. He hadn’t heard me till I was in the room; I’d no candle, +and ‘twas enough to startle him. ‘Oh, is it you, Judith?’ said he, +quietly, making believe to be as indifferent as may be. I struck a +light, for I couldn’t find the shirts, and then I saw his white face. He +can’t overget the fear: ‘twas implanted in him in babyhood: and I only +wish I could get that wicked girl punished as I’d punish her, for it was +her work. But about the t’other? I have heard of ghosts walking--though, +thank goodness, I’m not frightened at ‘em, like the child is!--but for +a young man to go upstairs, night after night, pretending to go to rest, +and sitting up till morning light, is what I never did hear on. If it +was once in a way, ‘twould be a different thing; but it’s always. I’m +sure it’s pretty nigh a year since--” + +“Why, Judith, you are in a brown study!” + +The interruption came from Constance, who had entered the kitchen to +give an order. Judith looked up. + +“I’m in a peck of trouble, Miss Constance. And the worst is, I don’t +know whether to tell about it, or to keep it in. He’d not like it to get +to the missis’s ears, I know: but then, you see, perhaps I ought to tell +her--for his sake.” + +Constance smiled. “Would you like to tell me, instead of mamma? Charley +has been at some mischief again, among the saucepans? Burnt out more +bottoms, perhaps?” + +“Not he, the darling!” resentfully rejoined Judith. “The burning out of +that one was enough for him. I’m sure he took contrition to himself, as +if it had been made of gold.” + +“What is it, then?” + +“Well,” said Judith, looking round, as if fearing the walls would hear, +and speaking mysteriously, “it’s about Mr. Hamish. I don’t know but I +_will_ tell you, Miss Constance, and it’ll be, so far, a weight off my +mind. I was just saying to myself that I had heard of ghosts walking, +but what Mr. Hamish does every blessed night, I never did hear of, in +all my born days.” + +Constance felt a little startled. “What does he do?” she hastily asked. + +“You know, Miss Constance, my bedroom’s overhead, above the kitchen +here, and, being built out on the side, I can see the windows at the +back of the house from it--as we can see ‘em from this kitchen window, +for the matter of that, if we put our heads out. About a twelvemonth +ago--I’m sure its not far short of it--I took to notice that the light +in Mr. Hamish’s chamber wasn’t put out so soon as it was in the other +rooms. So, one night, when I was half-crazy with that face-ache--you +remember my having it, Miss Constance?--and knew I shouldn’t get to +sleep, if I lay down, I thought I’d just see how long he kept it in. +Would you believe, Miss Constance, that at three o’clock in the morning +his light was still burning?” + +“Well,” said Constance, feeling the tale was not half told. + +“I thought, what on earth could he be after? I might have feared that +he had got into bed and left it alight by mistake, but that I saw his +shadow once or twice pass the blind. Well, I didn’t say a word to him +next day, I thought he might not like it: but my mind wouldn’t be easy, +and I looked out again, and I found that, night after night, that light +was in. Miss Constance, I thought I’d trick him: so I took care to put +just about an inch of candle in his bed candlestick, and no more: +but, law bless me! when folks is bent on forbidden things, it is not +candle-ends that will stop ‘em!” + +“I suppose you mean that the light burnt still, in spite of your inch of +candle?” said Constance. + +“It just did,” returned Judith. “He gets into my kitchen and robs my +candle-box, I thought to myself. So I counted my candles and marked ‘em; +and I found I was wrong, for they wasn’t touched. But one day, when I +was putting his cupboard to rights, I came upon a paper right at the +back. Two great big composite candles it had in it, and another half +burnt away. Oh, this is where you keep your store, my young master, is +it? I thought. They were them big round things, which seems never to +burn to an end, three to the pound.” + +Constance made no reply. Judith gathered breath, and continued: + +“I took upon myself to speak to him. I told him it wasn’t well for +anybody’s health, to sit up at night, in that fashion; not counting the +danger he ran of setting the house on fire and burning us all to cinders +in our beds. He laughed--you know his way, Miss Constance--and said he’d +take care of his health and of the house, and I was just to make myself +easy and hold my tongue, and that _I_ need not be uneasy about fire, for +I could open my window and drop into the rain-water barrel, and there I +should be safe. But, in spite of his joking tone, there ran through it +a sound of command; and, from that hour to this, I have never opened my +lips about it to anybody living.” + +“And he burns the light still?” + +“Except Saturday and Sunday nights, it’s always alight, longer or +shorter. Them two nights, he gets into bed respectable, as the rest of +the house do. You have noticed, Miss Constance, that, the evenings he is +not out, he’ll go up to his chamber by half-past nine or ten?” + +“Frequently,” assented Constance. “As soon as the reading is over, he +will wish us good night.” + +“Well, them nights, when he goes up early, he puts his light out +sooner--by twelve, or by half-past, or by one; but when he spends his +evenings out, not getting home until eleven, he’ll have it burning till +two or three in the morning.” + +“What can he sit up for?” involuntarily exclaimed Constance. + +“I don’t know, unless it is that the work at the office is too heavy +for him,” said Judith. “He has his own work to do there, and master’s as +well.” + +“It is not at all heavy,” said Constance. “There is an additional clerk +since papa’s illness, you know. It cannot be that.” + +“It has to do with the office-books, for certain,” returned Judith. “Why +else is he so particular in taking ‘em into his room every night?” + +“He takes--them--for safety,” spoke Constance, in a very hesitating +manner, as if not feeling perfectly assured of the grounds for her +assertion. + +“Maybe,” sniffed Judith, in disbelief. “It can’t be that he sits up to +read,” she resumed. “Nobody in their senses would do that. Reading may +be pleasant to some folks, especially them story-books; but sleep is +pleasanter. This last two or three blessed nights, since that ill news +come to make us miserable, I question if he has gone to bed at all, for +his candle has only been put out when daylight came to shame it.” + +“But, Judith, how do you know all this?” exclaimed Constance, after a +few minutes’ reflection. “You surely don’t sit up to watch the light?” + +“Pretty fit I should be for my work in the morning, if I did! No, Miss +Constance. I moved my bed round to the other corner, so as I could see +his window as I lay in it; and I have got myself into a habit of waking +up at all hours and looking. Truth to say, I’m not easy: fire is sooner +set alight than put out: and if there’s the water-butt for me to drop +into, there ain’t water-butts for the rest of the house.” + +“Very true,” murmured Constance, speaking as if she were in reflection. + +“Nobody knows the worry this has been upon my mind,” resumed Judith. +“Every night when I have seen his window alight, I have said to myself, +‘I’ll tell my mistress of this when morning comes;’ but, when the +morning has come, my resolution has failed me. It might worry her, and +anger Mr. Hamish, and do no good after all. If he really has not time +for his books in the day, why he must do ‘em at night, I suppose; it +would never do for him to fall off, and let the master’s means drop +through. What ought to be done, Miss Constance?” + +“I really do not know, Judith,” replied Constance. “You must let me +think about it.” + +She fell into an unpleasant reverie. The most feasible solution she +could come to, was the one adopted by Judith--that Hamish passed his +nights at the books. If so, how sadly he must idle away his time in the +day! Did he give his hours up to nonsense and pleasure? And how could he +contrive to hide his shortcomings from Mr. Channing? Constance was not +sure whether the books went regularly under the actual inspection of Mr. +Channing, or whether Hamish went over them aloud. If only the latter, +could the faults be concealed? She knew nothing of book-keeping, and was +unable to say. Leaving her to puzzle over the matter, we will return to +Hamish himself. + +We left him in the last chapter, you may remember, objecting to go down +a certain side-street which would have cut off a short distance of their +road; his excuse to Arthur being, that a troublesome creditor of his +lived in it. The plea was a true one. Not to make a mystery of it, it +may as well be acknowledged that Hamish had contracted some debts, +and that he found it difficult to pay them. They were not many, and a +moderate sum would have settled them; but that moderate sum Hamish did +not possess. Let us give him his due. But that he had fully counted upon +a time of wealth being close at hand, it is probable that he never +would have contracted them. When Hamish erred, it was invariably from +thoughtlessness--from carelessness--never from deliberate intention. + +Arthur, of course, turned from the objectionable street, and continued +his straightforward course. They were frequently hindered; the streets +were always crowded at assize time, and acquaintances continually +stopped them. Amongst others, they met Roland Yorke. + +“Are you coming round to Cator’s, to-night?” he asked of Hamish. + +“Not I,” returned Hamish, with his usual gay laugh. “I am going to draw +in my expenses, and settle down into a miser.” + +“Moonshine!” cried Roland. + +“Is it moonshine, though? It is just a little bit of serious fact, +Yorke. When lord chancellors turn against us and dash our hopes, we +can’t go on as though the exchequer had no bottom to it.” + +“It will cost you nothing to come to Cator’s. He is expecting one or two +fellows, and has laid in a prime lot of Manillas.” + +“Evening visiting costs a great deal, one way or another,” returned +Hamish, “and I intend to drop most of mine for the present. You needn’t +stare so, Yorke.” + +“I am staring at you. Drop evening visiting! Any one, dropping that, may +expect to be in a lunatic asylum in six months.” + +“What a prospect for me!” laughed Hamish. + +“_Will_ you come to Cator’s?” + +“No, thank you.” + +“Then you are a muff!” retorted Roland, as he went on. + +It was dusk when they reached the cathedral. + +“I wonder whether the cloisters are still open!” Arthur exclaimed. + +“It will not take a minute to ascertain,” said Hamish. “If not, we must +go round.” + +They found the cloisters still unclosed, and passed in. Gloomy and +sombre were they at that evening hour. So sombre that, in proceeding +along the west quadrangle, the two young men positively started, when +some dark figure glided from within a niche, and stood in their way. + +“Whose ghost are you?” cried Hamish. + +A short covert whistle of surprise answered him. “You here!” cried the +figure, in a tone of excessive disappointment. “What brings you in the +cloisters so late?” + +Hamish dextrously wound him towards what little light was cast from +the graveyard, and discerned the features of Hurst. Half a dozen more +figures brought themselves out of the niches--Stephen Bywater, young +Galloway, Tod Yorke, Harrison, Hall, and Berkeley. + +“Let me alone, Mr. Hamish Channing. Hush! Don’t make a row.” + +“What mischief is going on, Hurst?” asked Hamish. + +“Well, whatever it may have been, it strikes me you have stopped it,” + was Hurst’s reply. “I say, wasn’t there the Boundaries for you to go +through, without coming bothering into the cloisters?” + +“I am sorry to have spoiled sport,” laughed Hamish. “I should not have +liked it done to me when I was a college boy. Let us know what the +treason was.” + +“You won’t tell!” + +“No; if it is nothing very bad. Honour bright.” + +“Stop a bit, Hurst,” hastily interposed Bywater. “There’s no knowing +what he may think ‘very bad.’ Give generals, not particulars. Here the +fellow comes, I do believe!” + +“It was only a trick we were going to play old Ketch,” whispered Hurst. +“Come out quickly; better that he should not hear us, or it may spoil +sport for another time. Gently, boys!” + +Hurst and the rest stole round the cloisters, and out at the south door. +Hamish and Arthur followed, more leisurely, and less silently. Ketch +came up. + +“Who’s this here, a-haunting the cloisters at this time o’ night? Who be +you, I ask?” + +“The cloisters are free until they are closed, Ketch,” cried Hamish. + +“Nobody haven’t no right to pass through ‘em at this hour, except the +clergy theirselves,” grumbled the porter. “We shall have them boys +a-playing in ‘em at dark, next.” + +“You should close them earlier, if you want to keep them empty,” + returned Hamish. “Why don’t you close them at three in the afternoon?” + +The porter growled. He knew that he did not dare to close them before +dusk, almost dark, and he knew that Hamish knew it too; and therefore he +looked upon the remark as a quiet bit of sarcasm. “I wish the dean ‘ud +give me leave to shut them boys out of ‘em,” he exclaimed. “It ‘ud be a +jovial day for me!” + +Hamish and Arthur passed out, wishing him good night. He did not reply +to it, but banged the gate on their heels, locked it, and turned to +retrace his steps through the cloisters. The college boys, who had +hidden themselves from his view, came forward again. + +“He has got off scot-free to-night, but perhaps he won’t do so +to-morrow,” cried Bywater. + +“Were you going to set upon him?” asked Arthur. + +“We were not going to put a finger upon him; I give you my word, we were +not,” said Hurst. + +“What, then, were you going to do?” + +But the boys would not be caught. “It might stop fun, you know, Mr. +Hamish. You might get telling your brother Tom; and Tom might let it out +to Gaunt; and Gaunt might turn crusty and forbid it. We were going to +serve the fellow out; but not to touch him or to hurt him; and that’s +enough.” + +“As you please,” said Hamish. “He is a surly old fellow.” + +“He is an old brute! he’s a dog in a kennel! he deserves hanging!” burst +from the throng of boys. + +“What do you think he went and did this afternoon?” added Hurst to the +two Channings. “He sneaked up to the dean with a wretched complaint of +us boys, which hadn’t a word of truth in it; not a syllable, I assure +you. He did it only because Gaunt had put him in a temper at one +o’clock. The dean did not listen to him, that’s one good thing. How +_jolly_ he’d have been, just at this moment, if you two had not come up! +Wouldn’t he, boys?” + +The boys burst into a laugh; roar upon roar, peal upon peal; shrieking +and holding their sides, till the very Boundaries echoed again. Laughing +is infectious, and Hamish and Arthur shrieked out with them, not knowing +in the least what they were laughing at. + +But Arthur was heavy at heart in the midst of it. “Do you owe much +money, Hamish?” he inquired, after they had left the boys, and were +walking soberly along, under the quiet elm-trees. + +“More than I can pay, old fellow, just at present,” was the answer. + +“But is it _much_, Hamish?” + +“No, it is not much, taking it in the abstract. Quite a trifling sum.” + +Arthur caught at the word “trifling;” it seemed to dissipate his fears. +Had he been alarming himself for nothing! “Is it ten pounds, Hamish?” + +“Ten pounds!” repeated Hamish, in a tone of mockery. “That would be +little indeed.” + +“Is it fifty?” + +“I dare say it may be. A pound here and a pound there, and a few pounds +elsewhere--yes, taking it altogether, I expect it would be fifty.” + +“And how much more?” thought Arthur to himself. “You said it was a +trifling sum, Hamish!” + +“Well, fifty pounds is not a large sum. Though, of course, we estimate +sums, like other things, by comparison. You can understand now, why I +was not sanguine with regard to Constance’s hopeful project of helping +my father to get to the German baths. I, the eldest, who ought to be the +first to assist in it, am the least likely to do so. I don’t know how I +managed to get into debt,” mused Hamish. “It came upon me imperceptibly; +it did, indeed. I depended so entirely upon that money falling to us, +that I grew careless, and would often order things which I was not in +need of. Arthur, since that news came, I have felt overwhelmed with +worry and botheration.” + +“I wish you were free!” + +“If wishes were horses, we should all be on horseback. How debts grow +upon you!” Hamish continued, changing his light tone for a graver one. +“Until within the last day or two, when I have thought it necessary to +take stock of outstanding claims, I had no idea I owed half so much.” + +“What shall you do about it?” + +“That is more easily asked than answered. My own funds are forestalled +for some time to come. And, the worst is, that, now this suit is known +to have terminated against us, people are not so willing to wait as they +were before. I have had no end of them after me to-day.” + +“How shall you contrive to satisfy them?” + +“Satisfy them in some way, I must.” + +“But how, I ask, Hamish?” + +“Rob some bank or other,” replied Hamish, in his off-hand, joking way. + +“Shall you speak to my father?” + +“Where’s the use?” returned Hamish. “He cannot help me just now; he is +straitened enough himself.” + +“He might help you with advice. His experience is larger than yours, his +judgment better. ‘In the multitude of counsellors there is safety,’ you +know, Hamish.” + +“I have made up my mind to say nothing to my father. If he could assist +me, I would disclose all to him: as it is, it would only be inflicting +upon him unnecessary pain. Understand, Arthur, what I have said to you +is in confidence: you must not speak of it to him.” + +“Of course not. I should not think of interfering between you and him. I +wish I could help you!” + +“I wish you could, old fellow. But you need not look so serious.” + +“How you can be so gay and careless over it, I cannot imagine,” said +Arthur. + +Hamish laughed. “If there’s only a little patch of sunshine as large as +a man’s hand, I am sure to see it and trust to it.” + +“Is there any sunshine in this?” + +“A little bit: and I hope it will help me out of it. I am sure I was +born with a large share of hope in my composition.” + +“Show me the bit of sunshine, Hamish.” + +“I can’t do that,” was the answer. “I fear it is not so much actual +sunshine that’s to be seen yet--only its reflection. You could not see +it at all, Arthur; but I, as I tell you, am extravagantly hopeful.” + +The same ever-gay tone, the same pleasant smile, accompanied the words. +And yet, at that moment, instead of walking straightforward into the +open space beyond the elm-trees, as Arthur did, Hamish withdrew his arm +from his brother’s, and halted under their shade, peering cautiously +around. They were then within view of their own door. + +“What are you looking at?” + +“To make sure that the coast is clear. I heard to-day--Arthur, I know +that I shall shock you--that a fellow had taken out a writ against me. I +don’t want to get it served, if I can help it.” + +Arthur was indeed shocked. “Oh, Hamish!” was all he uttered. But the +tone betrayed a strange amount of pain mingled with reproach. + +“You must not think ill of me. I declare that I have been led into this +scrape blindfolded, as may be said. I never dreamt I was getting into +it. I am not reckless by nature; and, but for the expectation of that +money, I should be as free now as you are.” + +Thought upon thought was crowding into Arthur’s mind. He did not speak. + +“I cannot charge myself with any foolish or unnecessary expenditure,” + Hamish resumed. “And,” he added in a deeper tone, “my worst enemy will +not accuse me of rashly incurring debts to gratify my own pleasures. I +do not get into mischief. Were I addicted to drinking, or to gambling, +my debts might have been ten times what they are.” + +“They are enough, it seems,” said Arthur. But he spoke the words in +sadness, not in a spirit of reproof. + +“Arthur, they may prove of the greatest service, in teaching me caution +for the future. Perhaps I wanted the lesson. Let me once get out of this +hash, and I will take pretty good care not to fall into another.” + +“If you only can get out of it.” + +“Oh, I shall do it, somehow; never fear. Let us go on, there seems to be +no one about.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. -- A FALSE ALARM. + +They reached home unmolested. Arthur went straight to Mr. Channing, who +was lying, as usual, on his sofa, and bent over him with a smile, sweet +and hopeful as that of Hamish. + +“Father, may I gain fifty pounds a year, if I can do it, without +detriment to my place at Mr. Galloway’s?” + +“What do you say, my boy?” + +“Would you have any objection to my taking the organ at college on week +days? Mr. Williams has offered it to me.” + +Mr. Channing turned his head and looked at him. He did not understand. +“You could not take it, Arthur; you could not be absent from the office; +and young Jupp takes the organ. What is it that you are talking of?” + +Arthur explained in his quiet manner, a glad light shining in his eyes. +Jupp had left the college for good; Mr. Williams had offered the place +to him, and Mr. Galloway had authorized him to accept it. He should only +have to go to the office for two hours before breakfast in a morning, to +make up for the two lost in the day. + +“My brave boy!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, making prisoner of his hand. “I +said this untoward loss of the suit might turn out to be a blessing in +disguise. And so it will; it is bringing forth the sterling love of my +children. You are doing this for me, Arthur.” + +“Doing it a great deal for myself, papa. You do not know the +gratification it will be to me, those two hours’ play daily!” + +“I understand, my dear--understand it all!” + +“Especially as--” Arthur came to a sudden stop. + +“Especially as what?” asked Mr. Channing. + +“As I had thought of giving up taking lessons,” Arthur hastily added, +not going deeper into explanations. “I play quite well enough, now, to +cease learning. Mr. Williams said one day, that, with practice, I might +soon equal him.” + +“I wonder what those parents do, Arthur, who own ungrateful or +rebellious children!” Mr. Channing exclaimed, after a pause of thought. +“The world is full of trouble; and it is of many kinds, and takes +various phases; but if we can only be happy in our children, all other +trouble may pass lightly over us, as a summer cloud. I thank God that my +children have never brought home to me an hour’s care. How merciful He +has been to me!” + +Arthur’s thoughts reverted to Hamish and _his_ trouble. He felt +thankful, then, that it was hid from Mr. Channing. + +“I have already accepted the place, papa. I knew I might count upon your +consent.” + +“Upon my warm approbation. My son, do your best at your task. And,” Mr. +Channing added, sinking his voice to a whisper, “when the choristers +peal out their hymn of praise to God, during these sacred services, let +_your_ heart ascend with it in fervent praise and thanksgiving. Too many +go through these services in a matter-of-course spirit, their heart far +away. Do not you.” + +Hamish at this moment came in, carrying the books. “Are you ready, sir? +There’s not much to do, this evening.” + +“Ready at any time, Hamish.” + +Hamish laid the books before him on the table, and sat down. Arthur left +the room. Mr. Channing liked to be alone with Hamish when the accounts +were being gone over. + +Mrs. Channing was in the drawing-room, some of the children with her. +Arthur entered. “Mrs. Channing,” cried he, with mock ceremony, “allow me +to introduce you to the assistant-organist of the cathedral.” + +She smiled, supposing it to be some joke. “Very well, sir. He can come +in!” + +“He is in, ma’am. It is myself.” + +“Is young Mr. Jupp there?” she asked; for he sometimes came home with +Arthur. + +“Young Mr. Jupp has disappeared from public life, and I am appointed in +his place. It is quite true.” + +“Arthur!” she remonstrated. + +“Mamma, indeed it is true. Mr. Williams has made me the offer, and Mr. +Galloway has consented to allow me time to attend the week-day services; +and papa is glad of it, and I hope you will be glad also.” + +“_I_ have known of it since this morning,” spoke Tom, with an assumption +of easy consequence; while Mrs. Channing was recovering her senses, +which had been nearly frightened away. “Arthur, I hope Williams intends +to pay you?” + +“Fifty pounds a year, And the copying besides.” + +“_Is_ it true, Arthur?” breathlessly exclaimed Mrs. Channing. + +“I have told you that it is, mother mine. Jupp has resigned, and I am +assistant-organist.” + +Annabel danced round him in an ecstasy of delight. Not at his +success--success or failure did not much trouble Annabel--but she +thought there might be a prospect of some fun in store for herself. +“Arthur, you’ll let me come into the cathedral and blow for you?” + +“You little stupid!” cried Tom. “Much good you could do at blowing! A +girl blowing the college organ! That’s rich! Better let Williams catch +you there! She’d actually go, I believe!” + +“It is not your business, Tom; it is Arthur’s,” retorted Annabel, with +flushed cheeks. “Mamma, can’t you teach Tom to interfere with himself, +and not with me?” + +“I would rather teach Annabel to be a young lady, and not a tomboy,” + said Mrs. Channing. “You may as well wish to be allowed to ring the +college bells, as blow the organ, child.” + +“I should like that,” said Annabel. “Oh, what fun, if the rope went up +with me!” + +Mrs. Channing turned a reproving glance on her, and resumed her +conversation with Arthur. “Why did you not tell me before, my boy? +It was too good news to keep to yourself. How long has it been in +contemplation?” + +“Dear mamma, only to-day. It was only this morning that Jupp resigned.” + +“Only to-day! It must have been decided very hastily, then, for a +measure of that sort.” + +“Mr. Williams was so put to it that he took care to lose no time. He +spoke to me at one o’clock. I had gone to him to the cathedral, asking +for the copying, which I heard was going begging, and he broached the +other subject, on the spur of the moment, as it seemed to me. Nothing +could be decided until I had seen Mr. Galloway, and I spoke to him after +he left here, this afternoon. He will allow me to be absent from the +office an hour, morning and afternoon, on condition that I attend for +two hours before breakfast.” + +“But, Arthur, you will have a great deal upon your hands.” + +“Not any too much. It will keep me out of mischief.” + +“When shall you find time to do the copying?” + +“In an evening, I suppose. I shall find plenty of time.” + +As Hamish had observed, there was little to do at the books, that +evening, and he soon left the parlour. Constance happened to be in the +hall as he crossed it, on his way to his bedroom. Judith, who appeared +to have been on the watch, came gliding from the half-opened kitchen +door and approached Constance, looking after Hamish as he went up the +stairs. + +“Do you see, Miss Constance?” she whispered. “He is carrying the books +up with him, as usual!” + +At this juncture, Hamish turned round to speak to his sister. +“Constance, I don’t want any supper to-night, tell my mother. You can +call me when it is time for the reading.” + +“And he is going to set on at ‘em, now, and he’ll be at ‘em till morning +light!” continued Judith’s whisper. “And he’ll drop off into his +grave with decline!--‘taint in the nature of a young man to do without +sleep--and that’ll be the ending! And he’ll burn himself up first, and +all the house with him.” + +“I think I will go and speak to him,” debated Constance. + +“_I_ should,” advised Judith. “The worst is, if the books must be done, +why, they must; and I don’t see that there is any help for it.” + +But Constance hesitated, considerably. She did not at all like to +interfere; it appeared so very much to resemble the work of a spy. +Several minutes she deliberated, and then went slowly up the stairs. +Knocking at Hamish’s door, she turned the handle, and would have +entered. It was locked. + +“Who’s there?” called out Hamish. + +“Can I come in for a minute, Hamish? I want to say a word to you.” + +He did not undo the door immediately. There appeared to be an opening +and closing of his desk, first--a scuffle, as of things being put away. +When Constance entered, she saw one of the insurance books open on the +table, the pen and ink near it; the others were not to be seen. The keys +were in the table lock. A conviction flashed over the mind of Constance +that Judith was right, in supposing the office accounts to be the +object that kept him up. “What can he do with his time in the day?” she +thought. + +“What is it, Constance?” + +“Can you let me speak to you, Hamish?” + +“If you won’t be long. I was just beginning to be busy,” he replied, +taking out the keys and putting them into his pocket. + +“I see you were,” she said, glancing at the ledger. “Hamish, you must +not be offended with me, or think I interfere unwarrantably. I would not +do it, but that I am anxious for you. Why is it that you sit up so late +at night?” + +There was a sudden accession of colour to his face--Constance saw it; +but there was a smile as well. “How do you know I do sit up? Has Judy +been telling tales?” + +“Judy is uneasy about it, and she spoke to me this evening. She has +visions of the house being burnt up with every one in it, and of your +fatally injuring your health. I believe she would consider the latter +calamity almost more grievous than the former, for you know you were +always her favourite. Hamish; is there no danger of either?” + +“There is not. I am too cautious for the one to happen, and, I believe, +too hardy for the other. Judy is a simpleton,” he laughed; “she has her +water-butt, and what more can she desire?” + +“Hamish, why do you sit up? Have you not time for your work in the day?” + +“No. Or else I should do it in the day. I do not sit up enough to hurt +me. I have, on an average, three hours’ night-work, five days in the +week; and if that can damage a strong fellow like me, call me a puny +changeling.” + +“You sit up much longer than that?” + +“Not often. These light days, I sometimes do not sit up half so long; I +get up in the morning, instead. Constance, you look grave enough for a +judge!” + +“And you, laughing enough to provoke me. Suppose I tell papa of this +habit of yours, and get him to forbid it?” + +“Then, my dear, you would work irreparable mischief,” he replied, +becoming grave in his turn. “Were I to be prevented from doing as I +please in my chamber in this house, I must find a room elsewhere, in +which I should be my own master.” + +“Hamish!” + +“You oblige me to say it, Constance. You and Judy must lay your heads +together upon some other grievance, for, indeed, for this particular one +there is no remedy. She is an old goose, and you are a young one.” + +“Is it right that we should submit to the risk of being set on fire?” + +“My dear, if that is the point, I’ll have a fire-escape placed over +the front door every night, and pay a couple of watchmen to act as +guardians. Constance!” again dropping his tone of mockery, “you know +that you may trust me better than that.” + +“But, Hamish, how do you spend your time, that you cannot complete your +books in the day?” + +“Oh,” drawled Hamish, “ours is the laziest office! gossiping and scandal +going on in it from morning till night. In the fatigue induced by that, +I am not sure that I don’t take a nap, sometimes.” + +Constance could not tell what to make of him. He was gazing at her with +the most perplexing expression of face, looking ready to burst into a +laugh. + +“One last word, Hamish, for I hear Judith calling to you. Are you +obliged to do this night-work?” + +“I am.” + +“Then I will say no more; and things must go on as it seems they have +hitherto done.” + +Arthur came running upstairs, and Hamish met him at the chamber +door. Arthur, who appeared strangely agitated, began speaking in a +half-whisper, unconscious that his sister was within. She heard every +word. + +“Judy says some young man wants you, Hamish! I fear it may be the fellow +to serve the writ. What on earth is to be done?” + +“Did Judy say I was at home?” + +“Yes; and has handed him into the study, to wait. Did you not hear her +calling to you?” + +“I can’t--see him,” Hamish was about to say. “Yes, I will see him,” + he added after a moment’s reflection. “Anything rather than have a +disturbance which might come to my mother’s ears. And I suppose if he +could not serve it now, he would watch for me in the morning.” + +“Shall I go down first, and hear what he has to say?” + +“Arthur, boy, it would do no good. I have brought this upon myself, and +must battle with it. A Channing cannot turn coward!” + +“But he may act with discretion,” said Arthur. “I will speak to the man, +and if there’s no help for it, I’ll call you.” + +Down flew Arthur, four stairs at a time. Hamish remained with his body +inside his chamber door, and his head out. I conclude he was listening; +and, in the confusion, he had probably totally forgotten Constance. +Arthur came bounding up the stairs again, his eyes sparkling. + +“A false alarm, Hamish! It’s only Martin Pope.” + +“Martin Pope!” echoed Hamish, considerably relieved, for Martin Pope +was an acquaintance of his, and sub-editor of one of the Helstonleigh +newspapers. “Why could not Judy have opened her mouth?” + +He ran down the stairs, the colour, which had left his face, returning +to it. But it did not to that of Constance; hers had changed to an ashy +whiteness. Arthur saw her standing there; saw that she must have heard +and understood all. + +“Oh, Arthur, has it come to this? Is Hamish in _that_ depth of debt!” + +“Hush! What brought you here, Constance?” + +“What writ is it that he fears? Is there indeed one out against him?” + +“I don’t know much about it. There may be one.” + +She wrung her hands. “The next thing to a writ is a prison, is it +not? If he should be taken, what would become of the office--of papa’s +position?” + +“Do not agitate yourself,” he implored. “It can do no good.” + +“Nothing can do good: nothing, nothing. Oh, what trouble!” + +“Constance, in the greatest trouble there is always one Refuge.” + +“Yes,” she mentally thought, bursting into tears. “What, but for that +shelter, would become of us in our bitter hours of trial?” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. -- THE CLOISTER KEYS. + +It was the twenty-second day of the month, and nearly a week after +the date of the last chapter. Arthur Channing sat in his place at the +cathedral organ, playing the psalm for the morning; for the hour was +that of divine service. + +“O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious: and His mercy endureth +for ever!” + +The boy’s whole heart went up with the words. _He_ gave thanks: mercies +had come upon him--upon his; and that great dread--which was turning his +days to gall, his nights to sleeplessness--the arrest of Hamish, had not +as yet been attempted. He felt it all as he sat there; and, in a softer +voice, he echoed the sweet song of the choristers below, verse after +verse as each verse rose on the air, filling the aisles of the old +cathedral: how that God delivers those who cry unto Him--those who sit +in darkness and in the shadow of death; those whose hearts fail through +heaviness, who fall down and there is none to help them--He brings them +out of the darkness, and breaks their bonds in sunder. They that go down +to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, who see +the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep; whose hearts cower +at the stormy rising of the waves, and in their agony of distress cry +unto Him to help them; and He hears the cry, and delivers them. He +stills the angry waves, and calms the storm, and brings them into the +haven where they would be; and then they are glad, because they are at +rest. + +“O that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness: and +declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men! + +“And again, when they are minished, and brought low: through oppression, +through any plague or trouble; though He suffer them to be evil +intreated through tyrants: and let them wander out of the way in the +wilderness; yet helpeth He the poor out of misery: and maketh him +households like a flock of sheep. + +“Whoso is wise will ponder these things: and they shall understand the +loving-kindness of the Lord.” + +The refrain died away, the gentle echo died after it, and silence fell +upon the cathedral. It was broken by the voice of the Reverend William +Yorke, giving out the first lesson--a chapter in Jeremiah. + +At the conclusion of the service, Arthur Channing left the college. In +the cloisters he was overtaken by the choristers, who were hastening +back to the schoolroom. At the same moment Ketch, the porter, passed, +coming towards them from the south entrance of the cloisters. He touched +his hat in his usual ungracious fashion to the dean and Dr. Gardner, +who were turning into the chapter-house, carrying their trenchers, and +looked the other way as he passed the boys. + +Arthur caught hold of Hurst. “Have you ‘served out’ old Ketch, as you +threatened?” he laughingly asked. + +“Hush!” whispered Hurst. “It has not come off yet. We had an idea that +an inkling of it had got abroad, so we thought it best to keep quiet for +a few nights, lest the Philistines should be on the watch. But the time +is fixed now, and I can tell you that it is not a hundred nights off.” + +With a shower of mysterious nods and winks, Hurst rushed away and +bounded up the stairs to the schoolroom. Arthur returned to Mr. +Galloway’s. “It’s the awfullest shame!” burst forth Tom Channing that +day at dinner (and allow me to remark, _par parenthèse_, that, in +reading about schoolboys, you must be content to accept their grammar as +it comes); and he brought the handle of his knife down upon the table in +a passion. + +“Thomas!” uttered Mr. Channing, in amazed reproof. + +“Well, papa, and so it is! and the school’s going pretty near mad over +it!” returned Tom, turning his crimsoned face upon his father. “Would +you believe that I and Huntley are to be passed over in the chance for +the seniorship, and Yorke is to have it, without reference to merit?” + +“No, I do not believe it, Tom,” quietly replied Mr. Channing. “But, even +were it true, it is no reason why you should break out in that unseemly +manner. Did you ever know a hot temper do good to its possessor?” + +“I know I am hot-tempered,” confessed Tom. “I cannot help it, papa; it +was born with me.” + +“Many of our failings were born with us, my boy, as I have always +understood. But they are to be subdued; not indulged.” + +“Papa, you must acknowledge that it is a shame if Pye has promised the +seniorship to Yorke, over my head and Huntley’s,” reiterated Tom, who +was apt to speak as strongly as he thought. “If he gets the seniorship, +the exhibition will follow; that is an understood thing. Would it be +just?” + +“Why are you saying this? What have you heard?” + +“Well, it is a roundabout tale,” answered Tom. “But the rumour in the +school is this--and if it turns out to be true, Gerald Yorke will about +get eaten up alive.” + +“Is that the rumour, Tom?” said Mrs. Channing. + +Tom laughed, in spite of his anger. “I had not come to the rumour, +mamma. Lady Augusta and Dr. Burrows are great friends, you know; and we +hear that they have been salving over Pye--” + +“Gently, Tom!” put in Mr. Channing. + +“Talking over Pye, then,” corrected Tom, impatient to proceed with his +story; “and Pye has promised to promote Gerald Yorke to the seniorship. +He--” + +“Dr. Burrows has gone away again,” interrupted Annabel. “I saw him go by +to-day in his travelling carriage. Judy says he has gone to his rectory; +some of the deanery servants told her so.” + +“You’ll get something, Annabel, if you interrupt in that fashion,” cried +Tom. “Last Monday, Dr. Burrows gave a dinner-party. Pye was there, and +Lady Augusta was there; and it was then they got Pye to promise it to +Yorke.” + +“How is it known that they did?” asked Mr. Channing. + +“The boys all say it, papa. It was circulating through the school this +morning like wild-fire.” + +“You will never take the prize for logic, Tom. _How_ did the boys hear +it, I ask?” + +“Through Mr. Calcraft,” replied Tom. + +“Tom!” + +“Mr. Ketch, then,” said Tom, correcting himself as he had done before. +“Both names are a mile too good for him. Ketch came into contact with +some of the boys this morning before ten-o’clock school, and, of course, +they went into a wordy war--which is nothing new. Huntley was the only +senior present, and Ketch was insolent to him. One of the boys told +Ketch that he would not dare to be so, next year, if Huntley should +be senior boy. Ketch sneered at that, and said Huntley never would be +senior boy, nor Channing either, for it was already given to Yorke. The +boys took his words up, ridiculing the notion of _his_ knowing anything +of the matter, and they did not spare their taunts. That roused his +temper, and the old fellow let out all he knew. He said Lady Augusta +Yorke was at Galloway’s office yesterday, boasting about it before +Jenkins.” + +“A roundabout tale, indeed!” remarked Mr. Channing; “and told in a +somewhat roundabout manner, Tom. I should not put faith in it. Did you +hear anything of this, Arthur?” + +“No, sir. I know that Lady Augusta called at the office yesterday +afternoon while I was at college. I don’t know anything more.” + +“Huntley intends to drop across Jenkins this afternoon, and question +him,” resumed Tom Channing. “There can’t be any doubt that it was he who +gave the information to Ketch. If Huntley finds that Lady Augusta did +assert it, the school will take the affair up.” + +The boast amused Hamish. “In what manner will the school be pleased to +‘take it up?’” questioned he. “Recommend the dean to hold Mr. Pye under +surveillance? Or send Lady Augusta a challenge?” + +Tom Channing nodded his head mysteriously. “There is many a true word +spoken in jest, Hamish. I don’t know yet what we should do: we should do +something. The school won’t stand it tamely. The day for that one-sided +sort of oppression has gone out with our grandmothers’ fashions.” + +“It would be very wrong of the school to stand it,” said Charley, +throwing in his word. “If the honours are to go by sneaking favour, and +not by merit, where is the use of any of us putting out our mettle?” + +“You be quiet, Miss Charley! you juniors have nothing to do with it,” + were all the thanks the boy received from Tom. + +Now the facts really were very much as Tom Channing asserted; though +whether, or how far, Mr. Pye had promised, and whether Lady Augusta’s +boast had been a vain one, was a matter for speculation. Neither could +it be surmised the part, if any, played in it by Prebendary Burrows. It +was certain that Lady Augusta had, on the previous day, boasted to Mr. +Galloway, in his office, that her son was to have the seniorship; that +Mr. Pye had promised it to her and Dr. Burrows, at the dinner-party. +She spoke of it without the least reserve, in a tone of much +self-gratulation, and she laughingly told Jenkins, who was at his desk +writing, that he might wish Gerald joy when he next saw him. Jenkins +accepted it all as truth: it may be questioned if Mr. Galloway did, +for he knew that Lady Augusta did not always weigh her words before +speaking. + +In the evening--this same evening, mind, after the call at the office of +Lady Augusta--Mr. Jenkins proceeded towards home when he left his work. +He took the road through the cloisters. As he was passing the porter’s +lodge, who should he see in it but his father, old Jenkins, the +bedesman, holding a gossip with Ketch; and they saw him. + +“If that ain’t our Joe a-going past!” exclaimed the bedesman. + +Joe stepped in. He was proceeding to join in the converse, when a lot +of the college boys tore along, hooting and shouting, and kicking a ball +about. It was kicked into the lodge, and a few compliments were thrown +at the boys by the porter, before they could get the ball out again. +These compliments, you may be quite sure, the boys did not fail to +return with interest: Tom Channing, in particular, being charmingly +polite. + +“And the saucy young beast’ll be the senior boy soon!” foamed Mr. Ketch, +as the lot decamped. “I wish I could get him gagged, I do!” + +“No, he will not,” said Joe Jenkins, speaking impulsively in his +superior knowledge. “Yorke is to be senior.” + +“How do you know that, Joe?” asked his father. + +Joe replied by relating what he had heard said by the Lady Augusta that +afternoon. It did not conciliate the porter in the remotest degree: +he was not more favourably inclined to Gerald Yorke than he was to Tom +Channing. Had he heard the school never was to have a senior again, or a +junior either, that might have pleased him. + +But on the following morning, when he fell into dispute with the boys in +the cloisters, he spoke out his information in a spirit of triumph over +Huntley. Bit by bit, angered by the boys’ taunts, he repeated every word +he had heard from Jenkins. The news, as it was busily circulated from +one to the other, caused no slight hubbub in the school, and gave rise +to that explosion of Tom Channing’s at the dinner-table. + +Huntley sought Jenkins, as he had said he would do, and received +confirmation of the report, so far as the man’s knowledge went. But +Jenkins was terribly vexed that the report had got abroad through him. +He determined to pay a visit to Mr. Ketch, and reproach him with his +incaution. + +Mr. Ketch sat in his lodge, taking his supper: bread and cheese, and a +pint of ale procured at the nearest public-house. Except in the light +months of summer, it was his habit to close the cloister gates before +supper-time; but as Mr. Ketch liked to take that meal early--that is +to say, at eight o’clock--and, as dusk, for at least four months in the +year, obstinately persisted in putting itself off to a later hour, in +spite of his growling, and as he might not shut up before dusk, he had +no resource but to take his supper first and lock up afterwards. The +“lodge” was a quaint abode, of one room only, built in an obscure nook +of the cathedral, near the grand entrance. He was pursuing his meal +after his own peculiar custom: eating, drinking, and grumbling. + +“It’s worse nor leather, this cheese! Selling it to a body for +double-Gloucester! I’d like to double them as made it. Eight-pence a +pound!--and short weight beside! I wonder there ain’t a law passed to +keep down the cost o’ provisions!” + +A pause, given chiefly to grunting, and Mr. Ketch resumed:-- + +“This bread’s rougher nor a bear’s hide! Go and ask for new, and they +palms you off with stale. They’ll put a loaf a week old into the oven +to hot up again, and then sell it to you for new! There ought to be a +criminal code passed for hanging bakers. They’re all cheats. They mixes +up alum, and bone-dust, and plaster of Paris, and--Drat that door! Who’s +kicking at it now?” + +No one was kicking. Some one was civilly knocking. The door was pushed +slightly open, and the inoffensive face of Mr. Joseph Jenkins appeared +in the aperture. + +“I say, Mr. Ketch,” began he in a mild tone of deprecation, “whatever is +it that you have gone and done?” + +“What d’ye mean?” growled old Ketch. “Is this a way to come and set upon +a gentleman in his own house? Who taught you manners, Joe Jenkins?” + +“You have been repeating what I mentioned last night about Lady +Augusta’s son getting the seniorship,” said Jenkins, coming in and +closing the door. + +“You did say it,” retorted Mr. Ketch. + +“I know I did. But I did not suppose you were going to repeat it again.” + +“If it was a secret, why didn’t you say so?” asked Mr. Ketch. + +“It was not exactly a secret, or Lady Augusta would not have mentioned +it before me,” remonstrated Joe. “But it is not the proper thing, for +me to come out of Mr. Galloway’s office, and talk of anything I may have +heard said in it by his friends, and then for it to get round to his +ears again! Put it to yourself, Mr. Ketch, and say whether you would +like it.” + +“What _did_ you talk of it for, then?” snarled Ketch, preparing to take +a copious draught of ale. + +“Because I thought you and father were safe. You might both have known +better than to speak of it out of doors. There is sure to be a commotion +over it.” + +“Miserable beer! Brewed out of ditch-water!” + +“Young Mr. Huntley came to me to-day, to know the rights and the wrongs +of it--as he said,” continued Joseph. “He spoke to Mr. Galloway about +it afterwards--though I must say he was kind enough not to bring in +my name; only said, in a general way, that he had ‘heard’ it. He is an +honourable young gentleman, is that Huntley. He vows the report shall be +conveyed to the dean.” + +“Serve ‘em right!” snapped the porter. “If the dean does his duty, he’ll +order a general flogging for the school, all round. It’ll do ‘em good.” + +“Galloway did not say much--except that he knew what he should do, were +he Huntley’s or Channing’s father. Which I took to mean that, in his +opinion, there ought to be an inquiry instituted.” + +“And you know there ought,” said Mr. Ketch. + +“_I_ know! I’m sure I don’t know,” was the mild answer. “It is not my +place to reflect upon my superiors, Mr. Ketch--to say they should do +this, or they should do that. I like to reverence them, and to keep a +civil tongue in my head.” + +“Which is what you don’t do. If I knowed who brewed this beer I’d enter +an action again him, for putting in no malt.” + +“I would not have had this get about for any money!” resumed Jenkins. +“Neither you nor father shall ever catch me opening my lips again.” + +“Keep ‘em shut then,” growled old Ketch. + +Mr. Ketch leisurely finished his supper, and the two continued talking +until dusk came on--almost dark; for the porter, churl though he was, +liked a visitor as well as any one--possibly as a vent for his temper. +He did not often find one who would stand it so meekly as Joe Jenkins. +At length Mr. Jenkins lifted himself off the shut-up press bedstead on +which he had been perched, and prepared to depart. + +“Come along of me while I lock up,” said Ketch, somewhat less +ungraciously than usual. + +Mr. Jenkins hesitated. “My wife will be wondering what has become of +me; she’ll blow me up for keeping supper waiting,” debated he, aloud. +“But--well, I don’t mind going with you this once, for company’s sake,” + he added in his willingness to be obliging. + +The two large keys, one at each end of a string, were hung up just +within the lodge door; they belonged to the two gates of the cloisters. +Old Ketch took them down and went out with Jenkins, merely closing his +own door; he rarely fastened it, unless he was going some distance. + +Very dark were the enclosed cloisters, as they entered by the west gate. +It was later than the usual hour of closing, and it was, moreover, a +gloomy evening, the sky overcast. They went through the cloisters to the +south gate, Ketch grumbling all the way. He locked it, and then turned +back again. + +Arrived about midway of the west quadrangle, the very darkest part in +all the cloisters, and the most dreary, Jenkins suddenly startled his +companion by declaring there was a light in the burial-ground. + +“Come along!” growled Ketch. “You’ll say there’s corpse-candles there +next.” + +“It is only a little spark, like,” said Jenkins, halting. “I should not +wonder but it is one of those pretty, innocent glowworms.” + +He leaned his arms upon the mullioned frame of the open Gothic window, +raised himself on tiptoe to obtain as complete a view as was possible, +and pushed his head out to reconnoitre the grave-yard. Mr. Ketch +shuffled on; the keys, held somewhat loosely in his hand by the string, +clanking together. + +“Be you going to stop there all night?” he called out, when he had gone +a few paces, half turning round to speak. + +At that moment a somewhat startling incident occurred. The keys were +whisked out of Mr. Ketch’s hand, and fell, or appeared to fall, with a +clatter on the flags at his feet. He turned his anger upon Jenkins. + +“Now then, you senseless calf! What did you do that for?” + +“Did you speak?” asked Jenkins, taking his elbows from the distant +window-frame, and approaching. + +Mr. Ketch felt a little staggered. His belief had been that Jenkins had +come up silently, and dashed the keys from his hand; but Jenkins, +it appeared, had not left the window. However, like too many other +cross-grained spirits, he persisted in venting blame upon him. + +“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, to play an old man such a trick?” + +“I have played no trick,” said Jenkins. “I thought I saw a glowworm, +and I stopped to look; but I couldn’t see it again. There’s no trick in +that.” + +“Ugh!” cried the porter in his wrath. “You took and clutched the keys +from me, and throwed ‘em on the ground! Pick ‘em up.” + +“Well, I never heard the like!” said Jenkins. “I was not within yards +and yards of you. If you dropped the keys it was no fault of mine.” But, +being a peaceably-inclined man, he stooped and found the keys. + +The porter grunted. An inner current of conviction rose in his heart +that he must undoubtedly have dropped them, though he could have +declared at the time that they were mysteriously snatched from him. He +seized the string firmly now, and hobbled on to the west door, abusing +Jenkins all the way. + +They arrived at the west door, which was gained by a narrow closed +passage from the gate of entrance, as was the south door in a similar +manner; and there Mr. Ketch used his eyes and his tongue considerably, +for the door, instead of being open, as he had left it, was shut and +locked. + +“What on earth has done this?” shrieked he. + +“Done what?” asked Mr. Jenkins. + +“Done what!” was the irascible echo. “Be you a fool, Joe Jenkins? Don’t +you see the door’s fast!” + +“Unfasten it,” said Jenkins sensibly. + +Mr. Ketch proceeded to do so--at least to apply one of the keys to the +lock--with much fumbling. It apparently did not occur to him to wonder +how the locking-up process could have been effected, considering that +the key had been in his own possession. + +Fumbling and fumbling, now with one key, now with the other, and then +critically feeling the keys and their wards, the truth at length burst +upon the unhappy man that the keys were not the right keys, and that he +and Jenkins were--locked in! A profuse perspiration broke out over him. + +“They _must_ be the keys,” remonstrated Mr. Jenkins. + +“They are _not_ the keys,” shrieked Ketch. “D’ye think I don’t know my +own keys, now I come to feel ‘em?” + +“But they were your keys that fell down and that I picked up,” argued +Jenkins, perfectly sure in his own mind that they could be no others. +“There was not a fairy in the cloisters to come and change them.” + +“Feel ‘em!” roared Ketch, in his despair. “These be a couple of horrid, +rusty old things, that can’t have been in use since the cloisters was +built. _You_ have changed ‘em, you have!” he sobbed, the notion taking +possession of him forcibly. “You are a-doing it to play me a infamous +trick, and I’ll have you up before the dean to-morrow! I’ll shake the +life out of you, I will!” + +Laying summary hold of Mr. Jenkins, he began to shake him with all his +feeble strength. The latter soon extricated himself, and he succeeded in +impressing on the man the fallacy of his suspicion. “Don’t I want to get +home to my supper and my wife? Don’t I tell you that she’ll set upon +me like anything for keeping it waiting?” he meekly remonstrated. “Do I +want to be locked up in these unpleasant cloisters? Give me the keys and +let me try them.” + +Ketch, in sheer helplessness, was fain to comply. He resigned the keys +to Jenkins, and Jenkins tried them: but he was none the nearer unlocking +the gate. In their increasing perplexity, they resolved to return to +the place in the quadrangle where the keys had fallen--a very forlorn +suggestion proceeding from Mr. Jenkins that the right keys might be +lying there still, and that this rusty pair might, by some curious and +unaccountable chance, have been lying there also. + +They commenced their search, disputing, the one hotly, the other +temperately, as to which was the exact spot. With feet and hands they +hunted as well as the dark would allow them; all in vain; and Ketch gave +vent to a loud burst of feeling when he realized the fact that they were +positively locked up in the cloisters, beyond hope of succour, in the +dark and lonely night. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. -- A MISHAP TO THE BISHOP. + + “Fordham, I wonder whether the cloisters are closed?” + +“I will see, my lord.” + +The question came from the Bishop of Helstonleigh; who, as it fell out, +had been to make an evening call upon the dean. The dean’s servant was +now conducting his lordship down the grand staircase, on his departure. +In proceeding to the palace from the deanery, to go through the +cloisters cut off quite two-thirds of the distance. + +Fordham left the hall, a lamp in his hand, and traversed sundry passages +which brought him to the deanery garden. Crossing the garden, and +treading another short passage, he came to the cloisters. The bishop had +followed, lighted by Fordham, and talking affably. A very pleasant +man was the Bishop of Helstonleigh, standing little upon forms and +ceremonies. In frame he was nearly as active as a college boy. + +“It is all right, I think, my lord,” said Fordham. “I hear the porter’s +voice now in the cloisters.” + +“How dark it is!” exclaimed the bishop. “Ketch must be closing late +to-night. What a noise he is making!” + +In point of fact, Mr. Ketch had just arrived at that agreeable moment +which concluded the last chapter--the conviction that no other keys were +to be found, and that he and Jenkins were fast. The tone in which he was +making his sentiments known upon the calamity, was not a subdued one. + +“Shall I light you round, my lord?” + +“By no means--by no means. I shall be up with Ketch in a minute. He +seems in a temper. Good night, Fordham.” + +“Good night to your lordship.” + +The servant went back to the deanery. The prelate groped his way round +to the west quadrangle. + +“Are you closing, Ketch?” + +Mr. Ketch started as if he had been shot, and his noise dropped to a +calm. Truth to say, his style of complaint had not been orthodox, +or exactly suitable to the ears of his bishop. He and Jenkins both +recognized the voice, and bowed low, dark though it was. + +“What is the matter, Ketch? You are making enough noise.” + +“Matter, my lord!” groaned Ketch. “Here’s matter enough to make a +saint--saving your lordship’s presence--forget his prayers. We be locked +up in the cloisters.” + +“Locked up!” repeated the bishop. “What do you mean? Who is with you?” + +“It is me, my lord,” said Jenkins, meekly, answering for himself. +“Joseph Jenkins, my lord, at Mr. Galloway’s. I came in with the porter +just for company, my lord, when he came to lock up, and we have somehow +got locked in.” + +The bishop demanded an explanation. It was not very easily afforded. +Ketch and Jenkins talked one against the other, and when the bishop did +at length understand the tale, he scarcely gave credence to it. + +“It is an incomprehensible story, Ketch, that you should drop your keys, +and they should be changed for others as they lay on the flags. Are you +sure you brought out the right keys?” + +“My lord, I _couldn’t_ bring out any others,” returned Ketch, in a tone +that longed to betray its resentment, and would have betrayed it to any +one but a bishop. “I haven’t no others to bring, my lord. The two keys +hang up on the nail always, and there ain’t another key besides in the +house, except the door key.” + +“Some one must have changed them previously--must have hung up these in +their places,” remarked the bishop. + +“But, my lord, it couldn’t be, I say,” reiterated old Ketch, almost +shrieking. “I know the keys just as well as I know my own hands, and +they was the right keys that I brought out. The best proof, my lord, is, +that I locked the south door fast enough; and how could I have done that +with these wretched old rusty things?” + +“The keys must be on the flags still,” said his lordship. + +“That is the only conclusion I can come to, my lord,” mildly put in +Jenkins. “But we cannot find them.” + +“And meanwhile we are locked in for the night, and here’s his right +reverend lordship, the bishop, locked in with us!” danced old Ketch, +almost beside himself with anger. “Of course, it wouldn’t matter for me +and Jenkins: speaking in comparison, we are nobody; but it is a shameful +indignity for my lord.” + +“We must try and get out, Ketch,” said his lordship, in a tone that +sounded as if he were more inclined to laugh than cry. “I will go back +to the deanery.” + +Away went the bishop as quickly as the gloom allowed him, and away went +the other two in his wake. Arrived at the passage which led from the +cloisters to the deanery garden they groped their way to the end--only +to find the door closed and locked. + +“Well, this is a pleasant situation!” exclaimed the bishop, his tone +betraying amusement as well as annoyance; and with his own prelatical +hands he pummelled at the door, and shouted with his own prelatical +voice. When the bishop was tired, Jenkins and Ketch began to pummel and +to shout, and they pummelled and shouted till their knuckles were sore +and their throats were hoarse. It was all in vain. The garden intervened +between them and the deanery, and they could not be heard. + +It certainly was a pretty situation, as the prelate remarked. The +Right Reverend the Lord Bishop of Helstonleigh, ranking about fifth, +by precedence, on the episcopal bench, locked up ignominiously in +the cloisters of Helstonleigh, with Ketch the porter, and Jenkins the +steward’s clerk; likely, so far as appearances might be trusted, to have +to pass the night there! The like had never yet been heard of. + +The bishop went to the south gate, and tried the keys himself: the +bishop went to the west gate and tried them there; the bishop stamped +about the west quadrangle, hoping to stamp upon the missing keys; but +nothing came of it. Ketch and Jenkins attended him--Ketch grumbling in +the most angry terms that he dared, Jenkins in humble silence. + +“I really do not see what is to be done,” debated the bishop, who, +no doubt, wished himself well out of the dilemma, as any less exalted +mortal would have done, “The doors leading into the college are sure to +be closed.” + +“Quite sure,” groaned Ketch. + +“And to get into the college would not serve us, that I see,” added the +bishop. “We should be no better off there than here.” + +“Saving that we might ring the bell, my lord,” suggested Jenkins, with +deference. + +They proceeded to the college gates. It was a forlorn hope, and one that +did not serve them. The gates were locked, the doors closed behind them. +No reaching the bell that way; it might as well have been a hundred +miles off. + +They traversed the cloisters again, and tried the door of the +schoolroom. It was locked. Had it not been, the senior boy might have +expected punishment from the head-master. They tried the small door +leading into the residence of Dr. Burrows--fast also; that abode just +now was empty. The folding doors of the chapter-house were opened +easily, and they entered. But what did it avail them? There was the +large, round room, lined with its books, furnished with its immense +table and easy-chairs; but it was as much shut in from the hearing of +the outside world as they were. The bishop came into contact with a +chair, and sat down in it. Jenkins, who, as clerk to Mr. Galloway, the +steward to the dean and chapter, was familiar with the chapter-house, +felt his way to the spot where he knew matches were sometimes kept. He +could not find any: it was the time of light evenings. + +“There’s just one chance, my lord,” suggested Jenkins. “That the little +unused door at the corner of the cloisters, leading into the body of the +cathedral, may not be locked.” + +“Precious careless of the sextons, if it is not!” grunted Ketch. + +“It is a door nobody ever thinks of going in at, my lord,” returned +Jenkins, as if he would apologize for the sextons’ carelessness, should +it be found unfastened. “If it is open, we might get to the bell.” + +“The sextons, proud, stuck-up gentlemen, be made up of carelessness and +anything else that’s bad!” groaned Ketch. “Holding up their heads above +us porters!” + +It was worth the trial. The bishop rose from the chair, and groped his +way out of the chapter-house, the two others following. + +“If it hadn’t been for that Jenkins’s folly, fancying he saw a light +in the burying-ground, and me turning round to order him to come on, +it might not have happened,” grumbled Ketch, as they wound round the +cloisters. + +“A light in the burial-ground!” hastily repeated the bishop. “What +light?” + +“Oh, a corpse-candle, or some nonsense of that sort, he had his mind +running on, my lord. Half the world is idiots, and Jenkins is the +biggest of ‘em.” + +“My lord,” spoke poor Jenkins, deprecatingly, “I never had such a +thought within me as that it was a ‘corpse-candle.’ I said I fancied it +might be a glowworm. And I believe it was one, my lord.” + +“A more sensible thought than the other,” observed the prelate. + +Luck at last! The door was found to be unlocked. It was a low narrow +door, only used on the very rare occasion of a funeral, and was situated +in a shady, out-of-the-way nook, where no one ever thought of looking. +“Oh, come, this is something!” cried the bishop, cheerily, as he stepped +into the cathedral. + +“And your lordship now sees what fine careless sextons we have got!” + struck in Ketch. + +“We must overlook their carelessness this time, in consideration of the +service it renders us,” said the bishop, in a kindly tone. “Take care of +the pillars, Ketch.” + +“Thank ye, my lord. I’m going along with my hands held out before me, to +save my head,” returned Ketch. + +Most likely the bishop and Jenkins were doing the same. Dexterously +steering clear of the pillars, they emerged in the wide, open body of +the cathedral, and bent their steps across it to the spot where hung the +ropes of the bells. + +The head sexton to the cathedral--whom you must not confound with a +gravedigger, as you might an ordinary sexton; cathedral sextons are +personages of more importance--was seated about this hour at supper in +his home, close to the cathedral. Suddenly the deep-toned college bell +boomed out, and the man started as if a gun had been fired at him. + +“Why, that’s the college bell!” he uttered to his family. And the family +stared with open mouths without replying. + +The college bell it certainly was, and it was striking out sharp +irregular strokes, as though the ringer were not accustomed to his work. +The sexton started up, in a state of the most amazed consternation. + +“It is magic; it is nothing less--that the bell should be ringing out at +this hour!” exclaimed he. + +“Father,” suggested a juvenile, “perhaps somebody’s got locked up in the +college.” For which prevision he was rewarded with a stinging smack on +the head. + +“Take that, sir! D’ye think I don’t know better than to lock folks up in +the college? It was me, myself, as locked up this evening.” + +“No need to box him for that,” resented the wife. “The bell _is_ +ringing, and I’ll be bound the boy’s right enough. One of them masons +must have fallen asleep in the day, and has just woke up to find himself +shut in. Hope he likes his berth!” + +Whatever it might be, ringing the bell, whether magic or mason, of +course it must be seen to; and the sexton hastened out, the cathedral +keys in his hand. He bent his steps towards the front entrance, passing +the cloisters, which, as he knew, would be locked at that hour. “And +that bear of a Ketch won’t hurry himself to unlock them,” soliloquized +he. + +He found the front gates surrounded. The bell had struck upon the +wondering ears of many living within the precincts of the cathedral, who +flocked out to ascertain the reason. Amongst others, the college boys +were coming up in troops. + +“Now, good people, please--by your leave!” cried the sexton. “Let me get +to the gates.” + +They made way for the man and his ponderous keys, and entrance to the +college was gained. The sexton was beginning a sharp reproof to the +“mason,” and the crowd preparing a chorus to it, when they were seized +with consternation, and fell back on each other’s toes. It was the +Bishop of Helstonleigh, in his laced-up hat and apron, who walked forth. + +The sexton humbly snatched off his hat; the college boys raised their +trenchers. + +“Thank you all for coming to the rescue,” said the bishop, in a +pleasant tone. “It was not an agreeable situation, to be locked in the +cathedral.” + +“My lord,” stammered the sexton, in awe-struck dread, as to whether he +had unwittingly been the culprit: “how did your lordship get locked in?” + +“That is what we must inquire into,” replied the bishop. + +The next to hobble out was Ketch. In his own fashion, almost ignoring +the presence of the bishop, he made known the tale. It was received with +ridicule. The college boys especially cast mockery upon it, and began +dancing a jig when the bishop’s back was turned. “Let a couple of keys +drop down, and, when picked up, you found them transmogrified into old +rusty machines, made in the year one!” cried Bywater. “_That’s_ very +like a whale, Ketch!” + +Ketch tore off to his lodge, as fast as his lumbago allowed him, calling +upon the crowd to come and look at the nail where the keys always hung, +except when in use, and holding out the rusty dissemblers for public +view, in a furious passion. + +He dashed open the door. The college boys, pushing before the crowd, and +following on the bishop’s heels--who had probably his own reasons for +wishing to see the solution of the affair--thronged into the lodge. +“There’s the nail, my lord, and there--” + +Ketch stopped, dumbfounded. On the nail, hanging by the string, as +quietly as if they had hung for ages, were the cloister keys. Ketch +rubbed his eyes, and stared, and rubbed again. The bishop smiled. + +“I told you, Ketch, I thought you must be mistaken, in supposing you +brought the proper keys out.” + +Ketch burst into a wail of anger and deprecation. He had took out the +right keys, and Jenkins could bear him out in the assertion. Some wicked +trick had been played upon him, and the keys brought back during his +absence and hung up on their hook! He’d lay his life it was the college +boys! + +The bishop turned his eyes on those young gentlemen. But nothing could +be more innocent than their countenances, as they stood before him in +their trenchers. Rather too innocent, perhaps: and the bishop’s eyes +twinkled, and a half-smile crossed his lips; but he made no sign. Well +would it be if all the clergy were as sweet-tempered as that Bishop of +Helstonleigh! + +“Well, Ketch, take care of your keys for the future,” was all he said, +as he walked away. “Good night, boys.” + +“Good night to your lordship,” replied the boys, once more raising their +trenchers; and the crowd, outside, respectfully saluted their prelate, +who returned it in kind. + +“What are you waiting for, Thorpe?” the bishop demanded, when he found +the sexton was still at the great gates, holding them about an inch +open. + +“For Jenkins, my lord,” was the reply. “Ketch said he was also locked +in.” + +“Certainly he was,” replied the bishop. “Has he not come forth?” + +“That he has not, my lord. I have let nobody whatever out except your +lordship and the porter. I have called out to him, but he does not +answer, and does not come.” + +“He went up into the organ-loft in search of a candle and matches,” + remarked the bishop. “You had better go after him, Thorpe. He may not +know that the doors are open.” + +The bishop left, crossing over to the palace. Thorpe, calling one of the +old bedesmen, some of whom had then come up, left him in charge of the +gate, and did as he was ordered. He descended the steps, passed through +the wide doors, and groped his way in the dark towards the choir. + +“Jenkins!” + +There was no answer. + +“Jenkins!” he called out again. + +Still there was no answer: except the sound of the sexton’s own voice as +it echoed in the silence of the large edifice. + +“Well, this is an odd go!” exclaimed Thorpe, as he leaned against a +pillar and surveyed the darkness of the cathedral. “He can’t have melted +away into a ghost, or dropped down into the crypt among the coffins. +Jenkins, I say!” + +With a word of impatience at the continued silence, the sexton returned +to the entrance gates. All that could be done was to get a light and +search for him. + +They procured a lantern, Ketch ungraciously supplying it; and the +sexton, taking two or three of the spectators with him, proceeded to +the search. “He has gone to sleep in the organ-loft, that is what he has +done,” cried Thorpe, making known what the bishop had said. + +Alas! Jenkins had not gone to sleep. At the foot of the steps, leading +to the organ-loft, they came upon him. He was lying there insensible, +blood oozing from a wound in the forehead. How had it come about? What +had caused it? + +Meanwhile, the college boys, after driving Mr. Ketch nearly wild with +their jokes and ridicule touching the mystery of the keys, were scared +by the sudden appearance of the head-master. They decamped as fast as +their legs could carry them, bringing themselves to an anchor at a safe +distance, under shade of the friendly elm trees. Bywater stuck his back +against one, and his laughter came forth in peals. Some of the rest +tried to stop it, whispering caution. + +“It’s of no good talking, you fellows! I can’t keep it in; I shall burst +if I try. I have been at bursting point ever since I twitched the keys +out of his hands in the cloisters, and threw the rusty ones down. You +see I was right--that it was best for one of us to go in without our +boots, and to wait. If half a dozen had gone, we should never have got +away unheard.” + +“_I_ pretty nearly burst when I saw the bishop come out, instead of +Ketch,” cried Tod Yorke. “Burst with fright.” + +“So did a few more of us,” said Galloway. “I say, will there be a row?” + +“Goodness knows! He is a kind old chap is the bishop. Better for it to +have been him than the dean.” + +“What was it Ketch said, about Jenkins seeing a glowworm?” + +“Oh!” shrieked Bywater, holding his sides, “that was the best of all! I +had taken a lucifer out of my pocket, playing with it, while they went +round to the south gate, and it suddenly struck fire. I threw it over to +the burial-ground: and that soft Jenkins took it for a glowworm.” + +“It’s a stunning go!” emphatically concluded Mr. Tod Yorke. “The best we +have had this half, yet.” + +“Hush--sh--sh--sh!” whispered the boys under their breath. “There goes +the master.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. -- MAD NANCE. + +Mr. Galloway was in his office. Mr. Galloway was fuming and fretting at +the non-arrival of his clerk, Mr. Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins was a punctual +man; in fact, more than punctual: his proper time for arriving at the +office was half-past nine; but the cathedral clock had rarely struck the +quarter-past before Mr. Jenkins would be at his post. Almost any other +morning it would not have mattered a straw to Mr. Galloway whether +Jenkins was a little after or a little before his time; but on this +particular morning he had especial need of him, and had come himself to +the office unusually early. + +One-two, three-four! chimed the quarters of the cathedral. “There it +goes--half-past nine!” ejaculated Mr. Galloway. “What _does_ Jenkins +mean by it? He knew he was wanted early.” + +A sharp knock at the office door, and there entered a little dark woman, +in a black bonnet and a beard. She was Mr. Jenkins’s better half, and +had the reputation for being considerably the grey mare. + +“Good morning, Mr. Galloway. A pretty kettle of fish, this is!” + +“What’s the matter now?” asked Mr. Galloway, surprised at the address. +“Where’s Jenkins?” + +“Jenkins is in bed with his head plastered up. He’s the greatest booby +living, and would positively have come here all the same, but I told him +I’d strap him down with cords if he attempted it. A pretty object he’d +have looked, staggering through the streets, with his head big enough +for two, and held together with white plaster!” + +“What has he done to his head?” wondered Mr. Galloway. + +“Good gracious! have you not heard?” exclaimed the lady, whose mode of +speech was rarely overburdened with polite words, though she meant no +disrespect by it. “He got locked up in the cloisters last night with old +Ketch and the bishop.” + +Mr. Galloway stared at her. He had been dining, the previous evening, +with some friends at the other end of the town, and knew nothing of the +occurrence. Had he been within hearing when the college bell tolled out +at night, he would have run to ascertain the cause as eagerly as any +schoolboy. “Locked up in the cloisters with old Ketch and the bishop!” + he repeated, in amazement. “I do not understand.” + +Mrs. Jenkins proceeded to enlighten him. She gave the explanation of the +strange affair of the keys, as it had been given to her by the unlucky +Joe. While telling it, Arthur Channing entered, and, almost immediately +afterwards, Roland Yorke. + +“The bishop, of all people!” uttered Mr. Galloway. “What an untoward +thing for his lordship!” + +“No more untoward for him than for others,” retorted the lady. “It just +serves Jenkins right. What business had he to go dancing through the +cloisters with old Ketch and his keys?” + +“But how did Jenkins get hurt?” asked Mr. Galloway, for that particular +point had not yet been touched upon. + +“He is the greatest fool going, is Jenkins,” was the complimentary +retort of Jenkins’s wife. “After he had helped to ring out the bell, +he must needs go poking and groping into the organ-loft, hunting +for matches or some such insane rubbish. He might have known, had he +possessed any sense, that candles and matches are not likely to be there +in summer-time! Why, if the organist wanted ever so much to stop in +after dark, when the college is locked up for the night, he wouldn’t be +allowed to do it! It’s only in winter, when he has to light a candle to +get through the afternoon service, that they keep matches and dips up +there.” + +“But about his head?” repeated Mr. Galloway, who was aware of the +natural propensity of Mrs. Jenkins to wander from the point under +discussion. + +“Yes, about his head!” she wrathfully answered. “In attempting to +descend the stairs again, he missed his footing, and pitched right down +to the bottom of the flight. That’s how his head came in for it. He +wants a nurse with him always, does Jenkins, for he is no better than a +child in leading-strings.” + +“Is he much hurt?” + +“And there he’d have lain till morning, but for the bishop,” resumed +Mrs. Jenkins, passing over the inquiry. “After his lordship got out, he, +finding Jenkins did not come, told Thorpe to go and look for him in the +organ-loft. Thorpe said he should have done nothing of the sort, but for +the bishop’s order; he was just going to lock the great doors again, and +there Jenkins would have been fast! They found him lying at the foot of +the stairs, just inside the choir gates, with no more life in him than +there is in a dead man.” + +“I asked you whether he is seriously hurt, Mrs. Jenkins.” + +“Pretty well. He came to his senses as they were bringing him home, and +somebody ran for Hurst, the surgeon. He is better this morning.” + +“But not well enough to come to business?” + +“Hurst told him if he worried himself with business, or anything else +to-day, he’d get brain fever as sure as a gun. He ordered him to stop in +bed and keep quiet, if he could.” + +“Of course he must do so,” observed Mr. Galloway. + +“There is no of course in it, when men are the actors,” dissented Mrs. +Jenkins. “Hurst did well to say ‘if he could,’ when ordering him to +keep quiet. I’d rather have an animal ill in the house, than I’d have +a man--they are ten times more reasonable. There has Jenkins been, +tormenting himself ever since seven o’clock this morning about coming +here; he was wanted particularly, he said. ‘Would you go if you were +dead?’ I asked him; and he stood it out that if he were dead it would be +a different thing. ‘Not different at all,’ I said. A nice thing it would +be to have to nurse him through a brain fever!” + +“I am grieved that it should have happened,” said Mr. Galloway, kindly. +“Tell him from me, that we can manage very well without him. He must not +venture here again, until Mr. Hurst says he may come with safety.” + +“I should have told him that, to pacify him, whether you had said it or +not,” candidly avowed Mrs. Jenkins. “And now I must go back home on the +run. As good have no one to mind my shop as that young house-girl of +ours. If a customer comes in for a pair of black stockings, she’ll take +and give ‘em a white knitted nightcap. She’s as deficient of common +sense as Jenkins is. Your servant, sir. Good morning, young gentlemen!” + +“Here, wait a minute!” cried Mr. Galloway, as she was speeding off. “I +cannot understand at all. The keys could not have been changed as they +lay on the flags.” + +“Neither can anybody else understand it,” returned Mrs. Jenkins. “If +Jenkins was not a sober man--and he had better let me catch him being +anything else!--I should say the two, him and Ketch, had had a drop too +much. The bishop himself could make neither top nor tail of it. It’ll +teach Jenkins not to go gallivanting again after other folk’s business!” + +She finally turned away, and Mr. Galloway set himself to revolve the +perplexing narrative. The more he thought, the less he was nearer doing +so; like the bishop, he could make neither top nor tail of it. “It is +entirely beyond belief!” he remarked to Arthur Channing; “unless Ketch +took out the wrong keys!” + +“And if he took out the wrong keys, how could he have locked the south +door?” interrupted Roland Yorke. “I’d lay anybody five shillings that +those mischievous scamps of college boys were at the bottom of it; +I taxed Gerald with it, and he flew out at me for my pains. But the +seniors may not have been in it. You should have heard the bell clank +out last night, Mr. Galloway!” + +“I suppose it brought out a few,” was Mr. Galloway’s rejoinder. + +“It did that,” said Arthur Channing. “Myself for one. When I saw the +bishop emerge from the college doors, I could scarcely believe my +sight.” + +“I’d have given half-a-crown to see him!” cried Roland Yorke. “If +there’s any fun going on, it is sure to be my fate to miss it. Cator was +at my house, having a cigar with me; and, though we heard the bell, we +did not disturb ourselves to see what it might mean.” + +“What is your opinion of last night’s work, Arthur?” asked Mr. Galloway, +returning to the point. + +Arthur’s opinion was a very decided one, but he did not choose to say +so. The meeting with the college boys at their stealthy post in the +cloisters, when he and Hamish were passing through at dusk, a few nights +before, coupled with the hints then thrown out of the “serving out” of +Ketch, could leave little doubt as to the culprits. Arthur returned an +answer, couched in general terms. + +“Could it have been the college boys, think you?” debated Mr. Galloway. + +“Not being a college boy, I cannot speak positively, sir,” he said, +laughing. “Gaunt knows nothing of it. I met him as I was going home to +breakfast from my early hour’s work here, and he told me he did not. +There would have been no harm done, after all, but for the accident to +Jenkins.” + +“One of you gentlemen can just step in to see Jenkins in the course of +the day, and reassure him that he is not wanted,” said Mr. Galloway. “I +know how necessary it is to keep the mind tranquil in any fear of brain +affection.” + +No more was said, and the occupation of the day began. A busy day was +that at Mr. Galloway’s, much to the chagrin of Roland Yorke, who had an +unconquerable objection to doing too much. He broke out into grumblings +at Arthur, when the latter came running in from his duty at college. + +“I’ll tell you what is, Channing; you ought not to have made the bargain +to go to that bothering organ on busy days; and Galloway must have been +out of his mind to let you make it. Look at the heap of work there is to +do!” + +“I will soon make up for the lost hour,” said Arthur, setting to with a +will. “Where’s Mr. Galloway?” + +“Gone to the bank,” grumbled Roland. “And I have had to answer a dozen +callers-in at least, and do all my writing besides. I wonder what +possessed Jenkins to go and knock his head to powder?” + +Mr. Galloway shortly returned, and sat down to write. It was a thing he +rarely did; he left writing to his clerks, unless it was the writing of +letters. By one o’clock the chief portion of the work was done, and +Mr. Roland Yorke’s spirits recovered their elasticity. He went home to +dinner, as usual. Arthur preferred to remain at his post, and get on +further, sending the housekeeper’s little maid out for a twopenny roll, +which he ate as he wrote. He was of a remarkably conscientious nature, +and thought it only fair to sacrifice a little time in case of need, in +return for the great favour which had been granted him by Mr. Galloway. +Many of the families who had sons in the college school dined at one +o’clock, as it was the most convenient hour for the boys. Growing youths +are not satisfied with anything less substantial than a dinner in the +middle of the day, and two dinners in a household tell heavily upon +the house-keeping. The Channings did not afford two, neither did Lady +Augusta Yorke; so their hour was one o’clock. + +“What a muff you must be to go without your dinner!” cried Roland Yorke +to Arthur, when he returned at two o’clock. “I wouldn’t.” + +“I have had my dinner,” said Arthur. + +“What did you have?” cried Roland, pricking up his ears. “Did Galloway +send to the hotel for roast ducks and green peas? That’s what we had at +home, and the peas were half-boiled, and the ducks were scorched, and +cooked without stuffing. A wretched set of incapables our house turns +out! and my lady does not know how to alter it. You have actually +finished that deed, Channing?” + +“It is finished, you see. It is surprising how much one can do in a +quiet hour!” + +“Is Galloway out?” + +Arthur pointed with his pen to the door of Mr. Galloway’s private room, +to indicate that he was in it. “He is writing letters.” + +“I say, Channing, there’s positively nothing left to do,” went on +Roland, casting his eyes over the desk. “Here are these leases, but they +are not wanted until to-morrow. Who says we can’t work in this office?” + +Arthur laughed good-naturedly, to think of the small amount, out of that +day’s work, which had fallen to Roland’s share. + +Some time elapsed. Mr. Galloway came into their room from his own to +consult a “Bradshaw,” which lay on the shelf, alongside Jenkins’s desk. +He held in his hand a very closely-written letter. It was of large, +letter-paper size, and appeared to be filled to the utmost of its four +pages. While he was looking at the book, the cathedral clock chimed the +three-quarters past two, and the bell rang for divine service. + +“It can never be that time of day!” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, in +consternation, as he took out his watch. “Sixteen minutes to three! and +I am a minute slow! How has the time passed? I ought to have been at--” + +Mr. Galloway brought his words to a standstill, apparently too absorbed +in the railway guide to conclude them. Roland Yorke, who had a free +tongue, even with his master, filled up the pause. + +“Were you going out, sir?” + +“Is that any business of yours, Mr. Roland? Talking won’t fill in that +lease, sir.” + +“The lease is not in a hurry, sir,” returned incorrigible Roland. But he +held his tongue then, and bent his head over his work. + +Mr. Galloway dipped his pen in the ink, and copied something from +“Bradshaw” into the closely-written letter, standing at Jenkins’s desk +to do it; then he passed the blotting-paper quickly over the words, and +folded the letter. + +“Channing,” he said, speaking very hastily, “you will see a twenty-pound +bank-note on my desk, and the directed envelope of this letter; bring +them here.” + +Arthur went, and brought forth the envelope and bank-note. Mr. Galloway +doubled the note in four and slipped it between the folds of the letter, +putting both into the envelope. He had fastened it down, when a loud +noise and commotion was heard in the street. Curious as are said to be +antiquated maidens, Mr. Galloway rushed to the window and threw it up, +his two clerks attending in his wake. + +Something very fine, in a white dress, and pink and scarlet flowers on +her bonnetless head, as if attired for an evening party, was whirling +round the middle of the road in circles: a tall woman, who must once +have been beautiful. She appeared to be whirling someone else with her, +amid laughter and shrieks, and cries and groans, from the gathering mob. + +“It is Mad Nance!” uttered Mr. Galloway. “Poor thing! she really ought +to be in confinement.” + +So every one had said for a long time, but no one bestirred themselves +to place her in it. This unfortunate creature, Mad Nance, as she was +called, was sufficiently harmless to be at large on sufferance, and +sufficiently mad at times to put a street in an uproar. In her least +sane moments she would appear, as now, in an old dimity white dress, +scrupulously washed and ironed, and decorated with innumerable frills; +some natural flowers, generally wild ones, in her hair. Dandelions were +her favourites; she would make them into a wreath, and fasten it on, +letting her entangled hair hang beneath. To-day she had contrived to +pick up some geranium blossoms, scarlet and pink. + +“Who has she got hold of there?” exclaimed Mr. Galloway. “He does not +seem to like it.” + +Arthur burst into laughter when he discovered that it was Harper, +the lay-clerk. This unlucky gentleman, who had been quietly and +inoffensively proceeding up Close Street on his way to service in the +cathedral, was seized upon by Mad Nance by the hands. He was a thin, +weak little man, a very reed in her strong grasp. She shrieked, she +laughed, she danced, she flew with him round and round. He shrieked +also; his hat was off, his wig was gone; and it was half the business of +Mr. Harper’s life to make that wig appear as his own hair. He talked, +he raved, he remonstrated; I am very much afraid that he swore. Mr. +Galloway laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. + +The crowd was parted by an authoritative hand, and the same hand, gentle +now, laid its firmness upon the woman and released the prisoner. It was +Hamish Channing who had come to the rescue, suppressing his mirth as he +best could while he effected it. + +“I’ll have the law of her!” panted Harper, as he picked up his hat and +wig. “If there’s justice to be got in Helstonleigh, she shall suffer +for this! It’s a town’s shame to let her go about, molesting peaceable +wayfarers, and shaking the life out of them!” + +Something at a distance appeared to attract the attention of the unhappy +woman, and she flew away. Hamish and Mr. Harper were left alone in the +streets, the latter still exploding with wrath, and vowing all sorts of +revenge. + +“Put up with it quietly, Harper,” advised Hamish. “She is like a little +child, not accountable for her actions.” + +“That’s just like you, Mr. Hamish Channing. If they took your head off, +you’d put up with it! How would you like your wig flung away in the +sight of a whole street?” + +“I don’t wear one,” answered Hamish, laughing. “Here’s your hat; not +much damaged, apparently.” + +Mr. Harper, settling his wig on his head, and composing himself as he +best could, continued his way to the cathedral, turning his hat about +in his hand, and closely looking at it. Hamish stepped across to Mr. +Galloway’s, meeting that gentleman at the door. + +“A good thing you came up as you did, Mr. Hamish. Harper will remember +Mad Nance for a year to come.” + +“I expect he will,” replied Hamish, laughing still. Mr. Galloway laughed +also, and walked hastily down the street. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. -- KEEPING OFFICE. + +Hamish entered the office. Arthur and Roland Yorke had their heads +stretched out of the window, and did not hear his footsteps. He advanced +quietly and brought his hands down hastily upon the shoulder of each. +Roland started, and knocked his head against the window-frame. + +“How you startle a fellow! I thought it was Mad Nance come in to lay +hands upon me.” + +“She has laid hands upon enough for one day,” said Hamish. “Harper will +dream of her to-night.” + +“I thought Galloway would have gone into a fit, he laughed so,” cried +Arthur. “As for my sides, they’ll ache for an hour.” + +Roland Yorke’s lip curled with an angry expression. “My opinion agrees +with Harper’s,” he said. “I think Mad Nance ought to be punished. We are +none of us safe from her, if this is to be her game.” + +“If you punish her to-day, she would do the same again to-morrow, were +the fit to come over her,” rejoined Hamish. “It is not often she breaks +out like this. The only thing is to steer clear of her.” + +“Hamish has a fellow-feeling for Mad Nance,” mockingly spoke Roland +Yorke. + +“Yes, poor thing! for her story is a sad one. If the same grievous wrong +were worked upon some of us, perhaps we might take to dancing for the +benefit of the public. Talking of the public, Arthur,” continued Hamish, +turning to his brother, “what became of you at dinner-time? The mother +was for setting the town-crier to work.” + +“I could not get home to-day. We have had double work to do, as Jenkins +is away.” + +Hamish tilted himself on to the edge of Mr. Jenkins’s desk, and took up +the letter, apparently in absence of mind, which Mr. Galloway had left +there, ready for the post. “Mr. Robert Galloway, Sea View Terrace, +Ventnor, Isle of Wight,” he read aloud. “That must be Mr. Galloway’s +cousin,” he remarked: “the one who has run through so much money.” + +“Of course it is,” answered Roland Yorke. “Galloway pretty near keeps +him: I know there’s a twenty-pound bank-note going to him in that +letter. Catch me doing it if I were Galloway.” + +“I wish it was going into my pocket instead,” said Hamish, balancing the +letter on his fingers, as if wishing to test its weight. + +“I wish the clouds would drop sovereigns! But they don’t,” said Roland +Yorke. + +Hamish put the letter back from whence he had taken it, and jumped off +the desk. “I must be walking,” said he. “Stopping here will not do my +work. If we--” + +“By Jove! there’s Knivett!” uttered Roland Yorke. “Where’s he off to, so +fast? I have something that I must tell him.” + +Snatching up his hat, Roland darted at full speed out of the office, in +search of one who was running at full speed also down the street. Hamish +looked out, amused, at the chase; Arthur, who had called after Roland +in vain, seemed vexed. “Knivett is one of the fleetest runners in +Helstonleigh,” said Hamish. “Yorke will scarcely catch him up.” + +“I wish Yorke would allow himself a little thought, and not act upon +impulse,” exclaimed Arthur. “I cannot stop three minutes longer: and he +knows that! I shall be late for college.” + +He was already preparing to go there. Putting some papers in order upon +his desk, and locking up others, he carried the letter for Ventnor +into Mr. Galloway’s private room and placed it in the letter rack. Two +others, ready for the post, were lying there. Then he went to the front +door to look out for Yorke. Yorke was not to be seen. + +“What a thoughtless fellow he is!” exclaimed Arthur, in his vexation. +“What is to be done? Hamish, you will have to stop here.” + +“Thank you! what else?” asked Hamish. + +“I must be at the college, whatever betide.” This was true: yet neither +might the office be left vacant. Arthur grew a little flurried. “Do +stay, Hamish: it will not hinder you five minutes, I dare say. Yorke is +sure to be in.” + +Hamish came to the door, halting on its first step, and looking out over +Arthur’s shoulder. He drew his head in again with a sudden movement. + +“Is not that old Hopper down there?” he asked, in a whisper, the tone +sounding as one of fear. + +Arthur turned his eyes on a shabby old man who was crossing the end of +the street, and saw Hopper, the sheriff’s officer. “Yes, why?” + +“It is that old fellow who holds the writ. He may be on the watch for +me now. I can’t go out just yet, Arthur; I’ll stay here till Yorke comes +back again.” + +He returned to the office, sat down and leaned his brow upon his hand. +A strange brow of care it was just then, according ill with the gay +face of Hamish Channing. Arthur, waiting for no second permission, flew +towards the cathedral as fast as his long legs would carry him. The dean +and chapter were preparing to leave the chapter-house as he tore past +it, through the cloisters. Three o’clock was striking. Arthur’s heart +and breath were alike panting when he gained the dark stairs. At that +moment, to his excessive astonishment, the organ began to peal forth. + +Seated at it was Mr. Williams; and a few words of explanation ensued. +The organist said he should remain for the service, which rendered +Arthur at liberty to go back again. + +He was retracing his steps underneath the elm-trees in the Boundaries +at a slower pace than he had recently passed them, when, in turning a +corner, he came face to face with the sheriff’s officer. Arthur, whose +thoughts were at that moment fixed upon Hamish and his difficulties, +started away from the man, with an impulse for which he could not have +accounted. + +“No need for you to be frightened of me, Mr. Arthur,” said the man, who, +in his more palmy days, before he had learnt to take more than was good +for him, had been a clerk in Mr. Channing’s office. “I have nothing +about me that will bite you.” + +He laid a stress upon the “you” in both cases. Arthur understood only +too well what was meant, though he would not appear to do so. + +“Nor any one else, either, I hope, Hopper. A warm day, is it not!” + +Hopper drew close to Arthur, not looking at him, apparently examining +with hands and eyes the trunk of the elm-tree underneath which they had +halted. “You tell your brother not to put himself in my way,” said he, +in a low tone, his lips scarcely moving. “He is in a bit of trouble, as +I suppose you know.” + +“Yes,” breathed Arthur. + +“Well, I don’t want to serve the writ upon him; I won’t serve it unless +he makes me, by throwing himself within length of my arm. If he sees me +coming up one street, let him cut down another; into a shop; anywhere; I +have eyes that only see when I want them to. I come prowling about here +once or twice a day for show, but I come at a time when I am pretty sure +he can’t be seen; just gone out, or just gone in. I’d rather not harm +him.” + +“You are not so considerate to all,” said Arthur, after a pause given to +revolving the words, and to wondering whether they were spoken in good +faith, or with some concealed purpose. He could not decide which. + +“No, I am not,” pointedly returned Hopper, in answer. “There are some +that I look after, sharp as a ferret looks after a rat, but I’ll never +do that by any son of Mr. Channing’s. I can’t forget the old days, +sir, when your father was kind to me. He stood by me longer than my own +friends did. But for him, I should have starved in that long illness +I had, when the office would have me no longer. Why doesn’t Mr. Hamish +settle this?” he abruptly added. + +“I suppose he cannot,” answered Arthur. + +“It is only a bagatelle at the worst, and our folks would not have gone +to extremities if he had shown only a disposition to settle. I am sure +that if he would go to them now, and pay down a ten-pound note, and say, +‘You shall have the rest as I can get it,’ they’d withdraw proceedings; +ay, even for five pounds I believe they would. Tell him to do it, +Mr. Arthur; tell him I always know which way the wind blows with our +people.” + +“I will tell him, but I fear he is very short of money just now. Five +or ten pounds may be as impossible to find, sometimes, as five or ten +thousand.” + +“Better find it than be locked up,” said Hopper. “How would the office +get on? Deprive him of the power of management, and it might cost Mr. +Channing his place. What use is a man when he is in prison? I was in Mr. +Channing’s office for ten years, Mr. Arthur, and I know every trick and +turn in it, though I have left it a good while. And now that I have just +said this, I’ll go on my way. Mind you tell him.” + +“Thank you,” warmly replied Arthur. + +“And when you have told him, please to forget that you have heard it. +There’s somebody’s eyes peering at me over the deanery blinds. They +may peer! I don’t mind them; deaneries don’t trouble themselves with +sheriff’s officers.” + +He glided away, and Arthur went straight to the office. Hamish was +alone; he was seated at Jenkins’s desk, writing a note. + +“You here still, Hamish! Where’s Yorke?” + +“Echo answers where,” replied Hamish, who appeared to have recovered his +full flow of spirits. “I have seen nothing of him.” + +“That’s Yorke all over! it is too bad.” + +“It would be, were this a busy afternoon with me. But what brings you +back, Mr. Arthur? Have you left the organ to play itself?” + +“Williams is taking it; he heard of Jenkins’s accident, and thought +I might not be able to get away from the office twice today, so he +attended himself.” + +“Come, that’s good-natured of Williams! A bargain’s a bargain, and, +having made the bargain, of course it is your own look-out that you +fulfil it. Yes, it was considerate of Williams.” + +“Considerate for himself,” laughed Arthur. “He did not come down to +give me holiday, but in the fear that Mr. Galloway might prevent my +attending. ‘A pretty thing it would have been,’ he said to me, ‘had +there been no organist this afternoon; it might have cost me my post.’” + +“Moonshine!” said Hamish. “It might have cost him a word of reproof; +nothing more.” + +“Helstonleigh’s dean is a strict one, remember. I told Williams he might +always depend upon me.” + +“What should you have done, pray, had I not been here to turn +office-keeper?” laughed Hamish. + +“Of the two duties I must have obeyed the more important one. I should +have locked up the office and given the key to the housekeeper till +college was over, or until Yorke returned. He deserves something for +this move. Has any one called?” + +“No. Arthur, I have been making free with a sheet of paper and an +envelope,” said Hamish, completing the note he was writing. “I suppose I +am welcome to it?” + +“To ten, if you want them,” returned Arthur. “To whom are you writing?” + +“As if I should put you _au courant_ of my love-letters!” gaily answered +Hamish. + +How could Hamish indulge in this careless gaiety with a sword hanging +over his head? It was verily a puzzle to Arthur. A light, sunny nature +was Hamish Channing’s. This sobering blow which had fallen on it had +probably not come before it was needed. Had his bark been sailing for +ever in smooth waters, he might have wasted his life, indolently basking +on the calm, seductive waves. But the storm rose, the waves ran high, +threatening to engulf him, and Hamish knew that his best energies must +be put forth to surmount them. Never, never talk of troubles as great, +unmitigated evils: to the God-fearing, the God-trusting, they are +fraught with hidden love. + +“Hamish, were I threatened with worry, as you are, I could not be +otherwise than oppressed and serious.” + +“Where would be the use of that?” cried gay Hamish. “Care killed a cat. +Look here, Arthur, you and your grave face! Did you ever know care do +a fellow good? I never did: but a great deal of harm. I shall manage to +scramble out of the pit somehow. You’ll see.” He put the note into his +pocket, as he spoke, and took up his hat to depart. + +“Stop an instant longer, Hamish. I have just met Hopper.” + +“He did not convert you into a writ-server, I hope. I don’t think it +would be legal.” + +“There you are, joking again! Hamish, he has the writ, but he does not +wish to serve it. You are to keep out of his way, he says, and he will +not seek to put himself in yours. My father was kind to him in days gone +by, and he remembers it now.” + +“He’s a regular trump! I’ll send him half-a-crown in a parcel,” + exclaimed Hamish. + +“I wish you would hear me out. He says a ten-pound note, perhaps a +five-pound note, on account, would induce ‘his people’--suppose you +understand the phrase--to stay proceedings, and to give you time. He +strongly advises it to be done. That’s all.” + +Not only all Arthur had to say upon the point, but all he had time to +say. At that moment, the barouche of Lady Augusta Yorke drove up to the +door, and they both went out to it. Lady Augusta, her daughter Fanny, +and Constance Channing were in it. She was on her way to attend a +missionary meeting at the Guildhall, and had called for Roland, that he +might escort her into the room. + +“Roland is not to be found, Lady Augusta,” said Hamish, raising his hat +with one of his sunny smiles. “He darted off, it is impossible to +say where, thereby making me a prisoner. My brother had to attend the +cathedral, and there was no one to keep office.” + +“Then I think I must make a prisoner of you in turn, Mr. Hamish +Channing,” graciously said Lady Augusta. “Will you accompany us?” + +Hamish shook his head. “I wish I could; but I have already wasted more +time than I ought to have done.” + +“It will not cost you five minutes more,” urged Lady Augusta. “You shall +only just take us into the hall; I will release you then, if you must +be released. Three ladies never can go in alone--fancy how we should be +stared at!” + +Constance bent her pretty face forward. “Do, Hamish, if you can!” + +He suffered himself to be persuaded, stepped into the barouche, and +took his seat by Lady Augusta. As they drove away, Arthur thought +the greatest ornament the carriage contained had been added to it in +handsome Hamish. + +A full hour Arthur worked on at his deeds and leases, and Roland Yorke +never returned. Mr. Galloway came in then. “Where’s Yorke?” was his +first question. + +Arthur replied that he did not know; he had “stepped out” somewhere. +Arthur Channing was not one to make mischief, or get another into +trouble. Mr. Galloway asked no further; he probably inferred that Yorke +had only just gone. He sat down at Jenkins’s desk, and began to read +over a lease. + +“Can I have the stamps, sir, for this deed?” Arthur presently asked. + +“They are not ready. Have the letters gone to the post?” + +“Not yet, sir.” + +“You can take them now, then. And, Arthur, suppose you step in, as you +return, and see how Jenkins is.” + +“Very well, sir.” He went into Mr. Galloway’s room, and brought forth +the three letters from the rack. “Is this one not to be sealed?” he +inquired of Mr. Galloway, indicating the one directed to Ventnor, for +it was Mr. Galloway’s invariable custom to seal letters which contained +money, after they had been gummed down. “It is doubly safe,” he would +say. + +“Ay, to be sure,” replied Mr. Galloway. “I went off in a hurry, and did +not do it. Bring me the wax.” + +Arthur handed him the wax and a light. Mr. Galloway sealed the letter, +stamping it with the seal hanging to his watch-chain. He then held out +his hand for another of the letters, and sealed that. “And this one +also?” inquired Arthur, holding out the third. + +“No. You can take them now.” + +Arthur departed. A few paces from the door he met Roland Yorke, coming +along in a white heat. + +“Channing, I could not help it--I could not, upon my honour. I had to +go somewhere with Knivett, and we were kept till now. Galloway’s in an +awful rage, I suppose?” + +“He has only just come in. You had no right to play me this trick, +Yorke. But for Hamish, I must have locked up the office. Don’t you do it +again, or Mr. Galloway may hear of it.” + +“It is all owing to that confounded Jenkins!” flashed Roland. “Why did +he go and get his head smashed? You are a good fellow, Arthur. I’ll do +you a neighbourly turn, some time.” + +He sped into the office, and Arthur walked to the post with the letters. +Coming back, he turned into Mrs. Jenkins’s shop in the High Street. + +Mrs. Jenkins was behind the counter. “Oh, go up! go up and see him!” + she cried, in a tone of suppressed passion. “His bedroom’s front, up +the two-pair flight, and I’ll take my affidavit that there’s been fifty +folks here this day to see him, if there has been one. I could sow a +peck of peas on the stairs! You’ll find other company up there.” + +Arthur groped his way up the stairs; they were dark too, coming in from +the sunshine. He found the room, and entered. Jenkins lay in bed, +his bandaged head upon the pillow; and, seated by his side, his apron +falling, and his clerical hat held between his knees, was the Bishop of +Helstonleigh. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV. -- A SPLASH IN THE RIVER. + +Amongst other facts, patent to common and uncommon sense, is the very +obvious one that a man cannot be in two places at once. In like manner, +no author, that I ever heard of, was able to relate two different +portions of his narrative at one and the same time. Thus you will +readily understand, that if I devoted the last chapter to Mr. Galloway, +his clerks and their concerns generally, it could not be given to Mr. +Ketch and _his_ concerns; although in the strict order of time and +sequence, the latter gentleman might have claimed an equal, if not a +premier right. + +Mr. Ketch stood in his lodge, leaning for support upon the shut-up +press-bedstead, which, by day, looked like a high chest of drawers with +brass handles, his eyes fixed on the keys, hanging on the opposite nail. +His state of mind may be best expressed by the strong epithet, “savage.” + Mr. Ketch had not a pleasant face at the best of times: it was yellow +and withered; and his small bright eyes were always dropping water; and +the two or three locks of hair, which he still possessed, were faded, +and stood out, solitary and stiff, after the manner of those pictures +you have seen of heathens who decorate their heads with upright tails. +At this moment his countenance looked particularly unpleasant. + +Mr. Ketch had spent part of the night and the whole of this morning +revolving the previous evening’s affair of the cloisters. The more he +thought of it, the less he liked it, and the surer grew his conviction +that the evil had been the work of his enemies, the college boys. + +“It’s as safe as day,” he wrathfully soliloquized. “There be the right +keys,” nodding to the two on the wall, “and there be the wrong ones,” + nodding towards an old knife-tray, into which he had angrily thrown +the rusty keys, upon entering his lodge last night, accompanied by the +crowd. “They meant to lock me up all night in the cloisters, the wicked +cannibals! I hope the dean’ll expel ‘em! I’ll make my complaint to the +head-master, I will! Drat all college schools! there’s never no good +done in ‘em!” + +“How are you this morning, Ketch?” + +The salutation proceeded from Stephen Bywater, who, in the boisterous +manner peculiar to himself and his tribe, had flung open the door +without the ceremony of knocking. + +“I’m none the better for seeing you,” growled Ketch. + +“You need not be uncivil,” returned Bywater, with great suavity. “I am +only making a morning call upon you, after the fashion of gentlefolks; +the public delights to pay respect to its officials, you know. How _do_ +you feel after that mishap last night? We can’t think, any of us, how +you came to make the mistake.” + +“I’ll ‘mistake’ you!” shrieked Ketch. “I kep’ a nasty old, rusty brace +o’ keys in my lodge to take out, instead o’ the right ones, didn’t I?” + +“How uncommonly stupid it was of you to do so!” said Bywater, pretending +to take the remark literally. “_I_ would not keep a duplicate pair of +keys by me--I should make sure they’d bring me to grief. What do you +say? You did _not_ keep duplicate keys--they were false ones! Why, +that’s just what we all told you last night. The bishop told you so. He +said he knew you had made a mistake, and taken out the wrong keys for +the right. My belief is, that you went out without any keys at all. You +left them hanging upon the nail, and you found them there. You had not +got a second pair!” + +“You just wait!” raved old Ketch. “I’m a-coming round to the +head-master, and I’ll bring the keys with me. He’ll let you boys know +whether there’s two pairs, or one. Horrid old rusty things they be; as +rusty as you!” + +“Who says they are rusty?” + +“Who says it! They _are_ rusty!” shrieked the old man. “You’d like +to get me into a madhouse, you boys would, worrying me! I’ll show you +whether they’re rusty! I’ll show you whether there’s a second brace +o’ keys or not. I’ll show ‘em to the head-master! I’ll show ‘em to the +dean! I’ll show ‘em again to his lordship the bi--What’s gone of the +keys?” + +The last sentence was uttered in a different tone and in apparent +perplexity. With shaking hands, excited by passion, Mr. Ketch was +rummaging the knife-box--an old, deep, mahogany tray, dark with age, +divided by a partition--rummaging for the rusty keys. He could not find +them. He searched on this side, he searched on that; he pulled out the +contents, one by one: a black-handled knife, a white-handled fork, a +green-handled knife with a broken point, and a brown-handled fork with +one prong, which comprised his household cutlery; a small whetstone, +a comb and a blacking-brush, a gimlet and a small hammer, some +leather shoe-strings, three or four tallow candles, a match-box and an +extinguisher, the key of his door, the bolt of his casement window, and +a few other miscellanies. He could not come upon the false keys, and, +finally, he made a snatch at the tray, and turned it upside down. The +keys were not there. + +When he had fully taken in the fact--it cost him some little time to do +it--he turned his anger upon Bywater. + +“You have took ‘em, you have! you have turned thief, and stole ‘em! I +put ‘em here in the knife-box, and they are gone! What have you done +with ‘em?” + +“Come, that’s good!” exclaimed Bywater, in too genuine a tone to admit a +suspicion of its truth. “I have not been near your knife-box; I have not +put my foot inside the door.” + +In point of fact, Bywater had not. He had stood outside, bending his +head and body inwards, his hands grasping either door-post. + +“What’s gone with ‘em? who ‘as took ‘em off? I’ll swear I put ‘em +there, and I have never looked at ‘em nor touched ‘em since! There’s an +infamous conspiracy forming against me! I’m going to be blowed up, like +Guy Fawkes!” + +“If you did put them there--‘_if_,’ you know--some of your friends must +have taken them,” cried Bywater, in a tone midway between reason and +irony. + +“There haven’t a soul been nigh the place,” shrieked Ketch. + +“Except the milk, and he gave me my ha’porth through the winder.” + +“Hurrah!” said Bywater, throwing up his trencher. “It’s a clear case of +dreams. You dreamt you had a second pair of keys, Ketch, and couldn’t +get rid of the impression on awaking. Mr. Ketch, D.H., Dreamer-in-chief +to Helstonleigh!” + +Bywater commenced an aggravating dance. Ketch was aggravated +sufficiently without it. “What d’ye call me?” he asked, in a state of +concentrated temper that turned his face livid. “‘D?’ What d’ye mean by +‘D?’ D stands for that bad sperit as is too near to you college boys; +he’s among you always, like a ranging lion. It’s like your impedence to +call me by his name.” + +“My dear Mr. Ketch! call _you_ by his name! I never thought of such a +thing,” politely retorted Bywater. “You are not promoted to that honour +yet. D.H., stands for Deputy-Hangman. Isn’t it affixed to the cathedral +roll, kept amid the archives in the chapter-house”--John Ketch, D.H., +porter to the cloisters! “I hope you don’t omit the distinguishing +initials when you sign your letters?” + +Ketch foamed. Bywater danced. The former could not find words. The +latter found plenty. + +“I say, though, Mr. Calcraft, don’t you make a similar mistake when you +are going on public duty. If you were to go _there_, dreaming you had +the right apparatus, and find, in the last moment, that you had brought +the wrong, you don’t know what the consequences might be. The real +victim might escape, rescued by the enraged crowd, and they might put +the nightcap upon you, and operate upon you instead! So, be careful. We +couldn’t afford to lose you. Only think, what a lot of money it would +cost to put the college into mourning!” + +Ketch gave a great gasp of agony, threw an iron ladle at his tormentor, +which, falling short of its aim, came clanking down on the red-brick +floor, and banged the door in Bywater’s face. Bywater withdrew to a +short distance, under cover of the cathedral wall, and bent his body +backwards and forwards with the violence of his laughter, unconscious +that the Bishop of Helstonleigh was standing near him, surveying +him with an exceedingly amused expression. His lordship had been an +ear-witness to part of the colloquy, very much to his edification. + +“What is your mirth, Bywater?” + +Bywater drew himself straight, and turned round as if he had been shot. +“I was only laughing, my lord,” he said, touching his trencher. + +“I see you were; you will lose your breath altogether some day, if +you laugh in that violent manner. What were you and Ketch quarrelling +about?” + +“We were not quarrelling, my lord. I was only chaff--teasing him,” + rejoined Bywater, substituting one word for the other, as if fearing the +first might not altogether be suited to the bishop’s ears; “and Ketch +fell into a passion.” + +“As he often does, I fear,” remarked his lordship. “I fancy you boys +provoke him unjustifiably.” + +“My lord,” said Bywater, turning his red, impudent, but honest face full +upon the prelate, “I don’t deny that we do provoke him; but you can have +no idea what an awful tyrant he is to us. I can’t believe any one was +ever born with such a cross-grained temper. He vents it upon every one: +not only upon the college boys, but upon all who come in his way. If +your lordship were not the bishop,” added bold Bywater, “he would vent +it upon you.” + +“Would he?” said the bishop, who was a dear lover of candour, and would +have excused a whole bushel of mischief, rather than one little grain of +falsehood. + +“Not a day passes, but he sets upon us with his tongue. He would keep +us out of the cloisters; he would keep us out of our own schoolroom. He +goes to the head-master with the most unfounded cram--stories, and when +the master declines to notice them (for he knows Ketch of old), then +he goes presumingly to the dean. If he let us alone, we should let +him alone. I am not speaking this in the light of a complaint to your +lordship,” Bywater added, throwing his head back. “I don’t want to get +him into a row, tyrant though he is; and the college boys can hold their +own against Ketch.” + +“I expect they can,” significantly replied the bishop. “He would keep +you out of the cloisters, would he?” + +“He is aiming at it,” returned Bywater. “There never would have been +a word said about our playing there, but for him. If the dean shuts +us out, it will be Ketch’s doings. The college boys have played in the +cloisters since the school was founded.” + +“He would keep you out of the cloisters; so, by way of retaliation, +you lock him into them--an uncomfortable place of abode for a night, +Bywater.” + +“My lord!” cried Bywater. + +“Sir!” responded his lordship. + +“Does your lordship think it was I who played that trick on Ketch?” + +“Yes, I do--speaking of you conjointly with the school.” + +Bywater’s eyes and his good-humoured countenance fell before the steady +gaze of the prelate. But in the gaze there was an earnest--if Bywater +could read it aright--of good feeling, of excuse for the mischief, +rather than of punishment in store. The boy’s face was red enough at all +times, but it turned to scarlet now. If the bishop had before suspected +the share played in the affair by the college boys, it had by this time +been converted into a certainty. + +“Boy,” said he, “confess it if you like, be silent if you like; but do +not tell me a lie.” + +Bywater turned up his face again. His free, fearless eyes--free in the +cause of daring, but fearless in that of truth--looked straight into +those of the bishop. “I never do tell lies,” he answered. “There’s not +a boy in the school punished oftener than I am; and I don’t say but I +generally deserve it! but it is never for telling a lie. If I did tell +them, I should slip out of many a scrape that I am punished for now.” + +The bishop could read truth as well as any one--better than many--and +he saw that it was being told to him now. “Which of you must be punished +for this trick as ringleader?” he asked. + +“I, my lord, if any one must be,” frankly avowed Bywater. “We should +have let him out at ten o’clock. We never meant to keep him there all +night. If I am punished, I hope your lordship will be so kind as allow +it to be put down to your own account, not to Ketch’s. I should not like +it to be thought that I caught it for _him_. I heartily beg your +pardon, my lord, for having been so unfortunate as to include you in the +locking-up. We are all as sorry as can be, that it should have happened. +I am ready to take any punishment, for that, that you may order me.” + +“Ah!” said the bishop, “had you known that I was in the cloisters, your +friend Ketch would have come off scot free!” + +“Yes, that he would, until--” + +“Until what?” asked the bishop, for Bywater had brought his words to a +standstill. + +“Until a more convenient night, I was going to say, my lord.” + +“Well, that’s candid,” said the bishop. “Bywater,” he gravely added, +“you have spoken the truth to me freely. Had you equivocated in the +slightest degree, I should have punished you for the equivocation. As +it is, I shall look upon this as a confidential communication, and _not_ +order you punishment. But we will not have any more tricks played at +locking up Ketch. You understand?” + +“All right, my lord. Thank you a hundred times.” + +Bywater, touching his trencher, leaped off. The bishop turned to enter +his palace gates, which were close by, and encountered Ketch talking to +the head-master. The latter had been passing the lodge, when he was seen +and pounced upon by Ketch, who thought it a good opportunity to make his +complaint. + +“I am as morally sure it was them, sir, as I am that I be alive.” he was +saying when the bishop came up. “And I don’t know who they has dealings +with; but, for certain, they have sperited away them rusty keys what did +the mischief, without so much as putting one o’ their noses inside my +lodge. I placed ‘em safe in the knife-box last night, and they’re gone +this morning. I hope, sir, you’ll punish them as they deserve. I am +nothing, of course. If they had locked me up, and kept me there till I +was worn to a skeleton, it might be thought light of; but his lordship, +the bishop”--bowing sideways to the prelate--“was a sufferer by their +wickedness.” + +“To be sure I was,” said the bishop, in a grave tone, but with a twinkle +in his eye; “and therefore the complaint to Mr. Pye must be preferred by +me, Ketch. We will talk of it when I have leisure,” he added to Mr. Pye, +with a pleasant nod, as he went through the palace gates. + +The head-master bowed to the bishop, and walked away, leaving Ketch on +the growl. + +Meanwhile, Bywater, flying through the cloisters, came upon Hurst, and +two or three more of the conspirators. The time was between nine and ten +o’clock. The boys had been home for breakfast after early school, and +were now reassembling, but they did not go into school until a quarter +before ten. + +“He is such a glorious old trump, that bishop!” burst forth Bywater. “He +knows all about it, and is not going to put us up for punishment. Let’s +cut round to the palace gates and cheer him.” + +“Knows that it was us!” echoed the startled boys. “How did it come out +to him?” asked Hurst. + +“He guessed it, I think,” said Bywater, “and he taxed me with it. So I +couldn’t help myself, and told him I’d take the punishment; and he said +he’d excuse us, but there was to be no locking up of Mr. Calcraft again. +I’d lay a hundred guineas the bishop went in for scrapes himself, when +he was a boy!” emphatically added Bywater. “I’ll be bound he thinks we +only served the fellow right. Hurrah for the bishop!” + +“Hurrah for the bishop!” shouted Hurst, with the other chorus of voices. +“Long life to him! He’s made of the right sort of stuff! I say, though, +Jenkins is the worst,” added Hurst, his note changing. “My father says +he doesn’t know but what brain fever will come on.” + +“Moonshine!” laughed the boys. + +“Upon my word and honour, it is not. He pitched right upon his head; it +might have cost him his life had he fallen upon the edge of the stone +step, but they think he alighted flat. My father was round with him this +morning at six o’clock.” + +“Does your father know about it?” + +“Not he. What next?” cried Hurst. “Should I stand before him, and take +my trencher off, with a bow, and say, ‘If you please, sir, it was the +college boys who served out old Ketch!’ That would be a nice joke! He +said, at breakfast, this morning, that that fumbling old Ketch must have +got hold of the wrong keys. ‘Of course, sir!’ answered I.” + +“Oh, what do you think, though!” interrupted Bywater. “Ketch can’t find +the keys. He put them into a knife-box, he says, and this morning they +are gone. He intended to take them round to Pye, and I left him going +rampant over the loss. Didn’t I chaff him?” + +Hurst laughed. He unbuttoned the pocket of his trousers, and partially +exhibited two rusty keys. “I was not going to leave them to Ketch for +witnesses,” said he. “I saw him throw them into the tray last night, and +I walked them out again, while he was talking to the crowd.” + +“I say, Hurst, don’t be such a ninny as to keep them about you!” + exclaimed Berkeley, in a fright. “Suppose Pye should go in for a search +this morning, and visit our pockets? You’d floor us at once!” + +“The truth is, I don’t know where to put them,” ingenuously acknowledged +Hurst. “If I hid them at home, they’d be found; if I dropped them in the +street, some hullaballoo might arise from it.” + +“Let’s carry them back to the old-iron shop, and get the fellow to buy +them back at half-price!” + +“Catch him doing that! Besides, the trick is sure to get wind in the +town; he might be capable of coming forward and declaring that we bought +the keys at his shop.” + +“Let’s throw ‘em down old Pye’s well!” + +“They’d come up again in the bucket, as ghosts do!” + +“Couldn’t we make a railway parcel of them, and direct it to ‘Mr. Smith, +London?’” + +“‘Two pounds to pay; to be kept till called for,’” added Mark Galloway, +improving upon the suggestion. “They’d put it in their fire-proof safe, +and it would never come out again.” + +“Throw them into the river,” said Stephen Bywater. “That’s the only safe +place for them: they’d lie at the bottom for ever. We have time to do it +now. Come along.” + +Acting upon the impulse, as schoolboys usually do, they went galloping +out of the cloisters, running against the head-master, who was entering, +and nearly overturning his equilibrium. He gave them an angry word of +caution; they touched their caps in reply, and somewhat slackened their +speed, resuming the gallop when he was out of hearing. + +Inclosing the cathedral and its precincts on the western side, was +a wall, built of red stone. It was only breast high, standing on the +cathedral side; but on the other side it descended several feet, to the +broad path which ran along the banks of the river. The boys made for +this wall and gained it, their faces hot, and their breath gone. + +“Who’ll pitch ‘em in?” cried Hurst, who did not altogether relish being +chief actor himself, for windows looked on to that particular spot +from various angles and corners of the Boundaries. “You shall do it, +Galloway!” + +“Oh shall I, though!” returned young Galloway, not relishing it either. + +“You precious rebel! Take the keys, and do as I order you!” + +Young Galloway was under Hurst. He no more dared to disobey him than he +could have disobeyed the head-master. Had Hurst ordered him to jump into +the river he must have done it. He took the keys tendered him by Hurst, +and was raising them for the pitch, when Bywater laid his hand upon them +and struck them down with a sudden movement, clutching them to him. + +“You little wretch, you are as deaf as a donkey!” he uttered. “There’s +somebody coming up. Turn your head, and look who it is.” + +It proved to be Fordham, the dean’s servant. He was accidentally +passing. The boys did not fear him; nevertheless, it was only prudent to +remain still, until he had gone by. They stood, all five, leaning +upon the wall, soiling their waistcoats and jackets, in apparent +contemplation of the view beyond. A pleasant view! The river wound +peacefully between its green banks; meadows and cornfields were +stretched out beyond; while an opening afforded a glimpse of that lovely +chain of hills, and the white houses nestled at their base. A barge, +drawn by a horse, was appearing slowly from underneath the city bridge, +blue smoke ascending from its chimney. A woman on board was hanging +out linen to dry--a shirt, a pair of stockings, and a handkerchief--her +husband’s change for the coming Sunday. A young girl was scraping +potatoes beside her; and a man, probably the husband, sat steering, his +pipe in his mouth. The boys fixed their eyes upon the boat. + +“I shouldn’t mind such a life as that fellow’s yonder!” exclaimed young +Berkeley, who was fonder of idleness than he was of Latin. “I’ll turn +bargeman when other trades fail. It must be rather jolly to sit steering +a boat all day, and do nothing but smoke.” + +“Fordham’s gone, and be hanged to him! Now for it, Galloway!” + +“Stop a bit,” said Bywater. “They must be wrapped up, or else tied close +together. Better wrap them up, and then no matter who sees. They can’t +swear there are keys inside. Who has any paper about him?” + +One of the boys, Hall, had his exercise-book with him. They tore a sheet +or two out of it, and folded it round the keys, Hurst producing some +string. “I’ll fling them in,” said Bywater. + +“Make haste, then, or we shall have to wait till the barge has gone by.” + +Bywater took a cautious look round, saw nobody, and flung the parcel +into the middle of the river. “_Rari nantes in gurgite vasto_!” + ejaculated he. + +“Now, you gents, what be you throwing into the river?” + +The words came from Hudson, the porter to the Boundaries, who appeared +to have sprung up from the ground. In reality, he had been standing on +the steps leading to the river, but the boat-house had hidden him from +their view. He was a very different man from the cloister porter; was +afraid of the college boys, rather than otherwise, and addressed them +individually as “sir.” The keeper of the boat-house heard this, and came +up the steps. + +“If you gentlemen have been throwing anything into the river you know +that it’s against the rules.” + +“Don’t bother!” returned Hurst, to the keeper. + +“But you know it _is_ wrong, gentlemen,” remonstrated the keeper. “What +was it you threw in? It made a dreadful splash.” + +“Ah! what was it?” coolly answered Hurst. “What should you say to a dead +cat? Hudson, have the goodness to mind _your_ business, unless you would +like to get reported for interfering with what does not concern you.” + +“There’s a quarter to ten!” exclaimed Bywater, as the college clock +chimed the three-quarters. “We shall be marked late, every soul of us!” + +They flew away, their feet scarcely touching the ground, clattered up +the schoolroom stairs, and took their places. Gaunt was only beginning +to call over the roll, and they escaped the “late” mark. + +“It’s better to be born lucky than rich,” said saucy Bywater. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. -- MUCH TO ALTER. + +At the same moment Constance Channing was traversing the Boundaries, +on her way to Lady Augusta Yorke’s, where she had, some days since, +commenced her duties. It took her scarcely two minutes to get there, +for the houses were almost within view of each other. Constance would +willingly have commenced the daily routine at an earlier hour. Lady +Augusta freely confessed that to come earlier would be useless, for she +could not get her daughters up. Strictly speaking, Lady Augusta did not +personally try to get them up, for she generally lay in bed herself. + +“That is one of the habits I must alter in the children,” thought +Constance. + +She entered, took off her things in the room appropriated to her, and +passed into the schoolroom. It was empty, though the children ought to +have been there, preparing their lessons. Fanny came running in, her +hair in curl-papers, some bread and butter in her hand. + +“Carry has not finished her breakfast, Miss Channing,” quoth she. “She +was lazy this morning!” + +“I think some one else was lazy also,” said Constance, gently drawing +the child to her. “Why did you come down half-dressed, my dear?” + +“I am quite dressed,” responded Fanny. “My frock’s on, and so is my +pinafore.” + +“And these?” said Constance, touching the curl-papers. + +“Oh, Martha got up late, and said she had no time to take them out. It +will keep in curl all the better, Miss Channing; and perhaps I am going +to the missionary meeting with mamma.” + +Constance rang the bell. Martha, who was the only maid kept, except the +cook, appeared in answer to it. Lady Augusta was wont to say that +she had too much expense with her boys to keep many servants; and the +argument was a true one. + +“Be so kind as to take the papers out of Miss Fanny’s hair. And let it +be done in future, Martha, before she comes to me.” + +Gently as the words were spoken, there was no mistaking that the tone +was one of authority, and not to be trifled with. Martha withdrew with +the child. And, just then, Caroline came in, full of eagerness. + +“Miss Channing, mamma says she shall take one of us to the missionary +meeting, whichever you choose to fix upon. Mind you fix upon me! What +does that little chit, Fanny, want at a missionary meeting? She is too +young to go.” + +“It is expected to be a very interesting meeting,” observed Constance, +making no reply to Miss Caroline’s special request. “A gentleman who has +lived for some years amongst the poor heathens is to give a history of +his personal experiences. Some of the anecdotes are beautiful.” + +“Who told you they were?” asked Caroline. + +“Mr. Yorke,” replied Constance, a pretty blush rising to her cheek. “He +knows the lecturer well. You would be pleased to hear them.” + +“It is not for that I wish to go,” said Caroline. “I think meetings, +where there’s nothing but talking, are the dullest things in the world. +If I were to listen, it would send me to sleep.” + +“Then why do you wish so much to attend this one?” + +“Because I shall wear my new dress. I have not had it on yet. It rained +last Sunday, and mamma would not let me put it on for college. I was in +such a passion.” + +Constance wondered where she should begin. There was so much to do; +so much to alter in so many ways. To set to work abruptly would never +answer. It must be commenced gradually, almost imperceptibly, little by +little. + +“Caroline, do you know that you have disobeyed me?” + +“In what way, Miss Channing?” + +“Did I not request you to have that exercise written out?” + +“I know,” said Caroline, with some contrition. “I intended to write it +out this morning before you came; but somehow I lay in bed.” + +“If I were to come to you every morning at seven o’clock, would you +undertake to get up and be ready for me?” asked Constance. + +Caroline drew a long face. She did not speak. + +“My dear, you are fifteen.” + +“Well?” responded Caroline. + +“And you must not feel hurt if I tell you that I should think no other +young lady of that age and in your position is half so deficient as you +are. Deficient in many ways, Caroline: in goodness, in thoughtfulness, +and in other desirable qualities; and greatly so in education. Annabel, +who is a year younger than you, is twice as advanced.” + +“Annabel says you worry her into learning.” + +“Annabel is fond of talking nonsense; but she is a good, loving child at +heart. You would be surprised at the little trouble she really gives me +while she makes a show of giving me a great deal. I have _so much_ +to teach you, Caroline--to your mind and heart, as well as to your +intellect--that I feel the hours as at present arranged, will be +insufficient for me. My dear, when you grow up to womanhood, I am sure +you will wish to be loving and loved.” + +Caroline burst into tears. “I should do better if mamma were not so +cross with me, Miss Channing. I always do anything that William Yorke +asks me; and I will do anything for you.” + +Constance kissed her. “Then will you begin by rising early, and being +ready for me at seven?” + +“Yes, I will,” answered Caroline. “But Martha must be sure to call me. +Are you going to the meeting this afternoon?” + +“Of course not,” said Constance. “My time now belongs to you.” + +“But I think mamma wishes you to go with us. She said something about +it.” + +“Does she? I should very much like to go.” + +Lady Augusta came in and proffered the invitation to Constance to +accompany them. Constance then spoke of giving the children the extra +two hours, from seven to nine: it was really necessary, she said, if she +was to do her duty by them. + +“How very conscientious you are!” laughed Lady Augusta, her tone +savouring of ridicule. + +Constance coloured almost to tears with her emotion. “I am responsible +to One always, Lady Augusta. I may not make mine only eye-service.” + +“You will never put up with our scrambling breakfast, Miss Channing. The +boys are so unruly; and I do not get up to it half my time.” + +“I will return home to breakfast. I should prefer to do so. And I will +be here again at ten.” + +“Whatever time do you get up?” + +“Not very early,” answered Constance. “Hitherto I have risen at seven, +summer and winter. Dressing and reading takes me just an hour; for the +other hour I find plenty of occupation. We do not breakfast until nine, +on account of Tom and Charley. I shall rise at six now, and come here at +seven.” + +“Very well,” said Lady Augusta. “I suppose this will only apply to +the summer months. One of the girls shall go with us to-day; whichever +deserves it best.” + +“You are not leaving one of them at home to make room for me, I hope, +Lady Augusta?” + +“Not at all,” answered Lady Augusta. “I never _chaperon_ two children +to a crowded meeting. People might say they took up the room of grown-up +persons.” + +“You will let me go--not Caroline, Miss Channing?” pleaded Fanny, when +her mother had quitted them. + +“No,” said Caroline, sharply; “Miss Channing will fix upon me.” + +“I shall obey Lady Augusta, and decide upon the one who shall best merit +it,” smiled Constance. “It will be only right to do so.” + +“Suppose we are both good, and merit it equally?” suggested Fanny. + +“Then, my dear little girl, you must not be disappointed if, in that +case, I give the privilege to Caroline, as being the elder of the two. +But I will make it up to you in some other way.” + +Alas for poor Caroline’s resolution! For a short time, an hour or so, +she did strive to do her best; but then good resolutions were forgotten, +and idleness followed. Not only idleness, temper also. Never had she +been so troublesome to Constance as on this day; she even forgot herself +so far as to be insolent. Fanny was taken to the meeting--you saw her +in the carriage when Lady Augusta drove to Mr. Galloway’s office, and +persuaded Hamish to join them--Caroline was left at home, in a state of +open rebellion, with the lessons to learn which she had _not_ learnt in +the day. + +“How shall you get on with them, Constance?” the Rev. William Yorke +inquired of her that same evening. “Have the weeds destroyed the good +seed?” + +“Not quite destroyed it,” replied Constance, though she sighed sadly as +she spoke, as if nearly losing heart for the task she had undertaken. +“There is so much ill to undo. Caroline is the worst; the weeds, with +her, have had longer time to get ahead. I think, perhaps, if I could +keep her wholly with me for a twelvemonth or so, watching over her +constantly, a great deal might be effected.” + +“If that anticipated living would fall in, which seems very far away in +the clouds, and you were wholly mine, we might have Caroline with us for +a time,” laughed Mr. Yorke. + +Constance laughed too. “Do not be impatient, or it will seem to be +further off still. It will come, William.” + +They had been speaking in an undertone, standing together at a window, +apart from the rest. Mr. Channing was lying on his sofa underneath the +other window, and now spoke to Mr. Yorke. + +“You had a treat, I hear, at the meeting to-day?” + +“We had, indeed, sir,” replied Mr. Yorke, advancing to take a seat near +him. “It is not often we have the privilege of listening to so eloquent +a speaker as Dr. Lamb. His experience is great, and his whole heart was +in his subject. I should like to bring him here to call upon you.” + +“I should be pleased to receive him,” replied Mr. Channing. + +“I think it is possible that his experience in another line may be of +service to you,” continued Mr. Yorke. “You are aware that ill health +drove him home?” + +“I have heard so.” + +“His complaint was rheumatism, very much, as I fancy, the same sort of +rheumatism that afflicts you. He told me he came to Europe with very +little hope: he feared his complaint had become chronic and incurable. +But he has been restored in a wonderful manner, and is in sound health +again.” + +“And what remedies did he use?” eagerly asked Mr. Channing. + +“A three months’ residence at some medicinal springs in Germany. Nothing +else. When I say nothing else, of course I must imply that he was under +medical treatment there. It is the very thing, you see, sir, that has +been ordered for you.” + +“Ay!” sighed Mr. Channing, feeling how very faint appeared to be the +hope that he should have the opportunity of trying it. + +“I was mentioning your case to him,” observed Mr. Yorke. “He said he had +no doubt the baths would do you equal good. He is a doctor, you know. I +will bring him here to talk it over with you.” + +At that moment Mr. Galloway entered: the subject was continued. Mr. +Yorke and Mr. Galloway were eloquent on it, telling Mr. Channing that he +_must_ go to Germany, as a point of duty. The Channings themselves were +silent; they could not see the way at all clear. When Mr. Yorke was +leaving, he beckoned Constance and Arthur into the hall. + +“Mr. Channing must go,” he whispered to them. “Think of all that is at +stake! Renewed health, exertion, happiness! Arthur, you did not urge it +by a single word.” + +Arthur did not feel hopeful; indeed his heart sank within him the whole +time that they were talking. Hamish and his difficulties were the dark +shadow; though he could not tell this to Mr. Yorke. Were Mr. Channing +to go abroad, and the arrest of Hamish to follow upon it, the post they +held, and its emoluments, might be taken from them at once and for ever. + +“Dr. Lamb says the cost was so trifling as scarcely to be credited,” + continued Mr. Yorke in a tone of remonstrance. “Arthur, _don’t_ you care +to help--to save him?” + +“I would move heaven and earth to save my father!” impulsively spoke +Arthur, stung by the implied reproof. “I should not care what labour it +cost me to procure the money, so that I succeeded.” + +“We all would,” said Constance; “you must know we would, William. From +Hamish downwards.” + +“Who is that, making free with Hamish’s name?” demanded that gentleman +himself, entering the house with a free step and merry countenance. “Did +you think I was lost? I was seduced into joining your missionary-meeting +people, and have had to stop late at the office, to make up for it.” + +“We have been talking about papa, Hamish,” said Constance. “Fresh +hope seems to arise daily that those German baths would restore him to +health. They cured Dr. Lamb.” + +“I say, Hamish, that the money must be found for it somehow,” added Mr. +Yorke. + +“Found! of course it shall be found,” cried gay Hamish. “I intend to +be a chief contributor to it myself.” But his joking words and careless +manner jarred at that moment upon the spirit both of Arthur and +Constance Channing. + +Why? Could there have been any unconscious foreshadowing of evil to +come? + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. -- SUNDAY MORNING AT MR. CHANNING’S, AND AT LADY +AUGUSTA’S. + +The day of rest came round in due course. A day of rest it is in truth +to those who have learnt to make it such; a pleasant time of peace; a +privileged season of commune with God; a loving day of social happiness +for home and home ties. And yet, strange to say, it is, to some, the +most hurried, uncomfortable, disagreeable day of all the seven. + +Mrs. Channing’s breakfast hour was nine o’clock on ordinary days, made +thus late for the sake of convenience. On Sundays it was half-past +eight. Discipline and training had rendered it easy to observe rules +at Mr. Channing’s; or, it may be better to say, it had rendered +them difficult to be disobeyed. At half-past eight all were in the +breakfast-room, dressed for the day. When the hour for divine service +arrived, they had only to put on their hats and bonnets to be ready +for it. Even old Judy was grand on a Sunday morning. Her mob-cap was +of spotted, instead of plain net, and her check apron was replaced by a +white one. + +With great personal inconvenience, and some pain--for he was always +worse in the morning--Mr. Channing would on that day rise to breakfast. +It had been his invariable custom to take the reading himself on +Sunday--the little time he devoted to religion--and he was unwilling to +break through it. Breakfast over, it was immediately entered upon, and +would be finished by ten o’clock. He did not preach a sermon; he did not +give them much reading; it was only a little homely preparation for the +day and the services they were about to enter upon. Very unwise had it +been of Mr. Channing, to tire his children with a private service before +the public service began. + +Breakfast, on these mornings, was always a longer meal than usual. There +was no necessity to hurry over it, in order to hasten to the various +occupations of every-day life. It was taken leisurely, amidst much +pleasant, social converse. + +As they were assembling for breakfast on this morning, Arthur came in. +It was so unusual for them to leave the house early on a Sunday, that +Mr. Channing looked at him with surprise. + +“I have been to see Jenkins, sir,” he explained. “In coming home last +night, I met Mr. Hurst, who told me he feared Jenkins was getting worse. +I would not go to see him then; it might have been late to disturb him, +so I have been now.” + +“And how is he?” inquired Mr. Channing. + +“A great deal better,” replied Arthur. “So much better that Mr. Hurst +says he may come to the office to-morrow should there be no relapse. He +enjoins strict quiet for to-day. And Mrs. Jenkins is determined that he +shall have quiet; therefore I am sure, he will,” Arthur added, laughing. +“She says he appeared ill last night only from the number of visitors he +had seen. They were coming in all day long; and on Friday besides.” + +“Why should people flock to see Jenkins?” exclaimed Tom. “He is nobody.” + +“That is just what Mrs. Jenkins said this morning,” returned Arthur. “I +believe they go out of curiosity to hear the truth of the locking-up in +the cloisters. The bishop’s having been one of the sufferers has aroused +the interest of Helstonleigh.” + +“I am very glad that Jenkins is better,” observed Mr. Channing. + +“So am I,” emphatically answered Arthur. He was pretty sure Tom had had +no share in the exploit; but he did not know about Charley. + +“The dean preaches to-day,” suddenly called out Tom. + +“How do you know?” demanded Annabel. + +“Because I do,” oracularly spoke Tom. + +“Will you condescend to inform me how you know it, Tom, if you will not +inform Annabel?” asked Mr. Channing. + +Tom laughed. “The dean began his close residence yesterday, papa. +Therefore we know he will preach to-day.” + +Mr. Channing sighed. He was debarred from attending the services, and he +felt the deprivation keenly when he found that any particularly eminent +man was to fill the cathedral pulpit. The dean of Helstonleigh was an +admirable preacher. + +“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, in the uncontrollable impulse of the +moment, “if I could only regain health and strength!” + +“It will come, James; God willing,” said Mrs. Channing, looking up +hopefully from the cups she was filling. “What I have heard of Dr. +Lamb’s restoration has put new confidence into me.” + +“I think Mr. Yorke intends to bring Dr. Lamb to see you this afternoon, +papa,” said Constance. + +“I shall be glad to see him; I shall be glad to hear the particulars +of his case and its cure,” exclaimed Mr. Channing, with all conscious +eagerness. “Did Mr. Yorke tell you he should bring him to-day, +Constance?” + +“Yes, papa. Dr. Lamb intends to be at the cathedral for afternoon +service, and Mr. Yorke said he would bring him here afterwards.” + +“You must get him to take tea with us, Mary.” + +“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Channing. “In six months from this, James, +you may be as well and active as ever.” + +Mr. Channing raised his hands, as if warding off the words. Not of the +words was he afraid, but of the hopes they whispered. “I think too much +about it, already, Mary. It is not as though I were sure of getting to +the medicinal baths.” + +“We will take care that you do that, sir,” said Hamish, with his sunny +smile. + +“_You_ cannot help in it, you know, Hamish,” interposed saucy Annabel. +“It will be Arthur and Constance who will help--not you. I heard you say +so!” + +“But I have changed my mind, and intend to help,” returned Hamish. “And, +if you will allow me the remark, young lady, I think it would better +become a certain little girl, not to chatter quite so much!” + +Was Hamish speaking in jest, or earnest, with regard to the _helping_ +point of the affair? A peculiar tone in his voice, in spite of its +lightness, had struck both Constance and Arthur, each being in the +secret of his more than want of funds. + +The second bell was beginning to chime as the Channings entered the +cloister gates. Tom and Charles had gone on before. Panting, breathless, +almost knocking down Annabel, came Tod Yorke, terribly afraid of being +marked late. + +“Take care, Tod!” exclaimed Hamish. “Are you running for a wager?” + +“Don’t keep me, Mr. Hamish Channing! Those incapable servants of ours +never called us till the bell began. I have had no breakfast, and Gerald +couldn’t find his shirt. He has had to come off in his dirty one, with +his waistcoat buttoned up. Won’t my lady be in a rage when she sees +him?” + +Getting up and breakfasting were generally bustling affairs at Lady +Augusta’s; but the confusion of every day was as nothing compared with +that of Sunday. Master Tod was wrong when he complained that he had not +been called. The servants had called both him and Gerald, who shared +the same room, but the young gentlemen had gone to sleep again. The +breakfast hour was the same as other mornings, nine o’clock; but, for +all the observance it obtained, it might as well have been nine at +night. To give the servants their due, breakfast, on this morning, was +on the table at nine--that is, the cloth, the cups and saucers: and +there it remained until ten. The maids meanwhile enjoyed their own +leisurely breakfast in the kitchen, regaling themselves with hot +coffee, poached eggs, buttered toast, and a dish of gossip. At ten, Lady +Augusta, who made a merit of always rising to breakfast on a Sunday, +entered the breakfast-room in a dirty morning wrapper, and rang the +bell. + +“Is nobody down?” cried she, sharply. + +“I think not, my lady,” was Martha’s reply. “I have not heard them. I +have been three times in the young ladies’ room, but they would not get +up.” + +This was not quite true. Martha had been in _once_, and had been scolded +for her pains. “None of them ever will get up on a Sunday morning,” + added Martha; “they say, ‘where’s the good?’” + +“Bring in breakfast,” crossly responded Lady Augusta. “And then go to +the young ladies, and see whether the rest are getting up. What has the +cook been at with this coffee?” Lady Augusta added, when she began to +pour it out. “It is cold. Her coffee is always cold.” + +“It has been made half an hour, I know, my lady.” + +The first to appear was the youngest child of all, little Frank; the +next his brother, a year older; they wore dirty collars, and their hair +was uncombed. Then came the girls--Caroline without a frock, a shawl +thrown on, instead, and Fanny in curl papers. Lady Augusta scolded them +for their late appearance, forgetting, possibly, that she herself set +the example. + +“It is not much past ten,” said Caroline. “We shall be in time for +college.” + +“It is nearly upon half-past,” replied Lady Augusta. “Why do you come +down in a petticoat, Caroline?” + +“That stupid dressmaker has put no tape to my dress,” fretfully +responded Caroline. “Martha is sewing it on.” + +Roland lounged in, not more presentable than the rest. Why had Lady +Augusta not brought them up to better habits? Why should they come down +on a Sunday morning more untidy than on other mornings? They would have +told you, had you asked the question, that on other mornings they +must be ready to hasten to their daily occupations. Had _Sunday_ no +occupation, then? Did it deserve no marked deference? Had I been Lady +Augusta Yorke, I should have said to Roland that morning, when I saw his +slip-shod slippers and his collarless neck, “If you can show no respect +for me, show it for the day.” + +Half-past ten struck, and Lady Augusta started up to fly to her own +room. She had still much to do, ere she could be presentable for +college. Caroline followed. Fanny wondered what Gerald and Tod would do. +Not yet down! + +“Those boys will get a tanning, to-morrow, from old Pye!” exclaimed +Roland, remembering the time when “tannings” had been his portion for +the same fault. “Go and see what they are after, Martha.” + +They were “after” jumping up in alarm, aroused by the college bell. +Amidst wild confusion, for nothing seemed to be at hand, with harsh +reproaches to Martha, touching their shirts and socks, and other +articles of attire, they scrambled downstairs, somehow, and flew out +of the house on their way to the college schoolroom; Gerald drinking a +freshly made scalding cup of coffee; Tod cramming a thick piece of bread +and butter into his pocket, and trusting to some spare moment to eat it +in. All this was the usual scramble of Sunday morning. The Yorkes did +get to college, somehow, and there was an end of it. + +After the conclusion of the service, as the congregation were +dispersing, Mr. Galloway came up to Arthur Channing in the cloisters, +and drew him aside. + +“Do you recollect taking the letters to the post, on Friday afternoon?” + he inquired. + +“On Friday?” mused Arthur, who could not at the moment recollect much +about that particular day’s letters; it was he who generally posted +them for the office. “Oh yes, I do remember, sir,” he replied, as the +relative circumstances flashed across him. + +Mr. Galloway looked at him, possibly doubting whether he really did +remember. “How many letters were there for the post that afternoon?” he +asked. + +“Three,” promptly rejoined Arthur. “Two were for London, and one was for +Ventnor.” + +“Just so,” assented Mr. Galloway. “Now, then, to whom did you intrust +the posting of those letters?” + +“I did not intrust them to any one,” replied Arthur; “I posted them +myself.” + +“You are sure?” + +“Quite sure, sir,” answered Arthur, in some surprise. But Mr. Galloway +said no more, and gave no reason for his inquiry. He turned into his own +house, which was situated near the cloister gates, and Arthur went on +home. + +Had you been attending worship in Helstonleigh Cathedral that same +afternoon, you might have observed, as one of the congregation, a tall +stout man, with a dark, sallow face, and grey hair. He sat in a +stall near to the Reverend William Yorke, who was the chanter for the +afternoon. It was Dr. Lamb. A somewhat peculiar history was his. Brought +up to the medical profession, and taking his physician’s degree +early, he went out to settle in New Zealand, where he had friends. +Circumstances brought him into frequent contact with the natives there. +A benevolent, thoughtful man, gifted with much Christian grace, the sad +spiritual state of these poor heathens gave the deepest concern to +Dr. Lamb. He did what he could for them in his leisure hours, but his +profession took up most of his time: often did he wish he had more +time at his command. A few years of hard work, and then the wish was +realized. A small patrimony was bequeathed him, sufficient to enable him +to live without work. From that time he applied himself to the arduous +duties of a missionary, and his labours were crowned with marked +success. Next came illness. He was attacked with rheumatism in the +joints; and after many useless remedies had been tried, he came home in +search of health, which he found, as you have heard, in certain German +spas. + +Mr. Channing watched the clock eagerly. Unless it has been your portion, +my reader, to undergo long and apparently hopeless affliction, and to +find yourself at length unexpectedly told that there _may_ be a cure for +you; that another, afflicted in a similar manner, has been restored to +health by simple means, and will call upon you and describe to you what +they were--you could scarcely understand the nervous expectancy of Mr. +Channing on this afternoon. Four o’clock! they would soon be here now. + +A very little time longer, and they were with him--his family, Mr. +Yorke, and Dr. Lamb. The chief subject of anxiety was soon entered upon, +Dr. Lamb describing his illness at great length. + +“But were you as helpless as I am?” inquired Mr. Channing. + +“Quite as helpless. I was carried on board, and carried to a bed at an +hotel when I reached England. From what I have heard of your case, +and from what you say, I should judge the nature of your malady to be +precisely similar to mine.” + +“And now tell me about the healing process.” + +Dr. Lamb paused. “You must promise to put faith in my prescription.” + +Mr. Channing raised his eyes in surprise. “Why should I not do so?” + +“Because it will appear to you so very simple. I consulted a medical man +in London, one skilled in rheumatic cases, and he gave it as his opinion +that a month or two passed at one of the continental springs might +restore me. I laughed at him.” + +“You did not believe him?” + +“I did not, indeed. Shall I confess to you that I felt _vexed_ with him? +There was I, a poor afflicted man, lying helpless, racked with pain; +and to be gravely assured that a short sojourn at a pleasant foreign +watering-place would, in all probability, _cure_ me, sounded very like +mockery. I knew something of the disease, its ordinary treatment, and +its various phases. It was true I had left Europe for many years, and +strange changes had been taking place in medical science. Still, I had +no faith in what he said, as being applicable to my own case; and for a +whole month, week after week, day after day, I declined to entertain his +views. I considered that it would be so much time and money wasted.” + +Dr. Lamb paused. Mr. Channing did not interrupt him. + +“One Sunday evening, I was on my solitary sofa--lying in pain--as I can +see you are lying now. The bells were ringing out for evening service. +I lay thinking of my distressed condition; wishing I could be healed. +By-and-by, after the bells had ceased, and the worshippers had assembled +within the walls of the sanctuary, from which privilege I was excluded, +I took up my Bible. It opened at the fifth chapter of the second book of +Kings. I began to read, somewhat listlessly, I fear--listlessly, at any +rate, compared with the strange enthusiasm which grew upon me as I read, +‘Go and wash in Jordan seven times, and thy flesh shall come again to +thee, and thou shalt be clean. And Naaman was wroth.... And his servants +spake unto him and said, My father, if the prophet had bid thee do some +great thing, wouldest thou not have done it? how much rather then, when +he saith unto thee, Wash, and be clean?’ + +“Mr. Channing,” Dr. Lamb continued in a deeper tone, “the words sounded +in my ear, fell upon my heart, as a very message sent direct from God. +All the folly of my own obstinate disbelief came full upon me; the +scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I said, ‘Shall I not try that +simple thing?’ A firm conviction that the chapter had been directed +to me that night as a warning, seated itself within me; and, from that +hour, I never entertained a shadow of doubt but that the baths would be +successful.” + +“And you journeyed to them?” + +“Instantly. Within a week I was there. I seemed to _know_ that I was +going to my cure. You will not, probably, understand this.” + +“I understand it perfectly,” was Mr. Channing’s answer. “I believe that +a merciful Providence does vouchsafe, at rare times, to move us by these +direct interpositions. I need not ask you if you were cured. I have +heard that you were. I see you are. Can you tell me aught of the actual +means?” + +“I was ordered to a small place in the neighbourhood of Aix-la-Chapelle; +a quiet, unpretending place, where there are ever-rising springs of +boiling, sulphuric water. The precise course of treatment I will come +in another day and describe to you. I had to drink a great deal of +the water, warm--six or eight half-pints of it a day; I had to bathe +regularly in this water; and I had to take what are called douche baths +every other day.” + +“I have heard of the douche baths,” said Mr. Channing. “Rather fierce, +are they not?” + +“Fierce!” echoed the doctor. “The first time I tried one, I thought I +should never come out alive. The water was dashed upon me, through a +tube, with what seemed alarming force until I grew used to it; whilst an +attendant rubbed and turned and twisted my limbs about, as if they had +been so many straws in his strong hand. So violent is the action of the +water that my face had to be protected by a board, lest it should come +into contact with it.” + +“Strong treatment!” remarked Mr. Channing. + +“Strong, but effectual. Effectual, so far as my case was concerned. +Whether it was drinking the water, or the sulphur baths, the douches, +the pure air, or the Prussian doctor’s medicine, or all combined, I was, +under God’s goodness, restored to health. I entertain no doubt that you +may be restored in like manner.” + +“And the cost?” asked Mr. Channing, with a sigh he could not wholly +suppress. + +“There’s the beauty of it! the advantage to us poor folks, who possess +a shallow purse, and that only half filled,” laughed Dr. Lamb. “Had it +been costly, _I_ could not have afforded it. These baths, mind you, are +in the hotel, which is the greatest possible accommodation to invalids; +the warm baths cost a franc each, the douche two francs, the water you +drink, nothing. The doctor’s fee is four and sixpence, and you need not +consult him often. Ascertain the proper course, and go on with it.” + +“But the hotel expenses?” + +“That cost me four shillings a day, everything included, except a trifle +for servants. Candles alone were extras, and I did not burn them very +much, for I was glad to go to bed early. Wine I do not take, or that +also would have been an extra. You could not live very much cheaper at +home.” + +“How I should like to go!” broke from the lips of Mr. Channing. + +Hamish came forward. “You must go, my dear father! It shall be managed.” + +“You speak hopefully, Hamish.” + +Hamish smiled. “I feel so, sir.” + +“Do you feel so, also, my friend!” said Dr. Lamb, fervently. “Go forth +to the remedy as I did, in the full confidence that God can, and will, +send His blessing upon it.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. -- MR. JENKINS ALIVE AGAIN. + +The quiet of Sunday was over, and Helstonleigh awoke on the Monday +morning to the bustle of every-day life. Mr. Jenkins awoke, with others, +and got up--not Jenkins the old bedesman, but his son Joseph, who had +the grey mare for his wife. It was Mr. Jenkins’s intention to resume his +occupation that day, with Mr. Hurst’s and Mrs. Jenkins’s permission: the +former he might have defied; the latter he dared not. However, he was on +the safe side, for both had accorded it. + +Mrs. Jenkins was making breakfast in the small parlour behind her +hosiery shop, when her husband appeared. He looked all the worse for his +accident. Poor Joe was one whom a little illness told upon. Thin, pale, +and lantern-jawed at the best of times--indeed he was not infrequently +honoured with the nickname of “scare-crow”--he now looked thinner and +paler than ever. His tall, shadowy form seemed bent with the weakness +induced by lying a few days in bed; while his hair had been cut off in +three places at the top of his head, to give way to as many patches of +white plaster. + +“A nice figure you’ll cut in the office, to-day, with those ornaments on +your crown!” was Mrs. Jenkins’s salutation. + +“I am thinking to fold this broadly upon my head, and tie it under my +chin,” said he, meekly, holding out a square, black silk handkerchief +which he had brought down in his hand. + +“That would not hide the patch upon your forehead, stupid!” responded +Mrs. Jenkins. “I believe you must have bumped upon the edge of every +stair in the organ-loft, as you came down, to get so many wounds!” she +continued crossly. “If you ever do such a senseless trick again, you +shan’t stir abroad without me or the maid at your back, to take care of +you; I promise you that!” + +“I have combed my hair over the place on my forehead!” civilly replied +Mr. Jenkins. “I don’t think it shows much.” + +“And made yourself look like an owl! I thought it was nothing less than +a stuffed owl coming in. Why can’t you wear your hat? That would hide +your crown and your forehead too.” + +“I did think of that; and I dare say Mr. Galloway would allow me to do +it, and overlook the disrespect in consideration of the circumstances,” + answered Jenkins. “But then, I thought again, suppose the dean should +chance to come into the office to-day?--or any of the canons? There’s no +telling but they may. I could not keep my hat on in their presence; and +I should not like to take it off, and expose the plasters.” + +“You’d frighten them away, if you did,” said Mrs. Jenkins, dashing some +water into the teapot. + +“Therefore,” he added, when she had finished speaking, “I think it +will be better to put on this handkerchief. People do wear them, when +suffering from neuralgia, or from toothache.” + +“Law! wear it, if you like! what a fuss you make about nothing! If you +chose to go with your head wrapped up in a blanket, nobody would look at +you.” + +“Very true,” meekly coughed Mr. Jenkins. + +“What are you doing?” irascibly demanded Mrs. Jenkins, perceiving that +of two slices of bacon which she had put upon his plate, one had been +surreptitiously conveyed back to the dish. + +“I am not hungry this morning. I cannot eat it.” + +“I say you shall eat it. What next? Do you think you are going to starve +yourself?” + +“My appetite will come back to me in a morning or two,” he deprecatingly +observed. + +“It is back quite enough for that bacon,” was the answer. “Come! I’ll +have it eaten.” + +She ruled him in everything as she would a child; and, appetite or no +appetite, Mr. Jenkins had to obey. Then he prepared for his departure. +The black silk square was tied on, so as to cover the damages; the +hat was well drawn over the brows, and Mr. Jenkins started. When Mr. +Galloway entered his office that morning, which he did earlier than +usual, there sat Mr. Jenkins in his usual place, copying a lease. + +He looked glad to see his old clerk. It is pleasant to welcome a +familiar face after an absence. “Are you sure you are equal to work, +Jenkins?” + +“Quite so, sir, thank you. I had a little fever at first, and Mr. Hurst +was afraid of that; but it has quite subsided. Beyond being a trifle +sore on the head, and stiff at the elbows and one hip, I am quite myself +again.” + +“I was sorry to hear of the accident, Jenkins,” Mr. Galloway resumed. + +“I was as vexed at it as I could be, sir. When I first came to myself, +I hardly knew what damage was done; and the uncertainty of getting to +business, perhaps for weeks, did worry me much. I don’t deny, too, that +I have been in a little pain. But oh, sir! it was worth happening! it +was indeed; only to experience the kindness and good fellowship that +have been shown me. I am sure half the town has been to see me, or to +ask after me.” + +“I hear you have had your share of visitors.” + +“The bishop himself came,” said poor Jenkins, tears of gratitude rising +to his eyes in the intensity of his emotion. “He did, indeed, sir. He +came on the Friday, and groped his way up our dark stairs (for very dark +they are when Mr. Harper’s sitting-room door is shut), and sat down by +my bedside, and chatted, just as plainly and familiarly as if he had +been no better than one of my own acquaintances. Mr. Arthur Channing +found him there when he came with your kind message, sir.” + +“So I heard,” said Mr. Galloway. “You and the bishop were both in the +same boat. I cannot, for my part, get at the mystery of that locking-up +business.” + +“The bishop as good as said so, sir--that we had both been in it. I +was trying to express my acknowledgments to his lordship for his +condescension, apologizing for my plain bedroom, and the dark stairs, +and all that, and saying, as well as I knew how, that the like of me was +not worthy of a visit from him, when he laughed, in his affable way, and +said, ‘We were both caught in the same trap, Jenkins. Had I been the one +to receive personal injury, I make no doubt that you would have come the +next day to inquire after me.’ What a great thing it is, to be blessed +with a benevolent heart, like the Bishop of Helstonleigh’s!” + +Arthur Channing came in and interrupted the conversation. He was +settling to his occupation, when Mr. Galloway drew his attention; in an +abrupt and angry manner, as it struck Arthur. + +“Channing, you told me, yesterday, that you posted that letter for +Ventnor on Friday.” + +“So I did, sir.” + +“It has been robbed.” + +“Robbed!” returned Arthur, in surprise, scarcely realizing immediately +the meaning of the word. + +“You know that it contained money--a twenty-pound note. You saw me put +it in.” + +“Yes--I--know--that,” hesitated Arthur. + +“What are you stammering at?” + +In good truth, Arthur could not have told, except that he hesitated in +surprise. He had cast his thoughts into the past, and was lost in them. + +“The fact is, you did _not_ post the letters yourself,” resumed Mr. +Galloway. “You gave them to somebody else to post, in a fit of idleness, +and the result is, that the letter was rifled, and I have lost twenty +pounds.” + +“Sir, I assure you, that I did post them myself,” replied Arthur, with +firmness. “I went straight from this door to the post-office. In +coming back, I called on Jenkins”--turning to him--“as you bade me, +and afterwards I returned here. I mentioned to you, then, sir, that the +bishop was with Jenkins.” + +Mr. Jenkins glanced up from his desk, a streak of colour illumining his +thin cheek, half hidden by the black handkerchief. “I was just saying, +sir, to Mr. Galloway, that you found his lordship at my bedside,” he +said to Arthur. + +“Has the note been taken out of the letter, sir?” demanded Arthur. “Did +the letter reach its destination without it?” + +“Yes,” replied Mr. Galloway, in answer to both questions. “I had a +few lines from Mr. Robert Galloway yesterday morning, stating that the +letter had arrived, but no bank-note was enclosed in it. Now, where is +the note?” + +“Where can it be?” reiterated Arthur. “The letter must have been opened +on the road. I declare to you, sir, that I put it myself into the +post-office.” + +“It is a crying shame for this civilized country, that one cannot send +a bank-note across the kingdom in a letter, but it must get taken out of +it!” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, in his vexation. “The puzzle to me is, how +those letter-carriers happen just to pitch upon the right letters to +open--those letters that contain money!” + +He went into his private room as he spoke, banging the door after him, +a sure symptom that his temper was not in a state of serenity, and not +hearing or seeing Roland Yorke, who had entered, and was wishing him +good morning. + +“What’s amiss? he seems in a tantrum,” ejaculated Mr. Roland, with +his usual want of ceremony. “Hallo, Jenkins; is it really you? By the +accounts brought here, I thought you were not going to have a head on +your shoulders for six months to come. Glad to see you.” + +“Thank you, sir. I am thankful to say I have got pretty well over the +hurt.” + +“Roland,” said Arthur, in a half-whisper, bringing his head close to +his friend’s, as they leaned together over the desk, “you remember that +Ventnor letter, sent on Friday, with the money in it--” + +“Ventnor letter!” interrupted Roland. “What Ventnor letter?” + +“The one for Robert Galloway. Hamish was looking at it. It had a +twenty-pound note in it.” + +“For Ventnor, was it? I did not notice what place it was bound for. +That fellow, the cousin Galloway, changes his place of abode like the +Wandering Jew. What of the letter?” + +“It has been robbed of the note.” + +“No!” uttered Roland. + +“It has. The cousin says the letter reached him, but the note did not. +Mr. Galloway seems uncommonly put out. He accused me, at first, of not +taking it myself to the post. As if I should confide letters of value to +any one not worthy of trust!” + +“Did you post it yourself?” asked Roland. + +“Of course I did. When you were coming in, after playing truant on +Friday afternoon, I was then going. You might have seen the letters in +my hand.” + +Roland shook his head. “I was in too great a stew to notice letters, or +anything else. This will cure Galloway of sending bank-notes in letters. +Have the post-office people had news of the loss sent to them? They must +hunt up the thief.” + +“Mr. Galloway is sure to do all that’s necessary,” remarked Arthur. + +“For my part, if I sent bank-notes across the country in letters, I +should expect them to be taken. I wonder at Galloway. He is cautious in +other things.” + +Others had wondered at Mr. Galloway, besides Roland Yorke. A man of +caution, generally, he yet persisted in the practice of enclosing +bank-notes in letters. Persons cognizant of this habit had remonstrated +with him; not his clerks--of course they had not presumed to do so. +Mr. Galloway, who liked his own way, had become somewhat testy upon the +point, and, not a week before the present time, had answered in a sort +of contradictory spirit that his money-letters had always gone safely +hitherto, and he made no doubt they always would go safely. The present +loss, therefore, coming as it were, to check his obstinacy, vexed him +more than it would otherwise have done. He did not care for the loss of +the money half so much as he did for the tacit reproof to himself. + +“I wonder if Galloway took the number of the note?” cried Roland. +“Whether or not, though, it would not serve him much: bank-notes lost in +transit never come to light.” + +“Don’t they, though!” retorted Arthur. “Look at the many convictions for +post-office robbery!” + +“I do not suppose that one case in ten is tracked home,” disputed +Roland. “They are regular thieves, those letter-carriers. But, then, the +fellows are paid so badly.” + +“Do not be so sweeping in your assertions, Roland Yorke,” interposed Mr. +Galloway, coming forward from his own room. “How dare you so asperse +the letter-carriers? They are a hard-working, quiet, honest body of +men. Yes, sir; honest--I repeat it. Where one has yielded to temptation, +fingering what was not his own, hundreds rise superior to it, retaining +their integrity. I would advise you not to be so free with your tongue.” + +Not to be free with his tongue would have been hard to Roland. + +“Lady Augusta was sending a box of camomile pills to some friend in +Ireland, the other day, sir, but it was never heard of again, after +she put it into the post-office, here,” cried he to Mr. Galloway. “The +fellow who appropriated it no doubt thought he had a prize of jewels. I +should like to have seen his mortification when he opened the parcel +and found it contained pills! Lady Augusta said she hoped he had liver +complaint, and then they might be of service to him.” + +Mr. Galloway made no response. He had caught up a lease that was lying +on Jenkins’s desk, and stood looking at it with no pleasant expression +of countenance. On went that undaunted Roland: + +“The next thing Lady Augusta had occasion to send by post was a gold +cameo pin. It was enclosed in a pasteboard box, and, when packed, looked +just like the parcel of pills. I wrote PILLS on it, in great round +text-hand. That reached its destination safely enough, sir.” + +“More safely than you would, if it depended upon your pursuing your +business steadily,” retorted Mr. Galloway to Roland. “Fill in that tithe +paper.” + +As Roland, with a suppressed yawn, and in his usual lazy manner, set +himself to work, there came a clatter at the office-door, and a man +entered in the uniform of a telegraphic official, bearing a despatch +in his hand. Mr. Galloway had then turned to his room, and Roland, ever +ready for anything but work, started up and received the packet from the +man. + +“Where’s it from?” asked he, in his curiosity. + +“Southampton,” replied the messenger. + +“A telegram from Southampton, sir,” announced Roland to Mr. Galloway. + +The latter took the despatch, and opened it, directing Jenkins to sign +the paper. This done, the messenger departed. The words of the message +were few, but Mr. Galloway’s eye was bending upon them sternly, and his +brow had knitted, as if in perplexity. + +“Young gentlemen, you must look to this,” he said, coming forward, and +standing before Roland and Arthur. “I find that the post-office is not +to blame for this loss; it must have occurred in this room, before the +letter went to the post-office.” + +They both looked up, both coloured, as if with inward consternation. +Thoughts, we all know, are quick as lightning: what was each thinking +of, that it should give rise to emotion? Arthur was the first to speak. + +“Do you allude to the loss of the bank-note, sir?” + +“What else should I allude to?” sharply answered Mr. Galloway. + +“But the post-office must be cheeky to deny it off-hand!” flashed +Roland. “How is it possible that they can answer for the honesty of +every man whose hands that letter passed through?” + +“Pray who told you they had denied it, Mr. Roland Yorke?” demanded his +master. + +Roland felt a little checked. “I inferred it, sir.” + +“I dare say. Then allow me to tell you that they have not denied it. +And one very cogent reason why they have not, is, that they are not yet +cognizant of the loss. I do not jump at conclusions as you do, Roland +Yorke, and I thought it necessary to make a little private inquiry +before accusing the post-office, lest the post-office might not be in +fault, you know.” + +“Quite right, I have no doubt, sir,” replied Roland, in a chafed accent, +for Mr. Galloway was speaking satirically, and Roland never liked to +have ridicule cast upon him. Like old Ketch, it affected his temper. + +“By this communication,” touching the telegraphic despatch, “I learn +that the letter was not opened after it left this office,” resumed Mr. +Galloway. “Consequently, the note must have been abstracted from it +while the letter lay here. Who has been guilty of it?” + +Neither Arthur nor Roland spoke. It was not a pleasant accusation--if +you can call it an accusation--and their faces deepened to scarlet; +while Mr. Jenkins looked up half terrified, and began to think, what +a mercy it was that he had broken his head, just that last particular +Thursday night, on the marble flags of the cathedral. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. -- THE LOSS. + +When money is lost out of an office, suspicion very frequently falls +upon one or more of that office’s _employés_. Mr. Galloway’s doubts, +however, had not yet extended to those employed in his. The letter +containing the bank-note had been despatched to Mr. Robert Galloway, at +Ventnor, on the Friday. On the Sunday morning, while Mr. Galloway was at +breakfast, a short answer was delivered to him from his cousin:--“Your +letter has reached me, but not the note; you must have omitted to +enclose it,” was the news it contained relative to that particular +point. Mr. Galloway knew that he had enclosed the note; there was little +doubt that both his clerks could testify that he had done so, for it was +done in their presence. How could it have been taken out again? Had it +been abstracted while the letter was still in his office?--or on its +way to the post?--or in its transmission to Ventnor? “If in the office,” + argued Mr. Galloway, “it must have been done before I sealed it; if +afterwards, that seal must have been tampered with, probably broken. +I’ll drop a note to Robert, and ask the question.” He rose from his +breakfast and penned a line to Southampton, where, as he had reason +to believe, Mr. Robert Galloway would be on the Monday. It was not Mr. +Galloway’s habit to write letters on a Sunday, but he considered that +the present occasion justified the act. “I certainly enclosed the note +in my letter,” he wrote. “Send me word instantly whether the seal had +been tampered with. I stamped it with my private seal.” Mr. Robert +Galloway received this on the Monday morning. He did not wait for the +post, but forwarded the reply by telegraph--“The seal had not been +broken. Will send you back the envelope by first post.” This was the +despatch which you saw Mr. Galloway receive in his office. + +He went back into his private room, carrying the despatch with him, and +there he sat down to think. From the very first, he had not believed the +fraud to lie with the post-office--for this reason: had the note been +taken out by one of its servants, the letter would almost certainly not +have reached its destination; it would have disappeared with the note. +He had cast a doubt upon whether Arthur Channing had posted the letters +himself. Arthur assured him that he had done so, and Mr. Galloway +believed him; the information that the seal of the letter was unbroken +was now a further confirmation, had he needed it. At least, it confirmed +that the letter had not been opened after it left the office. Mr. +Galloway perfectly remembered fastening down the letter. He probably +would have sealed it then, but for the commotion that arose at the same +moment in the street caused by Mad Nance. There could be no shadow of +doubt, so far as Mr. Galloway could see, and so far as he believed, that +the abstraction had taken place between the time of his fastening down +the envelope and of his sealing it. Who had done it? + +“I’ll lay a guinea I know how it happened!” he exclaimed to himself. +“Channing was at college--I must have given him permission in a soft +moment to take that organ, or I should never have done it, quitting the +office daily!--and, Yorke, in his indolent carelessness, must have got +gossiping outside, leaving, it is hard to say who, in the office! This +comes of poor Jenkins’s fall!” + +Mr. Galloway rang his bell. It was answered by Jenkins. “Send Mr. Arthur +Channing in,” said Mr. Galloway. + +Arthur entered, in obedience. Mr. Galloway signed to him to close the +door, and then spoke. + +“This is an awkward business, Channing.” + +“Very awkward, indeed, sir,” replied Arthur, at no loss to understand +what Mr. Galloway alluded to. “I do not see that it was possible for +the note to have been taken from the letter, except in its transmission +through the post.” + +“I tell you it was taken from it before it left this office,” tartly +returned Mr. Galloway. “I have my reasons for the assertion. Did you see +me put the bank-note into the letter?” + +“Of course I did, sir. I was standing by when you did it: I remained by +you after bringing you the note from this room.” + +“I enclosed the note, and fastened down the envelope,” said Mr. +Galloway, pointing the feather of his quill pen at each proposition. “I +did not seal it then, because looking at Mad Nance hindered me, and +I went out, leaving the letter on Jenkins’s desk, in your charge and +Yorke’s.” + +“Yes, sir. I placed the letter in the rack in your room, immediately +afterwards.” + +“And, pray, what loose acquaintances did you and Yorke receive here that +afternoon?” + +“Not any,” replied Arthur. “I do not know when the office has been so +free from callers. No person whatever entered it, except my brother +Hamish.” + +“That’s all nonsense,” said Mr. Galloway. “You are getting to speak as +incautiously as Yorke. How can you tell who came here when you were at +college? Yorke would be alone, then.” + +“No, Yorke was not,” Arthur was beginning. But he stopped suddenly and +hesitated. He did not care to tell Mr. Galloway that Yorke had played +truant all that afternoon. Mr. Galloway saw his hesitation, and did not +like it. + +“Come, what have you to conceal? You and Yorke held a levee here, I +suppose? That’s the fact. You had so many fellows in here, gossiping, +that you don’t know who may have meddled with the letter; and when you +were off to college, they stayed on with Yorke.” + +“No, sir. For one thing, I did not take the organ that afternoon. I +went, as usual, but Mr. Williams was there himself, so I came back at +once. I was only away about ten minutes.” + +“And how many did you find with Yorke?” + +“Yorke stepped out to speak to some one just before I went to college,” + replied Arthur, obliged to allude to it, but determined to say as little +as possible. “Hamish was here, sir; you met him coming in as you were +going out, and I got him to stay in the office till I returned.” + +“Pretty doings!” retorted Mr. Galloway. “Hindering the time of Mr. +Hamish Channing, that you and Yorke may kick up your heels elsewhere! +Nice trustworthy clerks, both of you!” + +“I was obliged to go to college, sir,” said Arthur, in a tone of +deprecation. + +“Was Yorke obliged to go out?” + +“I was back again very shortly, I assure you, sir,” said Arthur, passing +over the remark. “And I did not leave the office again until you sent me +to the post.” + +“Stop!” said Mr. Galloway; “let me clearly understand. As I went out, +Hamish came in. Then, you say, Yorke went out; and you, to get to +college, left Hamish keeping office! Did any one else come in besides +Hamish?” + +“Not any one. When I returned from college I inquired of Hamish who had +called, and he said no one had called. Then Lady Augusta Yorke drove up, +and Hamish went away with her. She was going to the missionary meeting.” + +“And you persist in saying that no one came in, after that?” + +“No one did come in, sir.” + +“Very well. Send Yorke to me.” + +Roland made his appearance, a pen behind his ear, and a ruler in his +hand. + +“More show than work!” sarcastically exclaimed Mr. Galloway. “Now, +sir, I have been questioning Mr. Arthur Channing about this unpleasant +business, for I am determined to come to the bottom of it. I can get +nothing satisfactory from him; so I must try what I can do with +you. Have the goodness to tell me how you spent your time on Friday +afternoon.” + +“On Friday?--let’s see,” began Roland, out of his wits with perplexity +as to how he should conceal his afternoon’s absence from Mr. Galloway. +“It’s difficult to recollect what one does on one particular day more +than another, sir.” + +“Oh, indeed! Perhaps, to begin with, you can remember the circumstances +of my enclosing the bank-note in the letter, I went into the other room +to consult a ‘Bradshaw’--” + +“I remember that quite well, sir,” interrupted Roland. “Channing fetched +the bank-note from this room, and you put it into the envelope. It was +just before we were all called to the window by Mad Nance.” + +“After that?” pursued Mr. Galloway. + +“After that? I think, sir, you went out after that, and Hamish Channing +came in.” + +“Who else came in?” + +“I don’t remember any one else,” answered Roland, wishing some one would +come in _then_, and stop the questioning. No such luck, however. + +“How many people called in, while Channing was at college, and you were +keeping office?” demanded Mr. Galloway. + +Roland fidgeted, first on one leg, then on the other. He felt that +it must all come out. “What a passion he’ll go into with me!” thought +Roland. “It is certain that no one can have touched the bank-note in +this office, sir,” he said aloud. “Those poor, half-starved postmen must +have helped themselves to it.” + +“When I ask for your opinion upon ‘who has helped themselves to it,’ it +will be time enough to give it me,” returned Mr. Galloway, drily. “I +say that the money was taken from the letter before it left this office, +when it was under the charge of you and Channing.” + +“I hope you do not suspect us of taking it, sir!” said Roland, going +into a heat. + +“I suspect that you have been guilty of negligence in some way, Mr. +Roland. Could the bank-note drop out of the letter of itself?” + +“I suppose it could not, sir.” + +“Good! Then it is my business to ascertain, if I can, how it did get +out of it. You have not answered my question. Who came into this office, +while Channing was at the cathedral, on Friday afternoon?” + +“I declare nobody ever had such luck as I,” burst forth Roland, in +a tone half comic, half defiant, as he felt he must make a merit of +necessity, and confess. “If I get into the smallest scrape in the world, +it is safe to come out. The fact is, sir, I was not here, last Friday +afternoon, during Channing’s hour for college.” + +“What! not at all?” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, who had not suspected that +Yorke was absent so long. + +“As I say, it’s my luck to be found out!” grumbled Roland. “I can’t +lift a finger to-day, if it ought not to be lifted, but it is known +to-morrow. I saw one of my chums going past the end of the street, sir, +and I ran after him. And I am sorry to say I was seduced into stopping +out with him longer than I ought to have done.” + +Mr. Galloway stared at Roland. “At what time did you go out?” he asked. + +“Just after you did, sir. The bell was going for college.” + +“And pray what time did you come in again?” + +“Well, sir, you saw me come in. It was getting on for five o’clock.” + +“Do you mean to say you had not been in at all, between those hours!” + +“It was Knivett’s fault,” grumbled Roland. “He kept me.” + +Mr. Galloway sat drumming on his desk, apparently gazing at Roland; in +reality thinking. To hear that Mr. Roland Yorke had taken French leave +for nearly a whole afternoon, just on the especial afternoon that he +ought not to have taken it--Jenkins being away--did not surprise him in +the least; it was very much in the line of the Yorkes to do so. To scold +or punish Roland for it, would have been productive of little good, +since he was sure to do it again the very next time the temptation +offered itself. Failing temptation, he would remain at his post +steadily enough. No; it was not Roland’s escapade that Mr. Galloway was +considering; but the very narrow radius that the affair of the letter +appeared to be drawing itself into. If Roland was absent, he could not +have had half the town in, to chatter; and if Arthur Channing asserted +that none had been in, Mr. Galloway could give credence to Arthur. But +then--how had the money disappeared? Who had taken it? + +“Channing!” he called out, loudly and sharply. + +Arthur, who was preparing to attend the cathedral, for the bell had rung +out, hastened in. + +“How came you not to tell me when we were speaking of Roland Yorke’s +absence, that he remained away all the afternoon?” questioned Mr. +Galloway. + +Arthur was silent. He glanced once at Roland. + +“Well?” cried Mr. Galloway. + +“It was better for him to tell you himself, sir; as I conclude he has +now done.” + +“The fact is, you are two birds of a feather,” stormed Mr. Galloway, +who, when once roused, which was not often, would say anything that came +uppermost, just or unjust. “The one won’t tell tales of the other. If +the one set my office on fire, and then said it was the cat did it, the +other would stick to it. Is it true, sir, that he was not at the office +during my absence from it on Friday afternoon?” he continued to Arthur. + +“That is true.” + +“Then who can have taken the money?” uttered Mr. Galloway, speaking what +was uppermost in his thoughts. + +“Which is as much as to say that I took it,” burst from haughty Roland. +“Mr. Galloway, I--” + +“Keep quiet, Roland Yorke,” interrupted that gentleman. “I do not +suspect you of taking it. I did suspect that you might have got some +idlers in here, _mauvais sujets_, you know, for you call plenty of them +friends; but, if you were absent yourself, that suspicion falls to the +ground. Again I say, who can have taken the money?” + +“It is an utter impossibility that Yorke could have taken it, even were +he capable of such a thing,” generously spoke Arthur. “From the time you +left the office yourself, sir, until after the letters were taken out of +it to be posted, he was away from it.” + +“Just like him!” exclaimed Mr. Galloway. “It must have been done while +your brother Hamish was waiting in the office. We must ascertain from +him who came in.” + +“He told me no one came in,” repeated Arthur. + +“Rubbish!” testily observed Mr. Galloway. “Some one must have come in; +some one with light fingers, too! the money could not go without hands. +You are off to college now, I suppose, Channing?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“When service is over, just go down as far as your brother’s office, and +ask him about it.” + +“He is as obstinate as any old adder!” exclaimed Roland Yorke to Arthur, +when they left Mr. Galloway alone. “The only possible way in which it +can have gone, is through that post-office. The men have forked it; as +they did Lady Augusta’s pills.” + +“He says it was not the post-office,” mused Arthur. “He said--as I +understood--that the telegraphic despatch proved to him that it had been +taken out here.” + +“What an idiot you are!” ejaculated Roland. “How _could_ a despatch tell +him who took it, or who did not?--unless it was a despatch from those +spirit-rappers--mesmerists, or whatever they call themselves. They +profess to show you who your grandmother was, if you don’t know!” + +Roland laughed as he spoke. Arthur was not inclined for joking; the +affair perplexed him in no ordinary degree. “I wish Mr. Galloway would +mention his grounds for thinking the note was taken before it went to +the post!” he said. + +“He ought to mention them,” cried Roland fiercely. “He says he learns, +by the despatch, that the letter was not opened after it left this +office. Now, it is impossible that any despatch could tell him that. He +talks to me about broad assertions! That’s a pretty broad one. What did +the despatch say? who sent it?” + +“Would it afford you satisfaction to know, Mr. Roland?” and Roland +wheeled round with a start, for it was the voice of Mr. Galloway. He had +followed them into the front office, and caught the latter part of +the conversation. “Come, sir,” he added, “I will teach you a lesson in +caution. When I have sealed letters that contained money after they were +previously fastened down with gum, I have seen you throw your head back, +Mr. Roland, with that favourite scornful movement of yours. ‘As if gum +did not stick them fast enough!’ you have said in your heart. But now, +the fact of my having sealed this letter in question, enables me to say +that the letter was not opened after it left my hands. The despatch +you are so curious about was from my cousin, telling me that the seal +reached him intact.” + +“I did not know the letter was sealed,” remarked Roland. “But that +proves nothing, sir. They might melt the wax, and seal it up again. +Every one keeps a stamp of this sort,” he added, stretching his hand out +for the seal usually used in the office--an ordinary cross-barred wafer +stamp. + +“Ah,” said Mr. Galloway, “you are very clever, Master Roland. But I +happened to stamp that letter with my own private seal.” + +“That alters the case, of course,” said Roland, after a pause. “Sir, I +wish you would set me to work to find out,” he impulsively continued. +“I’d go to the post-office, and--” + +“And there make enough noise for ten, and defeat your own ends,” + interrupted Mr. Galloway. “Channing, you will be late. Do not forget to +see Hamish.” + +“Yes, I must be off,” said Arthur, coming out of his reverie with a +start. He had waited to hear about the seal. And now flew towards the +cathedral. + +“I wish it had not happened!” he ejaculated. “I know Galloway does not +suspect me or Yorke: but still I wish it had never happened!” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XX. -- THE LOOMING OF AN AWFUL FEAR. + +Hamish Channing sat in his private room; his now; for, in the absence +of Mr. Channing, Hamish was master. The insurance office was situated in +Guild Street, a principal street, near to the Town Hall. It consisted of +an entrance hall, two rooms, and a closet for hanging up coats, and for +washing hands. The room on the left of the hall, as you entered, was +the principal office; the room on the right, was the private room of Mr. +Channing; now used, I say, by Hamish. The upper part of the house was +occupied as a dwelling; the people renting it having nothing to do +with the office. It was a large, roomy house, and possessed a separate +entrance. + +Hamish--gay, good-tempered, careless, though he was--ruled the office +with a firm hand. There was no familiarity of manner there; the clerks +liked him, but they had to defer to him and obey him. He was seated at +his desk, deep in some accounts, on this same morning--the one mentioned +in the last chapter--when one of the clerks entered, and said that +Mr. Arthur Channing was asking to speak to him: for it was Mr. Hamish +Channing’s good pleasure not to be interrupted indiscriminately, unless +a clerk first ascertained whether he was at liberty to be seen. Possibly +Hamish feared treachery might be abroad. + +Arthur entered. Hamish pushed his books from him, and stretched himself. +“Well, old fellow! you seem out of breath.” + +“I came down at a pace,” rejoined Arthur. “College is just over. I say, +Hamish, a disagreeable thing has happened at Galloway’s. I have never +seen him put out as he is now.” + +“Has his hair taken a change again, and come out a lovely rose colour?” + +“I _wish_ you would not turn everything into joke,” cried Arthur, who +was really troubled, and the words vexed him. “You saw a letter on +Jenkins’s desk last Friday--the afternoon, you know, that Yorke went +off, and you remained while I went to college? There was a twenty-pound +note in it. Well, the note has, in some mysterious manner, been +abstracted from it.” + +Hamish lifted his eyebrows. “What can Galloway expect, if he sends +bank-notes in letters?” + +“Yes, but this was taken before it left our office. Galloway says so. He +sealed it with his private seal, and the letter arrived at his cousin’s +intact, the seal unbroken--a pretty sure proof that the note could not +have been in it when it was sealed.” + +“Who took it out?” asked Hamish. + +“That’s the question. There was not a soul near the place, that I can +find out, except you and I. Yorke was away, Jenkins was away, and Mr. +Galloway was away. He says some one must have come in while you were in +the office.” + +“Not so much as a ghost came in,” said Hamish. + +“Are you sure, Hamish?” + +“Sure! I am sure they did not, unless I dropped asleep. _That_ was +not an unlikely catastrophe to happen; shut up by myself in that dull +office, amidst musty parchments, with nothing to do.” + +“Hamish, can you be serious for once? This is a serious matter.” + +“Mr. Martin Pope wants you, sir,” said the clerk again, interrupting +at this juncture. Martin Pope’s face came in also, over the clerk’s +shoulder. It was red, and he looked in a hurry. + +“Hamish, he has had a letter, and is off by the half-past eleven train,” + spoke Martin Pope, in some excitement. “You must rush up to the station, +if you want a last word with him. You will hardly catch him, running +your best.” + +Up jumped Hamish, in excitement as great as his friend’s. He closed and +locked the desk, caught his hat, and was speeding out of the office, +when Arthur, to whom the words had been a puzzle, seized his arm. + +“Hamish, _did_ any one come in? It was Mr. Galloway sent me here to +ascertain.” + +“No, they did not. Should I not tell you if they had? Take care, Arthur. +I must fly like the wind. Come away, Pope!” + +Arthur walked back to Mr. Galloway’s. That gentleman was out. Roland +Yorke was out. But Jenkins, upon whom the unfortunate affair had taken +great hold, lifted his face to Arthur, his eyes asking the question that +his tongue scarcely presumed to do. + +“My brother says no one came in while he was here. It is very strange!” + +“Mr. Arthur, sir, if I had repined at all at that accident, and felt it +as a misfortune, how this would have reproved me!” spoke Jenkins, in his +simple faith. “Why, sir, it must have come to me as a mercy, a blessing; +to take me away out of this office at the very time.” + +“What do you mean, Jenkins?” + +“There’s no telling, sir, but Mr. Galloway might have suspected me. It +is the first loss we have had since I have been here, all these years; +and--” + +“Nonsense!” interrupted Arthur. “You may as well fear that Mr. Galloway +will suspect me, or Mr. Yorke.” + +“No, sir, you and Mr. Yorke are different; you are gentlemen. Mr. +Galloway would no more suspect you, than he would suspect himself. I am +thankful I was absent.” + +“Be easy, Jenkins,” smiled Arthur. “Absent or present, every one can +trust you.” + +Mr. Galloway did not return until nearly one o’clock. He went straight +to his own room. Arthur followed him. + +“I have seen Hamish, sir. He says no person whatever entered on Friday, +while he was here alone.” + +Mr. Galloway paused, apparently revolving the news. “Hamish must be +mistaken,” he answered. + +“He told me at the time, last Friday, that no one had been in,” resumed +Arthur. “I asked the question when I returned from college, thinking +people might have called on business. He said they had not done so; and +he says the same now.” + +“But look you here, Arthur,” debated Mr. Galloway, in a tone of +reasoning. “I suspect neither you nor Yorke; indeed, as it seems, Yorke +put himself out of suspicion’s way, by walking off; but if no one came +to the office, and yet the note _went_, remember the position in which +you place yourself. I say I don’t blame you, I don’t suspect you; but +I do say that the mystery must be cleared up. Are you certain no person +came into the office during your presence in it?” + +“I am quite certain of that, sir. I have told you so.” + +“And is Hamish equally certain--that no one entered while he was here +alone?” + +“He says so.” But Arthur’s words bore a sound of hesitation, which Mr. +Galloway may or may not have observed. He would have spoken far more +positively had Hamish not joked about it. + +“‘Says’ will not do for me,” retorted Mr. Galloway. “I should like to +see Hamish. You have nothing particular to finish before one o’clock; +suppose you run up to Guild Street, and request him to come round this +way, as he goes home to dinner? It will not take him two minutes out of +his road.” + +Arthur departed; choosing the nearest way to Guild Street. It led him +through the street Hamish had been careful to avoid on account of a +troublesome creditor. Arthur had no such fear. One o’clock struck as +he turned into it. About midway down it, what was his astonishment +at encountering Hamish! Not hurrying along, dreading to be seen, but +flourishing leisurely at his ease, nodding to every one he knew, his +sweet smile in full play, and his cane whirling circlets in the air. + +“Hamish! I thought this was forbidden ground!” + +“So it was, until a day or two ago,” laughed Hamish; “but I have managed +to charm the enemy.” + +He spoke in his usual light, careless, half-mocking style, and passed +his arm within Arthur’s. At that moment a shopkeeper came to his door, +and respectfully touched his hat to Hamish. Hamish nodded in return, and +laughed again as he walked on with Arthur. + +“That was the fiercest enemy in all this street of Philistines, Arthur. +See how civil he is now.” + +“How did you ‘charm’ him?” + +“Oh, by a process known to myself. Did you come down on purpose to +escort me home to dinner? Very polite of you!” + +“I came to ask you to go round by Mr. Galloway’s office, and to call in +and see him. He will not take your word at second hand.” + +“Take my word about what?” asked Hamish. + +“That the office had no visitors while you were in it the other day. +That money matter grows more mysterious every hour.” + +“Then I have not time to go round,” exclaimed Hamish, in--for him--quite +an impatient accent. “I don’t know anything about the money or the +letter. Why should I be bothered?” + +“Hamish, you _must_ go,” said Arthur, impressively. “Do you know +that--so far as can be ascertained--no human being was in the office +alone with the letter, except you and I. Were we to shun inquiry, +suspicion might fall upon us.” + +Hamish drew himself up haughtily, somewhat after the fashion of Roland +Yorke. “What absurdity, Arthur! steal a twenty-pound note!” But when +they came to the turning where two roads met, one of which led to Close +Street, Hamish had apparently reconsidered his determination. + +“I suppose I must go, or the old fellow will be offended. You can tell +them at home that I shall be in directly; don’t let them wait dinner.” + +He walked away quickly. Arthur pursued the path which would take him +round the cathedral to the Boundaries. He bent his head in thought. He +was lost in perplexity; in spite of what Mr. Galloway urged, with regard +to the seal, he could not believe but that the money had gone safely to +the post-office, and was stolen afterwards. Thus busied within himself, +he had reached the elm-trees, when he ran up against Hopper, the +bailiff. Arthur looked up, and the man’s features relaxed into a smile. + +“We shut the door when the steed’s stolen, Mr. Arthur,” was his +salutation. “Now that my pockets are emptied of what would have done no +good to your brother, I come here to meet him at the right time. Just to +show folks--should any be about--that I did know my way here; although +it unfortunately fell out that I always missed him.” + +He nodded and winked. Arthur, completely at sea as to his meaning, made +some trifling remark in answer. + +“He did well to come to terms with them,” continued Hopper, dropping his +voice. “Though it was only a five pound, as I hear, and a promise for +the rest, you see they took it. Ten times over, they said to me, ‘We +don’t want to proceed to extremities with Hamish Channing.’ I was as +glad as could be when they withdrew the writ. I do hope he will go on +smooth and straight now that he has begun paying up a bit. Tell him old +Hopper says it, Mr. Arthur.” + +Hopper glided on, leaving Arthur glued to the spot. Begun to pay up! +Paid five pounds off one debt! Paid (there could be no doubt of it) +partially, or wholly, the “enemy” in the proscribed street! What did +it mean? Every drop of blood in Arthur Channing’s body stood still, and +then coursed on fiercely. Had he seen the cathedral tower toppling down +upon his head, he had feared it less than the awful dread which was +dawning upon him. + +He went home to dinner. Hamish went home. Hamish was more gay and +talkative than usual--Arthur was silent as the grave. What was the +matter, some one asked him. His head ached, was the answer; and, indeed, +it was no false plea. Hamish did not say a syllable about the loss at +table; neither did Arthur. Arthur was silenced now. + +It is useless to attempt to disguise the fear that had fallen upon him. +You, my reader, will probably have glanced at it as suspiciously as did +Arthur Channing. Until this loophole had appeared, the facts had been to +Arthur’s mind utterly mysterious; they now shone out all too clearly, in +glaring colours. He knew that he himself had not touched the money, and +no one else had been left with it, except Hamish. Debt! what had the +paltry fear of debt and its consequences been compared with this? + +Mr. Galloway talked much of the mystery that afternoon; Yorke talked +of it; Jenkins talked of it. Arthur barely answered; never, except when +obliged to do so; and his manner, confused at times, for he could not +help its being so, excited the attention of Mr. Galloway. “One would +think you had helped yourself to the money, Channing!” he crossly +exclaimed to him once, when they were alone in the private room. + +“No, sir, I did not,” Arthur answered, in a low tone; but his face +flushed scarlet, and then grew deadly pale. If a Channing, his brother, +had done it--why, he felt himself almost equally guilty; and it dyed his +brow with shame. Mr. Galloway noticed the signs, and attributed them to +the pain caused by his question. + +“Don’t be foolish, Arthur. I feel sure of you and Yorke. Though, with +Yorke’s carelessness and his spendthrift habits, I do not know that +I should have been so sure of him, had he been left alone with the +temptation.” + +“Sir!” exclaimed Arthur, in a tone of pain, “Yorke did not touch it. I +would answer for his innocence with my life.” + +“Don’t I say I do not suspect him, or you either?” testily returned +Mr. Galloway. “It is the mystery of the affair that worries me. If no +elucidation turns up between now and to-morrow morning, I shall place it +in the hands of the police.” + +The announcement scared away Arthur’s caution; almost scared away his +senses. “Oh! pray, pray, Mr. Galloway, do not let the police become +cognizant of it!” he uttered, in an accent of wild alarm. And Mr. +Galloway stared at him in very amazement; and Jenkins, who had come in +to ask a question, stared too. + +“It might not produce any good result, and would cause us no end of +trouble,” Arthur added, striving to assign some plausible explanation to +his words. + +“That is my affair,” said Mr. Galloway. + +When Arthur reached home, the news had penetrated there also. Mrs. +Channing’s tea-table was absorbed with it. Tom and Charles gave the +school version of it, and the Rev. Mr. Yorke, who was taking tea with +them, gave his. Both accounts were increased by sundry embellishments, +which had never taken place in reality. + +“Not a soul was ever near the letter,” exclaimed Tom, “except Arthur and +Jenkins, and Roland Yorke.” + +“The post-office must be to blame for this,” observed Mr. Channing. +“But you are wrong, Tom, with regard to Jenkins. He could not have been +there.” + +“Mark Galloway says his uncle had a telegraphic despatch, to say the +post-office knew nothing about it,” exclaimed Charles. + +“Much you know about it, Miss Charley!” quoth Tom. “The despatch was +about the seal: it was not from the post-office at all. They have not +accused the post-office yet.” + +Arthur let them talk on; headache the excuse for his own silence. It +did ache, in no measured degree. When appealed to, “Was it this way, +Arthur?” “Was it the other?” he was obliged to speak, so that an +accurate version of the affair was arrived at before tea was over. +Constance alone saw that something unusual was the matter with him. She +attributed it to fears at the absence of Hamish, who had been expected +home to tea, and did not come in. Constance’s own fears at this absence +grew to a terrific height. Had he been _arrested_? + +She beckoned Arthur from the room, for she could no longer control +herself. Her lips were white, as she drew him into the study, and spoke. +“Arthur, what has become of Hamish? Has anything happened to him?” + +“Happened to him!” repeated Arthur, vaguely, too absorbed in his own sad +thoughts to reply at once. + +“Has--he--been--_taken_?” + +“Taken! Hamish? Oh, you mean for debt!” he continued, his heart beating, +and fully aroused now. “There is no further fear, I believe. He has +managed to arrange with the people.” + +“How has he contrived it?” exclaimed Constance, in wonder. + +Arthur turned his face away. “Hamish does not make me his confidant.” + +Constance stole her hand into his. “Arthur, what is the matter with you +this evening? Is it that unpleasant affair at Mr. Galloway’s?” + +He turned from her. He laid his face upon the table and groaned in +anguish. “Be still, Constance! You can do no good.” + +“But _what_ is it?” uttered Constance in alarm. “You surely do not fear +that suspicion should be cast on you, or on Hamish--although, as it +appears, you and he were alone in the office with the letter?” + +“Be still, I say, Constance,” he wailed. “There is nothing for it but +to--to--to bear. You will do well to ask no more about it.” + +A faint dread began to dawn upon her. “You and Hamish were alone with +the letter!” the echo of the words came thumping against her brain. But +she beat it off. Suspect a Channing! “Arthur, I need not ask if you are +innocent; it would be a gratuitous insult to you.” + +“No,” he quietly said, “you need not ask that.” + +“And--Hamish?” she would have continued, but the words would not come. +She changed them for others. + +“How do you know that he has paid any of his debts, Arthur?” + +“I heard it. I--” + +At that moment they heard something else--Hamish’s voice in the hall. +In the impulse of the moment, in the glad revulsion of feeling--for, if +Hamish were safe in the hall, he could not be in prison--Constance flew +to him, and clasped her hands round his neck. “Oh, Hamish, Hamish! thank +Heaven that you are here!” + +Hamish was surprised. He went with Constance into the study, where +Arthur had remained. “What do you mean, Constance? What is the matter?” + +“I am always fearful,” she whispered; “always fearful; I know you owe +money, and that they might put you in prison. Hamish, I think of it by +night and by day.” + +“My pretty sister!” cried Hamish, caressingly, as he smoothed her hair, +just as Constance sometimes smoothed Annabel’s: “that danger has passed +for the present.” + +“If you were arrested, papa might lose his post,” she murmured. + +“I know it; it is that which has worried me. I have been doing what I +could to avert it. Constance, these things are not for you. Who told you +anything about them?” + +“Never mind. I--” + +“What will you give me for something I have found?” exclaimed Annabel, +bursting in upon them, her hands behind her, and her eyes dancing. “It +is one of your treasures, Hamish.” + +“Then give it me, Annabel. Come! I am tired; I cannot play with you this +evening.” + +“I won’t give it you until you guess what it is.” + +Hamish was evidently in no mood for play. Annabel danced round and about +him, provokingly eluding his grasp. He caught her suddenly, and laid his +hands upon hers. With a shriek of laughing defiance, she flung something +on the floor, and four or five sovereigns rolled about. + +It was Hamish’s purse. She had found it on the hall table, by the side +of his hat and gloves, left there most probably inadvertently. Hamish +stooped to pick up the money. + +“See how rich he is!” danced Annabel; “after telling us he was as poor +as a church mouse! Where has it all come from?” + +Never had they seen Hamish more annoyed. When he had secured the money, +he gave a pretty sharp tap to Annabel, and ordered her, in a ringing +tone of command, not to meddle with his things again. He quitted the +room, and Annabel ran after him, laughing and defiant still. + +“_Where has it all come from_?” The words, spoken in innocence by the +child, rang as a knell on the ears of Constance and Arthur Channing. +Constance’s very heart turned sick--sick as Arthur’s had been since the +meeting with Hopper under the elm-trees. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. -- MR. BUTTERBY. + +The clock of Helstonleigh Cathedral was striking eight, and the postman +was going his rounds through the Boundaries. Formerly, nothing so common +as a regular postman, when on duty, was admitted within the pale of that +exclusive place. The Boundaries, chiefly occupied by the higher order +of the clergy, did not condescend to have its letters delivered in +the ordinary way, and by the ordinary hands. It was the custom for the +postman to take them to the Boundary-gate, and there put them into the +porter’s great box, just as if he had been posting letters at the town +post-office; and the porter forthwith delivered them at their several +destinations. The late porter, however, had grown, with years, half +blind and wholly stupid. Some letters he dropped; some he lost; some +he delivered at wrong houses; some, he persisted in declaring, when +questioned, had never been delivered to him at all. In short, mistakes +and confusion were incessant; so, the porter was exonerated from that +portion of his duty, and the postman entered upon it. There was a fresh +porter now, but the old custom had not been resumed. + +Ring--ring--ring--ring--for one peculiarity of the Boundaries was, that +most of its doors possessed no knockers, only bells--on he went, the +man, on this morning, leaving letters almost everywhere. At length he +came to Mr. Galloway’s, and rang there a peal that it is the delight of +a postman to ring; but when the door was opened, he delivered in only +one letter and a newspaper. The business letters were generally directed +to the office. + +Mr. Galloway was half-way through his breakfast. He was no sluggard; and +he liked to devote the whole hour, from eight to nine, to his breakfast +and his Times. Occasionally, as on this morning, he would sit down +before eight, in order that he might have nearly finished breakfast +before the letters arrived. His servants knew by experience that, when +this happened, he was expecting something unusual by the post. + +His man came in. He laid the letter and the newspaper by his master’s +side. Mr. Galloway tore open the Times, gave one glance at the price of +the funds and the money article, then put aside the paper, and took up +the letter. + +The latter was from his cousin, Mr. Robert Galloway. It contained also +the envelope in which Mr. Galloway had enclosed the twenty-pound note. +“You perceive,” wrote Mr. Robert, “that the seal has not been tampered +with. It is perfectly intact. Hence I infer that you must be in error in +supposing that you enclosed the note.” + +Mr. Galloway examined the envelope closely. His cousin had not broken +the seal in opening the letter, but had _cut_ the paper above it. He was +a methodical man in trifles, this Mr. Robert Galloway, and generally did +cut open his envelopes. It had been all the better for him had he learnt +to be methodical with his money. + +“Yes; it is as Robert says,” soliloquized Mr. Galloway. “The seal has +not been touched since it went out of my hands; therefore the note must +previously have been extracted from the letter. Now, who did it?” + +He sat--his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, and the envelope +before him. Apparently, he was studying it minutely; in reality he was +lost in thought. “It’s just like the work of a conjuror!” he presently +exclaimed. “Not a caller near the place, that I can find out, and yet +the bank-note vanishes out of the letter! Notes don’t vanish without +hands, and I’ll do as I said yesterday--consult the police. If any one +can come to the bottom of it, it’s Butterby. Had the seal been broken, +I should have given it to the post-office to ferret out; the crime would +have lain with them, and so would the discovery. As it is, the business +is mine.” + +He wrote a line rapidly in pencil, folded, called in his man-servant, +and despatched him with it to the police-station. The station was very +near Mr. Galloway’s; on the other side of the cathedral, halfway between +that edifice and the town-hall. In ten minutes after the servant had +left the house, Mr. Butterby was on his road to it. + +Mr. Butterby puzzled Helstonleigh. He was not an inspector, he was not a +sergeant, he was not a common officer, and he was never seen in official +dress. Who was Mr. Butterby? Helstonleigh wondered. That he had a great +deal to do with the police, was one of their staff, and received his +pay, was certain; but, what his standing might be, and what his +peculiar line of duty, they could not tell. Sometimes he was absent from +Helstonleigh for months at a time, probably puzzling other towns. +Mr. Galloway would have told you he was a detective; but perhaps Mr. +Galloway’s grounds for the assertion existed only in his own opinion. +For convenience-sake we will call him a detective; remembering, however, +that we have no authority for the term. + +Mr. Butterby came forward, a spare, pale man, of middle height, his eyes +deeply set, and his nose turned up to the skies. He was of silent habit; +probably, of a silent nature. + +Mr. Galloway recited the circumstances of his loss. The detective sat +near him, his hands on his knees, his head bent, his eyes cast upon +the floor. He did not interrupt the story by a single word. When it +was ended, he took up the envelope, and examined it in equal silence; +examined it with ridiculous minuteness, Mr. Galloway thought, for he +poked, and peered, and touched it everywhere. He held it up to the +light, he studied the postmarks, he gazed at the seal through an +odd-looking little glass that he took from his waistcoat pocket, he +particularly criticised the folds, he drew his fingers along its +edges, he actually sniffed it--all in silence, and with an impassive +countenance. + +“Have you the number of the note?” was his first question. + +“No,” said Mr. Galloway. + +He looked up at this. The thought may have struck him, that, not to take +the number of a bank-note, sent by post, betrayed some carelessness for +a man of business. Mr. Galloway, at least, inferred this, and answered +the look. + +“Of course I am in the habit of taking their numbers; I don’t know that +I ever did such a thing before, as send a bank-note away without it. I +had an appointment, as I tell you, at the other end of the town for a +quarter to three; it was of importance; and, when I heard the college +strike out the three-quarters--the very hour I ought to have been +there--I hurriedly put the note into the folds of the letter, without +waiting to take its number. It was not that I forgot to do so, but that +I could not spare the time.” + +“Have you any means of ascertaining the number, by tracing the note back +to whence it may have come into your possession?” was the next question. + +Mr. Galloway was obliged to confess that he had none. “Bank-notes are +so frequently paid me from different quarters,” he remarked. “Yesterday, +for instance, a farmer, renting under the Dean and Chapter, came in, +and paid me his half-year’s rent. Another, holding the lease of a +public-house in the town, renewed two lives which had dropped in. It was +Beard, of the Barley Mow. Now, both these men paid in notes, tens and +fives, and they now lie together in my cash drawer; but I could not tell +you which particular notes came from each man--no, not if you paid me +the worth of the whole to do it. Neither could I tell whence I had the +note which I put into the letter.” + +“In this way, if a note should turn out to be bad, you could not return +it to its owner.” + +“I never took a bad note in my life,” said Mr. Galloway, speaking +impulsively. “There’s not a better judge of notes than myself in the +kingdom; and Jenkins is as good as I am.” + +Another silence. Mr. Butterby remained in the same attitude, his head +and eyes bent. “Have you given me all the particulars?” he presently +asked. + +“I think so. All I remember.” + +“Then allow me to go over them aloud,” returned the detective; “and, +if I make any mistake or omission, have the goodness to correct me:--On +Friday last, you took a twenty-pound note out of your cash drawer, not +taking or knowing its number. This note you put within the folds of a +letter, and placed both in an envelope, and fastened the envelope down, +your two clerks, Channing and Yorke, being present. You then went out, +leaving the letter upon one of the desks. As you left, Hamish Channing +came in. Immediately following upon that, Yorke went out, leaving the +brothers alone. Arthur departed to attend college, Hamish remaining +in the office. Arthur Channing soon returned, finding there was no +necessity for him to stay in the cathedral; upon which Hamish left. +Arthur Channing remained alone for more than an hour, no one calling +or entering the office during that period. You then returned yourself; +found the letter in the same state, apparently, in which you had +left it, and you sealed it, and sent Arthur Channing with it to the +post-office. These are the brief facts, so far as you are cognizant of +them, and as they have been related to you?” + +“They are,” replied Mr. Galloway. “I should have mentioned that Arthur +Channing carried the letter into my private room before he left the +office for college.” + +“Locking the door?” + +“Oh dear, no! Closing the door, no doubt, but not locking it. It would +have been unusual to do so.” + +“Jenkins was away,” observed the detective in a tone of abstraction, +which told he was soliloquizing, rather than addressing his companion. +Mr. Galloway rather fired up at the remark, taking it in a different +light from that in which it was spoken. + +“Jenkins was at home at the time, confined to his bed; and, had he not +been, I would answer for Jenkins’s honesty as I would for my own. Can +you see any possible solution to the mystery?” + +“A very possible one,” was the dry answer. “There is no doubt whatever +upon my mind, that the theft was committed by Arthur Channing.” + +Mr. Galloway started up with an exclamation of surprise, mingled with +anger. Standing within the room was his nephew Mark. The time had gone +on to nine, the hour of release from school; and, on running past Mr. +Galloway’s with the rest of the boys, Mark had dutifully called in. Mark +and his brothers were particularly fond of calling in, for their uncle +was not stingy with his sixpences, and they were always on the look-out. +Mr. Mark did not get a sixpence this time. + +“How dare you intrude upon me in this sly way, sir? Don’t you see I am +engaged? I will have you knock at my room door before you enter. Take +yourself off again, if you please!” + +Mark, with a word of deprecation, went off, his ears pricking with the +sentence he had heard from the detective--Arthur Channing the thief! + +Mr. Galloway turned again to the officer. He resented the imputation. +“The Channings are altogether above suspicion, from the father +downwards,” he remonstrated. “Were Arthur Channing dishonestly inclined, +he has had the opportunity to rob me long before this.” + +“Persons of hitherto honourable conduct, honest by nature and by habit, +have succumbed under sudden temptation or pressing need,” was the +answer. + +“Arthur Channing is in no pressing need. He is not hard up for money.” + +A smile actually curled the detective’s lip. “A great many more young +men are harder up for money than they allow to appear. The Channings +are in what may be called difficulties, through the failure of their +Chancery suit, and the lad must have yielded to temptation.” + +Mr. Galloway could not be brought to see it. “You may as well set on +and suspect Hamish,” he resentfully said. “He was equally alone with the +letter.” + +“No,” was the answer of the keen officer. “Hamish Channing is in +a responsible position; he would not be likely to emperil it for a +twenty-pound note; and he could not know that the letter contained +money.” Mr. Butterby was not cognizant of quite the facts of the case, +you see. + +“It is absurd to suspect Arthur Channing.” + +“Which is the more absurd--to suspect him, or to assume that the +bank-note vanished without hands? forced its own way through the +envelope, and disappeared up the chimney in a whirlwind?” asked the +officer, bringing sarcasm to his aid. “If the facts are as you have +stated, that only the two Channings had access to the letter, the guilt +must lie with one of them. Facts are facts, Mr. Galloway.” + +Mr. Galloway admitted that facts _were_ facts, but he could not be +brought to allow the guilt of Arthur Channing. The detective rose. + +“You have confided the management of this affair to me,” he observed, +“and I have no doubt I shall be able to arrive at a satisfactory +conclusion. One more question I must ask you. Is it known to your clerks +that you have not the number of the note?” + +“Yes, it is.” + +“Then I fear you stand little chance of ever seeing it again. That fact +known, no time would be lost in parting with it; they’d make haste to +get it safe off.” + +Not an instant did Mr. Butterby take for consideration upon quitting Mr. +Galloway. With a sharp, unhesitating step, as though his mind had been +made up for a month past as to what his course must be, he took his way +to the house of Mr. Joe Jenkins. That gentleman, his head still tied up, +was just leaving for the office, and Mr. Butterby encountered him coming +through the shop. + +“Good morning, Jenkins. I want a word with you alone.” + +Jenkins bowed, in his civil, humble fashion; but “a word alone” was more +easily asked than had, Mrs. Jenkins being all-powerful, and burning with +curiosity. The officer had to exert some authority before he could get +rid of her, and be left at peace with Jenkins. + +“What sources of expense has Arthur Channing?” demanded he, so abruptly +as to startle and confuse Jenkins. + +“Sources of expense, sir?” he repeated. + +“What are his habits? Does he squander money? Does he go out in an +evening into expensive company?” + +“I’m sure, sir, I cannot tell you anything about it,” Jenkins was mildly +beginning. He was imperatively interrupted by the detective. + +“I ask _to know_. You are aware that I possess authority to compel you +to speak; therefore, answer me without excuse or circumlocution; it will +save trouble.” + +“But indeed, sir, I really do _not_ know,” persisted Jenkins. “I +should judge Mr. Arthur Channing to be a steady, well-conducted young +gentleman, who has no extravagant habits at all. As to his evenings, I +think he spends them mostly at home.” + +“Do you know whether he has any pressing debts?” + +“I heard him say to Mr. Yorke one day, that a twenty-pound note would +pay all he owed, and leave him something out of it,” spoke Jenkins in +his unconscious simplicity. + +“Ah!” said Mr. Butterby, drawing in his lips, though his face remained +impassive as before. “When was this?” + +“Not long ago, sir. About a week, it may have been, before I met +with that accident--which accident, I begin to see now, sir, happened +providentially, for it caused me to be away from the office when that +money was lost.” + +“An unpleasant loss,” remarked the officer, with apparent carelessness; +“and the young gentlemen must feel it so--Arthur Channing especially. +Yorke, I believe, was out?” + +“He does feel it very much, sir. He was as agitated about it yesterday +as could be, when Mr. Galloway talked of putting it into the hands of +the police. It is a disagreeable thing to happen in an office, you know, +sir.” + +A slight pause of silence was made by the detective ere he rejoined. +“Agitated, was he? And Mr. Roland Yorke the same, no doubt?” + +“No, sir; Mr. Roland does not seem to care much about it. He thinks +it must have been taken in its transit through the post-office, and I +cannot help being of the same opinion, sir.” + +Another question or two, and Jenkins attended Mr. Butterby to the door. +He was preparing to follow him from it, but a peremptory female voice +arrested his departure. + +“Jenkins, I want you.” + +“It is hard upon half-past nine, my dear. I shall be late.” + +“If it’s hard upon half-past ten, you’ll just walk here. I want you, I +say.” + +Meek as any lamb, Mr. Jenkins returned to the back parlour, and was +marshalled into a chair. Mrs. Jenkins closed the door and stood before +him. “Now, then, what did Butterby want?” + +“I don’t know what he wanted,” replied Jenkins. + +“You will sit there till you tell me,” resolutely replied the lady. “I +am not going to have police inquisitors making mysterious visits inside +my doors, and not know what they do it for. You’ll tell me every word +that passed, and the sooner you begin, the better.” + +“But I am ignorant myself of what he did want,” mildly deprecated +Jenkins. “He asked me a question or two about Mr. Arthur Channing, but +why I don’t know.” + +Leaving Mrs. Jenkins to ferret out the questions one by one--which, +you may depend upon it, she would not fail to do, and to keep Jenkins a +prisoner until it was over--and leaving Mr. Butterby to proceed to the +house of the cathedral organist, whither he was now bent, to ascertain +whether Mr. Williams did take the organ voluntarily, and (to Arthur) +unexpectedly, the past Friday afternoon, we will go on to other matters. +Mr. Butterby best knew what bearing this could have upon the case. +Police officers sometimes give to their inquiries a strangely wide +range. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. -- AN INTERRUPTED DINNER. + +Have you ever observed a large lake on the approach of a sudden +storm?--its unnatural stillness, death-like and ominous; its +undercurrent of anger not yet apparent on the surface; and then the +breaking forth of fury when the storm has come? + +Not inaptly might the cloisters of Helstonleigh be compared to this, +that day, when the college boys were let out of school at one o’clock. +A strange rumour had been passed about amongst the desks--not reaching +that at which sat the seniors--a rumour which shook the equanimity +of the school to its centre; and, when one o’clock struck, the boys, +instead of clattering out with all the noise of which their legs and +lungs were capable, stole down the stairs quietly, and formed into +groups of whisperers in the cloisters. It was the calm that precedes a +storm. + +So unusual a state of affairs was noticed by the senior boy. + +“What’s up now?” he asked them, in the phraseology in vogue there and +elsewhere. “Are you all going to a funeral? I hope it’s your sins that +you are about to bury!” + +A heavy silence answered him. Gaunt could not make it out. The other +three seniors, attracted by the scene, came back, and waited with Gaunt. +By that time the calm was being ruffled by low murmurings, and certain +distinct words came from more than one of the groups. + +“What do you say?” burst forth Tom Channing, darting forward as the +words caught his ear. “You, Jackson! speak up; _what_ is it?” + +Not Jackson’s voice especially, but several other voices arose then; a +word from one, a word from another, half sentences, disjointed hints, +forming together an unmistakable whole. “The theft of old Galloway’s +bank-note has been traced to Arthur Channing.” + +“Who says it? Who dares to say it?” flashed Tom, his face flaming, and +his hand clenched. + +“The police say it. Butterby says it.” + +“I don’t care for the police; I don’t care for Butterby,” cried Tom, +stamping his foot in his terrible indignation. “I ask, who dares to say +it here?” + +“I do, then! Come, Mr. Channing, though you are a senior, and can put me +up to Pye for punishment upon any false plea that you choose,” answered +a tall fellow, Pierce senior, who was chiefly remarkable for getting +into fights, and was just now unusually friendly with Mark Galloway, at +whose desk he sat. + +Quick as lightning, Tom Channing turned and faced him. “Speak out what +you have to say,” cried he; “no hints.” + +“Whew!” retorted Pierce senior, “do you think I am afraid? I say that +Arthur Channing stole the note lost by old Galloway.” + +Tom, in uncontrollable temper, raised his hand and struck him. One +half-minute’s struggle, nothing more, and Pierce senior was sprawling on +the ground, while Tom Channing’s cheek and nose were bleeding. Gaunt had +stepped in between them. + +“I stop this,” he said. “Pierce, get up! Don’t lie there like a +floundering donkey. Channing, what possessed you to forget yourself?” + +“You would have done the same, Gaunt, had the insult been offered to +you. Let the fellow retract his words, or prove them.” + +“Very good. That is how you ought to have met it at first,” said Gaunt. +“Now, Mr. Pierce, can you make good your assertion?” + +Pierce had floundered up, and was rubbing one of his long legs, which +had doubled under him in the fall, while his brother, Pierce junior, was +collecting an armful of scattered books, and whispering prognostications +of parental vengeance in prospective; for, so surely as Pierce senior +fell into a fight at school, to the damage of face or clothes, so surely +was it followed up by punishment at home. + +“If you want proof, go to Butterby at the police station, and get it +from him,” sullenly replied Pierce, who owned a sulky temper as well as +a pugnacious one. + +“Look here,” interrupted Mark Galloway, springing to the front: “Pierce +was a fool to bring it out in that way, but I’ll speak up now it has +come to this. I went into my uncle’s, this morning, at nine o’clock, and +there was he, shut in with Butterby. Butterby was saying that there +was no doubt the theft had been committed by Arthur Channing. Mind, +Channing,” Mark added, turning to Tom, “I am not seconding the +accusation on my own score; but, that Butterby said it I’ll declare.” + +“Pshaw! is that all?” cried Tom Channing, lifting his head with a +haughty gesture, and not condescending to notice the blood which +trickled from his cheek. “You must have misunderstood him, boy.” + +“No, I did not,” replied Mark Galloway. “I heard him as plainly as I +hear you now.” + +“It is hardly likely that Butterby would say that before you, Galloway,” + observed Gaunt. + +“Ah, but he didn’t see I was there, or my uncle either,” said Mark. +“When he is reading his newspaper of a morning, he can’t bear a noise, +and I always go into the room as quiet as mischief. He turned me out +again pretty quick, I can tell you; but not till I had heard Butterby +say that.” + +“You must have misunderstood him,” returned Gaunt, carelessly taking up +Tom Channing’s notion; “and you had no right to blurt out such a thing +to the school. Arthur Channing is better known and trusted than you, Mr. +Mark.” + +“I didn’t accuse Arthur Channing to the school. I only repeated to my +desk what Butterby said.” + +“It is that ‘only repeating’ which does three parts of the mischief +in this world,” said Gaunt, giving the boys a little touch of morality +gratis, to their intense edification. “As to you, Pierce senior, you’ll +get more than you bargain for, some of these days, if you poke your +ill-conditioned nose so often into other people’s business.” + +Tom Channing had marched away towards his home, head erect, his step +ringing firmly and proudly on the cloister flags. Charley ran by his +side. But Charley’s face was white, and Tom caught sight of it. + +“What are you looking like that for?” + +“Tom! you don’t think it’s true, do you?” + +Tom turned his scorn upon the boy. “You little idiot! True! A Channing +turn thief! _You_ may, perhaps--it’s best known to yourself--but never +Arthur.” + +“I don’t mean that. I mean, can it be true that the police suspect him?” + +“Oh! that’s what your face becomes milky for? You ought to have been +born a girl, Miss Charley. If the police do suspect him, what of +that?--they’ll only have the tables turned upon themselves, Butterby +might come out and say he suspects me of murder! Should I care? No; I’d +prove my innocence, and make him eat his words.” + +They were drawing near home. Charley looked up at his brother. “You must +wipe your face, Tom.” + +Tom took out his handkerchief, and gave his face a rub. In his +indignation, his carelessness, he would have done nothing of the sort, +had he not been reminded by the boy. “Is it off?” + +“Yes, it’s off. I am not sure but it will break out again. You must take +care.” + +“Oh, bother! let it. I should like to have polished off that Pierce +senior as he deserves. A little coin of the same sort would do Galloway +no harm. Were I senior of the school, and Arthur not my brother, Mr. +Mark should hear a little home truth about sneaks. I’ll tell it him in +private, as it is; but I can’t put him up for punishment, or act in it +as Gaunt could.” + +“Arthur is our brother, therefore we feel it more pointedly than Gaunt,” + sensibly remarked Charley. + +“I’d advise you not to spell forth that sentimental rubbish, though you +are a young lady,” retorted Tom. “A senior boy, if he does his duty, +should make every boy’s cause his own, and ‘feel’ for him.” + +“Tom,” said the younger and more thoughtful of the two, “don’t let us +say anything of this at home.” + +“Why not?” asked Tom, hotly. He would have run in open-mouthed. + +“It would pain mamma to hear it.” + +“Boy! do you suppose _she_ would fear Arthur?” + +“You seem to misconstrue all I say, Tom. Of course she would not fear +him--you did not fear him; but it stung you, I know, as was proved by +your knocking down Pierce.” + +“Well, I won’t speak of it before her,” conciliated Tom, somewhat won +over, “or before my father, either; but catch me keeping it from the +rest.” + +As Charles had partially foretold, they had barely entered, when +Tom’s face again became ornamented with crimson. Annabel shrieked out, +startling Mr. Channing on his sofa. Mrs. Channing, as it happened, was +not present; Constance was: Lady Augusta Yorke and her daughters were +spending part of the day in the country, therefore Constance had come +home at twelve. + +“Look at Tom’s face!” cried the child. “What has he been doing?” + +“Hold your tongue, little stupid,” returned Tom, hastily bringing his +handkerchief into use again; which, being a white one, made the worse +exhibition of the two, with its bright red stains. “It’s nothing but a +scratch.” + +But Annabel’s eyes were sharp, and she had taken in full view of the +hurt. “Tom, you have been fighting! I am sure of it!” + +“Come to me, Tom,” said Mr. Channing. “Have you been fighting?” he +demanded, as Tom crossed the room in obedience, and stood close to him. +“Take your handkerchief away, that I may see your face.” + +“It could not be called a fight, papa,” said Tom, holding his cheek so +that the light from the window fell full upon the hurt. “One of the boys +offended me; I hit him, and he gave me this; then I knocked him down, +and there it ended. It’s only a scratch.” + +“Thomas, was this Christian conduct?” + +“I don’t know, papa. It was schoolboy’s.” + +Mr. Channing could not forbear a smile. “I know it was a schoolboy’s +conduct; that is bad enough: and it is my son’s, that is worse.” + +“If I had given him what he deserved, he would have had ten times as +much; and perhaps I should, for my temper was up, only Gaunt put in his +interference. When I am senior, my rule will be different from Gaunt’s.” + +“Ah, Tom! your ‘temper up!’ It is that temper of yours which brings you +harm. What was the quarrel about?” + +“I would rather not tell you, papa. Not for my own sake,” he added, +turning his honest eyes fearlessly on his father; “but I could not tell +it without betraying something about somebody, which it may be as well +to keep in.” + +“After that lucid explanation, you had better go and get some warm water +for your face,” said Mr. Channing. “I will speak with you later.” + +Constance followed him from the room, volunteering to procure the warm +water. They were standing in Tom’s chamber afterwards, Tom bathing his +face, and Constance looking on, when Arthur, who had then come in from +Mr. Galloway’s, passed by to his own room. + +“Hallo!” he called out; “what’s the matter, Tom?” + +“Such a row!” answered Tom. “And I wish I could have pitched into Pierce +senior as I’d have liked. What do you think, Arthur? The school +were taking up the notion that you--you!--had stolen old Galloway’s +bank-note. Pierce senior set it afloat; that is, he and Mark Galloway +together. Mark said a word, and Pierce said two, and so it went on. I +should have paid Pierce out, but for Gaunt.” + +A silence. It was filled up by the sound of Tom splashing the water on +his face, and by that only. Arthur spoke presently, his tone so calm a +one as almost to be unnatural. + +“How did the notion arise?” + +“Mark Galloway said he heard Butterby talking with his uncle; that +Butterby said the theft could only have been committed by Arthur +Channing. Mark Galloway’s ears must have played him false; but it was +a regular sneak’s trick to come and repeat it to the school. I say, +Constance, is my face clean now?” + +Constance woke up from a reverie to look at his face. “Quite clean,” she +answered. + +He dried it, dried his hands, gave a glance at his shirt-front in the +glass, which had, however, escaped damage, brushed his hair, and went +downstairs. Arthur closed the door and turned to Constance. Her eyes +were seeking his, and her lips stood apart. The terrible fear which had +fallen upon both the previous day had not yet been spoken out between +them. It must be spoken now. + +“Constance, there is tribulation before us,” he whispered. “We must +school ourselves to bear it, however difficult the task may prove. +Whatever betide the rest of us, suspicion must be averted from _him_.” + +“What tribulation do you mean?” she murmured. + +“The affair has been placed in the hands of the police; and I believe--I +believe,” Arthur spoke with agitation, “that they will publicly +investigate it. Constance, they suspect _me_. The college school is +right, and Tom is wrong.” + +Constance leaned against a chest of drawers to steady herself, and +pressed her hand upon her shrinking face. “How have you learnt it?” + +“I have gathered it from different trifles; one fact and another. +Jenkins said Butterby was with him this morning, asking questions about +me. Better that I should be suspected than Hamish. God help me to bear +it!” + +“But it is so unjust that you should suffer for him.” + +“Were it traced home to him, it might be the whole family’s ruin, for +my father would inevitably lose his post. He might lose it were only +suspicion to stray to Hamish. There is no alternative. I must screen +him. Can you be firm, Constance, when you see me accused?” + +Constance leaned her head upon her hand, wondering whether she could be +firm in the cause. But that she knew where to go for strength, she might +have doubted it; for the love of right, the principles of justice were +strong within her. “Oh, what could possess him?” she uttered, wringing +her hands; “what could possess him? Arthur, is there no loophole, not +the faintest loophole for hope of his innocence?” + +“None that I see. No one whatever had access to the letter but Hamish +and I. He must have yielded to the temptation in a moment of delirium, +knowing the money would clear him from some of his pressing debts--as it +has done.” + +“How could he brave the risk of detection?” + +“I don’t know. My head aches, pondering over it. I suppose he concluded +that suspicion would fall upon the post-office. It would have done so, +but for that seal placed on the letter afterwards. What an unfortunate +thing it was, that Roland Yorke mentioned there was money inside the +letter in the hearing of Hamish!” + +“Did he mention it?” exclaimed Constance. + +He said there was a twenty-pound note in the letter, going to the cousin +Galloway, and Hamish remarked that he wished it was going into his +pocket instead. “I _wish_” Arthur uttered, in a sort of frenzy, “I had +locked the letter up there and then.” + +Constance clasped her hands in pain. “I fear he may have been going +wrong for some time,” she breathed. “It has come to my knowledge, +through Judith, that he sits up for hours night after night, doing +something to the books. Arthur,” she shivered, glancing fearfully round, +“I hope those accounts are right?” + +The doubt thus given utterance to, blanched even the cheeks of Arthur. +“Sits up at the books!” he exclaimed. + +“He sits up, that is certain; and at the books, as I conclude. He takes +them into his room at night. It may only be that he has not time, or +does not make time, to go over them in the day. It _may_ be so.” + +“I trust it is; I pray it may be. Mind you, Constance, our duty is +plain: we must screen him; screen him at any sacrifice to ourselves, for +the father and mother’s sake.” + +“Sacrifice to you, you ought to say. What were our other light troubles, +compared with this? Arthur, will they publicly accuse you?” + +“It may come to that; I have been steeling myself all the morning to +meet it.” + +He looked into her face as he said it. Constance could see how his brow +and heart were aching. At that moment they were called to dinner, and +Arthur turned to leave the room. Constance caught his hand, the tears +raining from her eyes. + +“Arthur,” she whispered, “in the very darkest trouble, God can comfort +us. Be assured He will comfort you.” + +Hamish did not make his appearance at dinner, and they sat down +without him. This was not so very unusual as to cause surprise; he was +occasionally detained at the office. + +The meal was about half over, when Annabel, in her disregard of the +bounds of discipline, suddenly started from her seat and flew to the +window. + +“Charley, there are two policemen coming here! Whatever can they want?” + +“Perhaps to take you,” said Mrs. Channing, jestingly. “A short sojourn +at the tread-mill might be of great service to you, Annabel.” + +The announcement had struck upon the ear and memory of Tom. “Policemen!” + he exclaimed, standing up in his place, and stretching his neck to +obtain a view of them. “Why--it never can be that--old Butterby--Arthur, +what ails you?” + +A sensitive, refined nature, whether implanted in man or woman, is +almost sure to betray its emotions on the countenance. Such a nature +was Arthur Channing’s. Now that the dread had really come, every drop +of blood forsook his cheeks and lips, leaving his face altogether of a +deathly whiteness. He was utterly unable to control or help this, and it +was this pallor which had given rise to Tom’s concluding exclamation. + +Mr. Channing looked at Arthur, Mrs. Channing looked at him; they all +looked at him, except Constance, and she bent her head lower over her +plate, to hide, as she best might, her own white face and its shrinking +terror. “Are you ill, Arthur?” inquired his father. + +A low brief reply came; one struggling for calmness. “No, sir.” + +Impetuous Tom, forgetting caution, forgetting all except the moment +actually present, gave utterance to more than was prudent. “Arthur, you +are never fearing what those wretched schoolboys said? The police are +not come to arrest you. Butterby wouldn’t be such a fool!” + +But the police were in the hall, and Judith had come to the dining-room +door. “Master Arthur, you are wanted, please.” + +“What is all this?” exclaimed Mr. Channing in astonishment, gazing from +Tom to Arthur, from Arthur to the vision of the blue official dress, a +glimpse of which he could catch beyond Judith. Tom took up the answer. + +“It’s nothing, papa. It’s a trick they are playing for fun, I’ll lay. +They _can’t_ really suspect Arthur of stealing the bank-note, you know. +They’ll never dare to take him up, as they take a felon.” + +Charley stole round to Arthur with a wailing cry, and threw his arms +round him--as if their weak protection could retain him in its shelter. +Arthur gently unwound them, and bent down till his lips touched the +yearning face held up to him in its anguish. + +“Charley, boy, I am innocent,” he breathed in the boy’s ear. “You won’t +doubt that, I know. Don’t keep me. They have come for me, and I must go +with them.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. -- AN ESCORT TO THE GUILDHALL. + +The group would have formed a study for a Wilkie. The disturbed +dinner-table; the consternation of those assembled at it; Mr. Channing +(whose sofa, wheeled to the table, took up the end opposite his wife) +gazing around with a puzzled, stern expression; Mrs. Channing glancing +behind her with a sense of undefined dread; the pale, _conscious_ +countenances of Arthur and Constance; Tom standing up in haughty +impetuosity, defiant of every one; the lively terror of Charley’s face, +as he clung to Arthur; and the wide-opened eyes of Annabel expressive +of nothing but surprise--for it took a great deal to alarm that careless +young lady; while at the door, holding it open for Arthur, stood +Judith in her mob-cap, full of curiosity; and in the background the two +policemen. A scene indeed, that Wilkie, in the day of his power, would +have rejoiced to paint. + +Arthur, battling fiercely with his outraged pride, and breathing an +inward prayer for strength to go through with his task, for patience to +endure, put Charley from him, and went into the hall. He saw not what +was immediately around him--the inquiring looks of his father and +mother, the necessity of some explanation to them; he saw not Judith +and her curious face. A scale was, as it were, before his eyes, blinding +them to all outward influences, except one--the officers of justice +standing there, and the purpose for which they had come. “What on +earth has happened, Master Arthur?” whispered Judith, as he passed her, +terrifying the old servant with his pale, agitated face. But he neither +heard nor answered; he walked straight up to the men. + +“I will go with you quietly,” he said to them, in an undertone. “Do not +make a disturbance, to alarm my mother.” + +We cannot always have our senses about us, as the saying runs. Some of +us, I fear, enjoy that privilege rarely, and the very best lose them on +occasion. But that Arthur Channing’s senses had deserted him, he would +not have pursued a line of conduct, in that critical moment, which was +liable to be construed into an admission, or, at least, a consciousness +of guilt. In his anxiety to avert suspicion from Hamish, he lost +sight of the precautions necessary to protect himself, so far as was +practicable. And yet he had spent time that morning, thinking over what +his manner, his bearing must be if it came to this! Had it come upon +him unexpectedly he would have met it very differently; with far less +outward calmness, but most probably with indignant denial. “I will go +with you quietly,” he said to the men. + +“All right, sir,” they answered with a nod, and a conviction that he +was a cool hand and a guilty one. “It’s always best not to resist the +law--it never does no good.” + +He need not have resisted, but he ought to have waited until they asked +him to go. A dim perception of this had already begun to steal over him. +He was taking his hat from its place in the hall, when the voice of Mr. +Channing came ringing on his ear. + +“Arthur, what is this? Give me an explanation.” + +Arthur turned back to the room, passing through the sea of faces to get +there; for all; except his helpless father, had come from their seats +to gather round and about that strange mystery in the hall, to try +to fathom it. Mr. Channing gave one long, keen glance at Arthur’s +face--which was very unlike Arthur’s usual face just then; for all +its candour seemed to have gone out of it. He did not speak to him; he +called in one of the men. + +“Will you tell me your business here?” he asked courteously. + +“Don’t you know it, sir?” was the reply. + +“No, I do not,” replied Mr. Channing. + +“Well, sir, it’s an unpleasant accusation that is brought against this +young gentleman. But perhaps he’ll be able to make it clear. I hope he +will. It don’t give us no pleasure when folks are convicted, especially +young ones, and those we have always known to be respectable; we’d +rather see ‘em let off.” + +Tom interrupted--Tom, in his fiery indignation. “Is it of stealing +that bank-note of Galloway’s that you presume to accuse my brother?” he +asked, speaking indistinctly in his haste and anger. + +“You have said it, sir,” replied the man. “That’s it.” + +“Then I say whoever accuses him ought to be--” + +“Silence, Thomas,” interrupted Mr. Channing. “Allow me to deal with +this. Who brings this accusation against my son?” + +“We had our orders from Mr. Butterby, sir. He is acting for Mr. +Galloway. He was called in there early this morning.” + +“Have you come for my son to go with you to Mr. Galloway’s?” + +“Not there, sir. We have to take him straight to the Guildhall. The +magistrates are waiting to hear the case.” + +A dismayed pause. Even Mr. Channing’s heart, with all its implicit faith +in the truth and honour of his children, beat as if it would burst its +bounds. Tom’s beat too; but it was with a desire to “pitch into” the +policemen, as he had pitched into Pierce senior in the cloisters. + +Mr. Channing turned to Arthur. “You have an answer to this, my son?” + +The question was not replied to. Mr. Channing spoke again, with the same +calm emphasis. “Arthur, you can vouch for your innocence?” + +Arthur Channing did the very worst thing that he could have done--he +hesitated. Instead of replying readily and firmly “I can,” which he +might have done without giving rise to harm, he stopped to ask himself +how far, consistently with safety to Hamish, he might defend his own +cause. His mind was not collected; he had not, as I have said, his +senses about him; and the unbroken silence, waiting for his answer, the +expectant faces turned upon him, helped to confuse him and to drive his +reason further away. The signs, which certainly did look like signs of +guilt, struck a knell on the heart of his father. “Arthur!” he wailed +out, in a tone of intense agony, “you _are_ innocent?” + +“Y--es,” replied Arthur, gulping down his rising agitation; his rising +words--impassioned words of exculpation, of innocence, of truth. They +had bubbled up within him--were hovering on the verge of his burning +lips. He beat them down again to repression; but he never afterwards +knew how he did it. + +Better that he had been still silent, than speak that dubious, +indecisive “Y--es.” It told terribly against him. One, conscious of his +own innocence, does not proclaim it in indistinct, half-uttered words. +Tom’s mouth dropped with dismay, and his astonished eyes seemed as +if they could not take themselves from Arthur’s uncertain face. Mrs. +Channing staggered against the wall, with a faint cry. + +The policeman spoke up: he meant to be kindly. In all Helstonleigh there +was not a family more respected than were the Channings; and the man +felt a passing sorrow for his task. “I wouldn’t ask no questions, sir, +if I was you. Sometimes it’s best not; they tell against the accused.” + +“Time’s up,” called out the one who was in the hall, to his fellow. “We +can’t stop here all day.” + +The hint was taken at once, both by Arthur and the man. Constance had +kept herself still, throughout, by main force; but Mrs. Channing could +not see him go away like this. She rose and threw her arms round him, in +a burst of hysterical feeling, sobbing out, “My boy! my boy!” + +“Don’t, mother! don’t unnerve me,” he whispered. “It is bad enough as it +is.” + +“But you cannot be guilty, Arthur.” + +For answer he looked into her eyes for a single moment. His habitual +expression had come back to them again--the earnest of truth, which she +had ever known and trusted. It spoke calm to her heart now. “You are +innocent,” she murmured. “Then go in peace.” + +Annabel broke into a storm of sobs. “Oh, Judith! will they hang him? +What has he done?” + +“I’d hang them two policemen, if I did what I should like to do,” + responded Judith. “Yes, you two, I mean,” she added, without ceremony, +as the officials turned round at the words. “If I had my will, I’d hang +you both up to two of those elm-trees yonder, right in front of one +another. Coming to a gentleman’s house on this errand!” + +“Do not take me publicly through the streets,” said Arthur to his +keepers. “I give you my word to make no resistance: I will go to the +Guildhall, or anywhere else that you please, as freely as if I were +bound thither on my own pleasure. You need not betray that I am in +custody.” + +They saw that they might trust him. One of the policemen went to the +opposite side of the way, as if pacing his beat; the other continued +by the side of Arthur; not closely enough to give rise to suspicion in +those they met. A few paces from the door Tom Channing came pelting up, +and put his arm within Arthur’s. + +“Guilty, or not guilty, it shall never be said that a Channing was +deserted by his brothers!” quoth he, “I wish Hamish could have been +here.” + +“Tom, you are thinking me guilty?” Arthur said, in a quiet, tone, which +did not reach the ears of his official escort. + +“Well--I am in a fix,” avowed Tom. “If you are guilty, I shall never +believe in anything again. I have always thought that building a +cathedral: well and good; but if it turns out to be a myth, I shan’t be +surprised, after this. _Are_ you guilty?” + +“No, lad.” + +The denial was simple, and calmly expressed; but there was sufficient in +its tone to make Tom Channing’s heart give a great leap within him. + +“Thank God! What a fool I was! But, I say, Arthur, why did you not deny +it, out-and-out? Your manner frightened us. I suppose the police scared +you?” + +Tom, all right now, walked along, his head up, escorting Arthur with as +little shame to public examination, as he would have done to a public +crowning. It was not the humiliation of undeserved suspicion that could +daunt the Channings: the consciousness of guilt could alone effect that. +Hitherto, neither guilt nor its shadow had fallen upon them. + +“Tom,” asked Arthur, when they had reached the hall, and were about to +enter: “will you do me a little service?” + +“Won’t I, though! what is it?” + +“Make the best of your way to Mr. Williams’s, and tell him I am +prevented from taking the organ this afternoon.” + +“I shan’t tell him the reason,” said Tom. + +“Why not? In an hour’s time it will be known from one end of +Helstonleigh to the other.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. -- THE EXAMINATION. + +The magistrates sat on the bench in the town-hall of Helstonleigh. But, +before the case was called on--for the police had spoken too fast in +saying they were waiting for it--Arthur became acquainted with one +great fact: that it was not Mr. Galloway who had driven matters to this +extremity. Neither was he aware that Arthur had been taken into custody. +Mr. Butterby had assumed the responsibility, and acted upon it. Mr. +Butterby, since his interview with Mr. Galloway in the morning, had +gathered, as he believed, sufficiently corroborating facts to establish, +or nearly so, the guilt of Arthur Channing. He supposed that this was +all Mr. Galloway required to remove his objection to stern measures; +and, in procuring the warrant for the capture, Mr. Butterby had acted as +for Mr. Galloway. + +When Arthur was placed in the spot where he had often seen criminals +standing, his face again wore the livid hue which had overspread it in +his home. In a few moments this had changed to crimson; brow and cheeks +were glowing with it. It was a painful situation, and Arthur felt it to +the very depths of his naturally proud spirit. I don’t think you or I +should have liked it. + +The circumstances were stated to the magistrates just as they have been +stated to you. The placing of the bank-note and letter in the envelope +by Mr. Galloway, his immediately fastening it down by means of the gum, +the extraction of the note, between that time and the period when +the seal was placed on it later in the day, and the fact that Arthur +Channing alone had access to it. “Except Mr. Hamish Channing, for a few +minutes,” Mr. Butterby added, “who kindly remained in the office while +his brother proceeded as far as the cathedral and back again; the other +clerks, Joseph Jenkins and Roland Yorke, being absent that afternoon.” + +A deeper dye flushed Arthur’s face when Hamish’s name and share in the +afternoon’s doings were mentioned, and he bent his eyes on the floor at +his feet, and kept them there. Had Hamish not been implicated, he would +have stood there with a clear eye and a serene brow. It was that, the +all too vivid consciousness of the sin of Hamish, which took all spirit +out of him, and drove him to stand there as one under the brand +of guilt. He scarcely dared look up, lest it should be read in his +countenance that he was innocent, and Hamish guilty; he scarcely dared +to pronounce, in ever so faltering a tone, the avowal “I did it not.” + Had it been to save his life from the scaffold, he could not have spoken +out boldly and freely that day. There was the bitter shock of the crime, +felt for Hamish’s own sake: Hamish whom they had all so loved, so looked +up to: and there was the dread of the consequences to Mr. Channing in +the event of discovery. Had the penalty been hanging, I believe that +Arthur would have gone to it, rather than betray Hamish. But you must +not suppose he did not _feel_ it for himself; there were moments when he +feared lest he should not carry it through. + +Mr. Butterby was waiting for a witness--Mr. Galloway himself: and +meanwhile, he entertained the bench with certain scraps, anecdotal and +other, premising what would be proved before them. Jenkins would +show that the prisoner had avowed in his presence, it would take a +twenty-pound note to clear him from his debts, or hard upon it-- + +“No,” interrupted the hitherto silent prisoner, to the surprise of those +present, “that is not true. It is correct that I did make use of words +to that effect, but I spoke them in jest. I and Roland Yorke were one +day speaking of debts, and I jokingly said a twenty-pound note would pay +mine, and leave me something out of it. Jenkins was present, and he +may have supposed I spoke in earnest. In point of fact I did not owe +anything.” + +It was an assertion more easily made than proved. Arthur Channing might +have large liabilities upon him, for all that appeared in that court to +the contrary. Mr. Butterby handed the seal to the bench, who examined it +curiously. + +“I could have understood this case better had any stranger or strangers +approached the letter,” observed one of the magistrates, who knew the +Channings personally, and greatly respected their high character. “You +are sure you are not mistaken in supposing no one came in?” he added, +looking kindly at Arthur. + +“Certainly no one came in whilst I was alone in the office, sir,” was +the unhesitating answer. + +The magistrate spoke in an under-tone to those beside him. “That avowal +is in his favour. Had he taken the note, one might suppose he would +be anxious to make it appear that strangers did enter, and so throw +suspicion off himself.” + +“I have made very close inquiry, and cannot find that the office was +entered at all that afternoon,” observed Mr. Butterby. Mr. Butterby +_had_ made close inquiry; and, to do him justice, he did not seek to +throw one shade more of guilt upon Arthur than he thought the case +deserved. “Mr. Hamish Channing also--” + +Mr. Butterby stopped. There, standing within the door, was Hamish +himself. In passing along the street he had seen an unusual commotion +around the town-hall; and, upon inquiring its cause, was told that +Arthur Channing was under examination, on suspicion of having stolen the +bank-note, lost by Mr. Galloway. + +To look at Hamish you would have believed him innocent and unconscious +as the day. He strode into the justice-room, his eye flashing, his brow +haughty, his colour high. Never had gay Hamish looked so scornfully +indignant. He threw his glance round the crowded court in search of +Arthur, and it found him. + +Their eyes met. A strange gaze it was, going out from the one to the +other; a gaze which the brothers had never in all their lives exchanged. +Arthur’s spoke of shame all too palpably--he could not help it in that +bitter moment--shame for his brother. And Hamish shrank under it. If +ever one cowered visibly in this world, Hamish Channing did then. A low, +suppressed cry went up from Arthur’s heart: whatever fond, faint doubt +may have lingered in his mind, it died out from that moment. + +Others noticed the significant look exchanged between them; but they, +not in the secret, saw only, on the part of Hamish, what they took for +vexation at his brother’s position. It was suggested that it would save +time to take the evidence of Mr. Hamish Channing at once. Mr. Galloway’s +might be received later. + +“What evidence?” demanded Hamish, standing before the magistrates in +a cold, uncompromising manner, and speaking in a cold, uncompromising +tone. “I have none to give. I know nothing of the affair.” + +“Not much, we are aware; but what little you do know must be spoken, Mr. +Hamish Channing.” + +They did not swear him. These were only informal, preliminary +proceedings. Country courts of law are not always conducted according to +orthodox rules, nor was that of Helstonleigh. There would be another +and a more formal examination before the committal of the prisoner for +trial--if committed he should be. + +A few unimportant questions were put to Hamish, and then he was asked +whether he saw the letter in question. + +“I saw a letter which I suppose to have been the one,” he replied. “It +was addressed to Mr. Robert Galloway, at Ventnor.” + +“Did you observe your brother take it into Mr. Galloway’s private room?” + +“Yes,” answered Hamish. “In putting the desks straight before departing +for college, my brother carried the letter into Mr. Galloway’s room and +left it there. I distinctly remember his doing so.” + +“Did you see the letter after that?” + +“No.” + +“How long did you remain alone while your brother was away?” + +“I did not look at my watch,” irritably returned Hamish, who had spoken +resentfully throughout, as if some great wrong were being inflicted upon +him in having to speak at all. + +“But you can guess at the time?” + +“No, I can’t,” shortly retorted Hamish. “And ‘guesses’ are not +evidence.” + +“Was it ten minutes?” + +“It may have been. I know he seemed to be back almost as soon as he had +gone.” + +“Did any person--clerk, or stranger, or visitor, or otherwise--come into +the office during his absence from it?” + +“No.” + +“No person whatever?” + +“No person whatever. I think,” continued Hamish, volunteering an opinion +upon the subject, although he knew it was out of all rule and precedent +to do so, “that there is a great deal of unprofitable fuss being made +about the matter. The money must have been lost in going through the +post; it is impossible to suppose otherwi--” + +Hamish was stopped by a commotion. Clattering along the outer hall, and +bursting in at the court door, his black hair disordered, his usually +pale cheeks scarlet, his nostrils working with excitement, came Roland +Yorke. He was in a state of fierce emotion. Learning, as he had done by +accident, that Arthur had been arrested upon the charge, he took up the +cause hotly, gave vent to a burst of passionate indignation (in which +he abused every one under the sun, except Arthur), and tore off to +the town-hall. Elbowing the crowd right and left, in his impetuosity, +pushing one policeman here and another there, who would have obstructed +his path, he came up to Arthur and ranged himself by his side, linking +his arm within his in an outburst of kindly generosity. + +“Old fellow, who has done this?” + +“Mr. Roland Yorke!” exclaimed the bench, indignantly. “What do you mean +by this behaviour? Stand away, if you please, sir.” + +“I’ll stand away when Arthur Channing stands away,” retorted Yorke, +apparently ignoring whose presence he was in. “Who accuses him? Mr. +Galloway does not. This is your doing, Butterby.” + +“Take care that their worships don’t commit you for contempt of court,” + retorted Mr. Butterby. “You are going on for it, Roland Yorke.” + +“Let them commit me, if they will,” foamed Roland. “I am not going to +see a friend falsely accused, and not stand up for him. Channing no more +touched that money than any of you did. The post-office must have had +it.” + +“A moment, Mr. Roland Yorke: if you can calm yourself sufficiently to +answer as a rational being,” interposed the magistrate who had addressed +Arthur. “Have you any proof to urge in support of your assertion that +the prisoner did not touch it?” + +“Proof, sir!” returned Roland, subsiding, however, into a tone of +more respect: “does it want proof to establish the innocence of Arthur +Channing? Every action of his past life is proof. He is honest as the +day.” + +“This warm feeling does you credit, in one sense--” + +“It does me no credit at all,” fiercely interrupted Roland. “I don’t +defend him because he is my friend; I don’t defend him because we are in +the same office, and sit side by side at the same desk; I do it, because +I know him to be innocent.” + +“How do you know it?” + +“He _could_ not be guilty. He is incapable of it. Better accuse me, or +Jenkins, than accuse him!” + +“You and Jenkins were not at the office during the suspected time.” + +“Well, I know we were not,” acknowledged Roland, lowering his voice to +a more reasonable tone. “And, just because it happened, by some +cross-grained luck, that Channing was, Butterby pitches upon him, and +accuses him of the theft. He never did it! and I’ll say it with my last +breath.” + +With some trouble: threatenings on the part of the court; and more +explosions from himself: Mr. Roland Yorke was persuaded to retire. +He went as far as the back of the room, and there indulged in +under-currents of wrath, touching injustice and Mr. Butterby, to a +select circle who gathered round him. Warm-hearted and generous, by fits +and starts, was Roland Yorke; he had inherited it with his Irish blood +from Lady Augusta. + +But meanwhile, where was Mr. Galloway? He did not make his appearance, +and it was said he could not be found. Messenger after messenger was +despatched to his office, to his house; and at length Mr. Butterby went +himself. All in vain; his servants knew nothing about him. Jenkins, who +had the office to himself, thought he must be “somewhere in the town,” + as he had not said he was going out of it. Mr. Butterby went back +crest-fallen, and confessed that, not to take up longer the time of +their worships unnecessarily, the case must be remanded to the morrow. + +“We will take bail,” said the magistrates, before the application was +made. “One surety will be sufficient; fifty pounds.” + +At that, Mr. Roland, who by this time was standing in a sullen manner +against a pillar of the court, his violence gone, and biting his nails +moodily, made a rush to the front again, heeding little who he knocked +down in the process. “I’ll be bail,” he cried eagerly. “That is, Lady +Augusta will--as I am not a householder. I’ll hunt her up and bring her +here.” + +He was turning in impetuous haste to “hunt up” Lady Augusta, when Hamish +Channing imperatively waved to him to be still, and spoke to the bench. + +“My father’s security will be sufficient, I presume?” + +“Quite so.” + +Since Mr. Channing’s incapacity, power to sign and to act for him had +been vested in Hamish; and the matter was concluded at once. The court +poured out its crowd. Hamish was on the point of taking Arthur’s arm, +but was pushed aside by Roland Yorke, who seized upon it as if he could +never make enough of him. + +“The miserable idiots! to bring such a charge against you, Arthur! I +have been half mad ever since I heard of it.” + +“Thank you, Yorke. You are very kind--” + +“‘Kind!’ Don’t talk that school-girl rubbish!” passionately interrupted +Roland. “If I were taken up upon a false charge, wouldn’t you stand by +me?” + +“That I would; were it false or true.” + +“I’ll pay that Butterby out, if it’s ten years hence! And you, knowing +your own innocence, could stand before them there, meek-faced as a +tame cat, letting Butterby and the bench have it their own way! A +calm temper, such as yours, Arthur, may be very--what do they call +it?--Christian; but I’m blest if it’s useful! I should have made their +ears tingle, had they put me there, as they have not tingled for many a +day.” + +“Who do you suppose took the note?” inquired Hamish of Roland Yorke, +speaking for the first time. + +“Bother the note!” was the rejoinder of Mr. Roland. “It’s nothing to us +who took it. Arthur didn’t. Go and ask the post-office.” + +“But the seal?” Hamish was beginning in a friendly tone of argument. +Roland bore him down. + +“Who cares for the seal? I don’t. If Galloway had stuck himself upon +the letter, instead of his seal, and never got off till it reached the +cousin Galloway’s hand, I wouldn’t care. It tells nothing. Do you _want_ +to find your brother guilty?” he continued, in a tone of scorn. “You did +not half stand up for him, Hamish Channing, as I’d expect a brother +to stand up for me. Now then, you people! Are you thinking we are live +kangaroos escaped from a menagerie? Be off about your own business! +Don’t come after us.” + +The last was addressed to a crowd, who had followed upon their heels +from the court, staring, with that innate delicacy for which the English +are remarkable. They had seen Arthur Channing a thousand times before, +every one of them, but, as he had been arrested, they must look at him +again. Yorke’s scornful reproach and fierce face somewhat scattered +them. + +“If it had been Galloway’s doings, I’d never have put my foot inside +his confounded old office again!” went on Roland. “No! and my lady might +have tried her best to force me. Lugging a fellow up for a pitiful, +paltry sum of twenty pounds!--who is as much a gentleman as +himself!--who, as his own senses might tell him, wouldn’t touch it +with the end of his finger! But it was that Butterby’s handiwork, not +Galloway’s.” + +“Galloway must have given Butterby his instructions,” observed Hamish. + +“He didn’t, then,” snapped Roland. “Jenkins says he knows he did not, +by the remarks Galloway made to him this morning. And Galloway has been +away ever since eleven o’clock, we can’t tell where. It is nobody but +that evil, mischief-making Butterby, and I’d give a crown out of my +pocket to have a good duck at him in the river!” + +With regard to Mr. Galloway’s knowing nothing of the active proceedings +taken against Arthur, Roland was right. Mr. Butterby had despatched a +note to Mr. Galloway’s office at one o’clock, stating what he had done, +and requesting him to be at the office at two, for the examination--and +the note had been lying there ever since. + +It was being opened now. Now--at the exact moment that Mr. Roland Yorke +was giving vent to that friendly little wish, about the river and Mr. +Butterby. Mr. Galloway had met a friend in the town, and had gone with +him a few miles by rail into the country, on unexpected business. He had +just returned to find the note, and to hear Jenkins’ account of Arthur’s +arrest. + +“I am vexed at this,” he exclaimed, his tone betraying excessive +annoyance. “Butterby has exceeded his orders.” + +Jenkins thought he might venture to put in a word for Arthur. He had +been intensely surprised, indeed grieved, at the whole affair; and not +the less so that he feared what he had unconsciously repeated, about a +twenty-pound note paying Arthur’s debts, might have helped it on. + +“I feel as sure as can be, sir, that it was not Mr. Arthur Channing,” + he deferentially said. “I have not been in this office with him for more +than twelve months without learning something of his principles.” + +“The principles of all the Channings are well known,” returned Mr. +Galloway. “No; whatever may be the apparent proofs, I cannot bring +myself to think it could be Arthur Channing. Although--” Mr. Galloway +did not say although _what_, but changed the topic abruptly. “Are they +in court now?” + +“I expect so, sir. Mr. Yorke is not back yet.” + +Mr. Galloway walked to the outer door, deliberating what his course +should be. The affair grieved him more than he could express; it angered +him; chiefly for his old friend Mr. Channing’s sake. “I had better go up +to the Guildhall,” he soliloquized, “and see if--” + +There they were, turning the corner of the street; Roland Yorke, Hamish, +and Arthur; and the followers behind. Mr. Galloway waited till they came +up. Hamish did not enter, or stop, but went straight home. “They will +be so anxious for news,” he exclaimed. Not a word had been exchanged +between the brothers. “No wonder that he shuns coming in!” thought +Arthur. Roland Yorke threw his hat from him in silence, and sat down +in his place at the desk. Mr. Galloway touched Arthur with his finger, +motioned him towards the private room, and stood there facing him, +speaking gravely. + +“Tell me the truth, as before God. Are you innocent or guilty? What you +say shall not be used against you.” + +Quick as lightning, in all solemn earnestness, the word “innocent” + was on Arthur’s lips. It had been better for him, perhaps, that he had +spoken it. But, alas! that perplexity, as to how far he might venture to +assert his own innocence, was upon him still. What impression could this +hesitation, coupled with the suspicious circumstances, make upon the +mind of Mr. Galloway? + +“Have you _no_ answer?” emphatically asked Mr. Galloway. + +“I am not guilty, sir.” + +Meanwhile, what do you suppose were the sensations of Mr. Channing? We +all know that anguish of mind is far more painful to bear when the +body is quiescent, than when it is in motion. In any great trouble, any +terrible suspense, look at our sleepless nights! We lie, and toss, and +turn; and say, When will the night be gone? In the day we can partially +shake it off, walking hither and thither; the keenness of the anguish is +lost in exertion. + +Mr. Channing could not take this exertion. Lying there always, his days +were little better to him than nights, and this strange blow, which had +fallen so suddenly and unexpectedly, nearly overwhelmed him. Until that +afternoon he would have confidently said that his son might have been +trusted with a room full of untold gold. He would have said it still, +but for Arthur’s manner: it was that which staggered him. More than one +urgent message had been despatched for Mr. Galloway, but that gentleman +was unable to go to him until late in the evening. + +“My friend,” said Mr. Galloway, bending over the sofa, when they were +alone, “I am more grieved at this than you can be.” + +Mr. Channing clasped his hand. “Tell me what you think yourself; the +simple truth; I ask it, Galloway, by our long friendship. Do you think +him innocent or guilty?” + +There might be no subterfuge in answer to words so earnest, and Mr. +Galloway did not attempt any. He bent lower, and spoke in a whisper. “I +believe him to be guilty.” + +Mr. Channing closed his eyes, and his lips momentarily moved. A word of +prayer, to be helped _to bear_, was going up to the throne of God. + +“But, never think that it was I who instituted these proceedings against +him,” resumed Mr. Galloway. “When I called in Butterby to my aid this +morning, I had no more notion that it was Arthur Channing who was +guilty, than I had that it was that sofa of yours. Butterby would have +cast suspicion to him then, but I repelled it. He afterwards acted upon +his own responsibility while my back was turned. It is as I say often +to my office people: I can’t stir out for a few hours but something goes +wrong! You know the details of the loss?” + +“Ay; by heart,” replied Mr. Channing. “They are suspicious against +Arthur only in so far as that he was alone with the letter. Sufficient +time must have been taken, as I conclude, to wet the envelope and +unfasten the gum; and it would appear that he alone had that time. This +apparent suspicion would have been nothing to my mind, knowing Arthur as +I do, had it not been coupled with a suspicious manner.” + +“There it is,” assented Mr. Galloway, warmly. “It is that manner +which leaves no room for doubt. I had him with me privately when the +examination was over, and begged him to tell me, as before God: innocent +or guilty. He could not. He stood like a statue, confused, his eyes +down, and his colour varying. He is badly constituted for the commission +of crime, for he cannot brave it out. One, knowing himself wrongfully +accused, would lay his hand upon his heart, with an upright countenance, +and say, I am innocent of this, so help me Heaven! I must confess I did +not like his manner yesterday, when he heard me say I should place it +in the hands of the police,” continued Mr. Galloway. “He grew suddenly +agitated, and begged I would not do so.” + +“Ay!” cried Mr. Channing, with a groan of pain he could not wholly +suppress. “It is an incredible mystery. What could he want with the +money? The tale told about his having debts has no foundation in fact; +he has positively none.” + +Mr. Galloway shook his head; he would not speak out his thoughts. He +knew that Hamish was in debt; he knew that Master Roland Yorke indulged +in expensive habits whenever he had the opportunity, and he now thought +it likely that Arthur, between the two examples, might have been drawn +in. “I shall not allow my doubts of him to go further than you,” he said +aloud. “And I shall put a summary stop to the law proceedings.” + +“How will you do that, now that they are publicly entered upon?” asked +Mr. Channing. + +“I’ll manage it,” was the reply. “We’ll see which is strongest, I or +Butterby.” + +When they were gathering together for the reading, that night, Arthur +took his place as usual. Mr. Channing looked at him sternly, and spoke +sternly--in the presence of them all. “Will your conscience allow you to +join in this?” + +How it stung him! Knowing himself innocent; seeing Hamish, the real +culprit, basking there in their love and respect, as usual; the +unmerited obloquy cast upon him was almost too painful to bear. He did +not answer; he was battling down his rebellious spirit; and the gentle +voice of Mrs. Channing rose instead. + +“James, there is all the more need for him to join in it, if things are +as you fear.” And Mr. Channing applied himself to the reading. + +“My son, if thou come to serve the Lord, prepare thy soul for +temptation. Set thy heart aright, and constantly endure, and make not +haste in time of trouble.” + +It was a portion of Scripture rarely chosen, and, perhaps for that +reason, it fell upon Arthur with greater force. As he listened, the +words brought healing with them; and his sore spirit was soothed, and +grew trusting and peaceful as that of a little child. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. -- A MORNING CALL. + +You may possibly be blaming Arthur Channing for meeting this trouble +in so sad a spirit. Were such an accusation cast unjustly upon you, +you would throw it off impatiently, and stand up for yourself and your +innocence in the broad light of day. Even were you debarred, as he was, +from speaking out the whole truth, you would never be cast down to that +desponding depth, and thereby give a colouring to the doubt cast upon +you. Are you thinking this? But you must remember that it was not +for _himself_ that Arthur was so weighed down. Had he possessed no +conception as to how the note went, he would have met the charge very +differently, bearing himself bravely, and flinging their suspicion to +the winds. “You people cannot think _me_ guilty,” he might have said; +“my whole previous life is a refutation to the charge.” He would have +held up his head and heart cheerfully; waiting, and looking for the time +when elucidation should come. + +No; his grief, his despondency were felt for Hamish. If Arthur Channing +had cherished faith in one living being more than in another, it was in +his elder brother. He loved him with a lasting love, he revered him as +few revere a brother; and the shock was great. He would far rather have +fallen down to guilt himself, than that Hamish should have fallen. Tom +Channing had said, with reference to Arthur, that, if he were guilty, +he should never believe in anything again; they might tell him that +the cathedral was a myth, and not a cathedral, and he should not be +surprised. This sort of feeling had come over Arthur. It had disturbed +his faith in honour and goodness--it had almost disgusted him with the +world. Arthur Channing is not the only one who has found his faith in +fellow-men rudely shaken. + +And yet, the first shock over, his mind was busy finding excuses for +him. He knew that Hamish had not erred from any base self-gratification, +but from love. You may be inclined to think this a contradiction, for +all such promptings to crime must be base. Of course they are; but as +the motives differ, so do the degrees. As surely as though the whole +matter had been laid before him, felt Arthur, Hamish had been driven +to it in his desperate need, to save his father’s position, and the +family’s means of support. He felt that, had Hamish alone been in +question, he would not have appropriated a pin that was not his, to save +himself from arrest: what he had done he had done in love. Arthur gave +him credit for another thing--that he had never cast a glance to the +possibility of suspicion falling on Arthur; the post-office would +receive credit for the loss. Nothing more tangible than that wide field, +where they might hunt for the supposed thief until they were tired. + +It was a miserable evening that followed the exposure; the precursor of +many and many miserable evenings in days to come. Mr. and Mrs. Channing, +Hamish, Constance, and Arthur sat in the usual sitting-room when +the rest had retired--sat in ominous silence. Even Hamish, with his +naturally sunny face and sunny temper, looked gloomy as the grave. Was +he deliberating as to whether he should show that all principles of +manly justice were not quite dead within him, by speaking up at last, +and clearing his wrongfully accused brother? But then--his father’s +post--his mother’s home? all might be forfeited. Who can tell +whether this was the purport of Hamish’s thoughts as he sat there in +abstraction, away from the light, his head upon his hand. _He_ did not +say. + +Arthur rose; the silence was telling upon him. “May I say good night to +you, father?” + +“Have you nothing else to say?” asked Mr. Channing. + +“In what way, sir?” asked Arthur, in a low tone. + +“In the way of explanation. Will you leave me to go to my restless +pillow without it? This is the first estrangement which has come between +us.” + +What explanation _could_ he give? But to leave his father suffering in +body and in mind, without attempt at it, was a pain hard to bear. + +“Father, I am innocent,” he said. It was all he could say; and it was +spoken all too quietly. + +Mr. Channing gazed at him searchingly. “In the teeth of appearances?” + +“Yes, sir, in the teeth of appearances.” + +“Then why--if I am to believe you--have assumed the aspect of guilt, +which you certainly have done?” + +Arthur involuntarily glanced at Hamish; the thought of his heart was, +“_You_ know why, if no one else does;” and caught Hamish looking at him +stealthily, under cover of his fingers. Apparently, Hamish was annoyed +at being so caught, and started up. + +“Good night, mother. I am going to bed.” + +They wished him good night, and he left the room. Mr. Channing turned +again to Arthur. He took his hand, and spoke with agitation. “My boy, +do you know that I would almost rather have died, than live to see this +guilt fall upon you?” + +“Oh, father, don’t judge me harshly!” he implored. “Indeed I am +innocent.” + +Mr. Channing paused. “Arthur, you never, as I believe, told me a lie in +your life. What is this puzzle?” + +“I am not telling a lie now.” + +“I am tempted to believe you. But why, then, act as if you were guilty? +When those men came here to-day, you knew what they wanted; you resigned +yourself, voluntarily, a prisoner. When Mr. Galloway questioned you +privately of your innocence, you could not assert it.” + +Neither could he now in a more open way than he was doing. + +“Can you look me in the face and tell me, in all honour, that you know +nothing of the loss of the note?” + +“All I can say, sir, is, that I did not take it or touch it.” + +“Nay, but you are equivocating!” exclaimed Mr. Channing. + +Arthur felt that he was, in some measure, and did not gainsay it. + +“Are you aware that to-morrow you may be committed for trial on the +charge?” + +“I know it,” replied Arthur. “Unless--unless--” he stopped in agitation. +“Unless you will interest yourself with Galloway, and induce him to +withdraw proceedings. Your friendship with him has been close and long, +sir, and I think he would do it for you.” + +“Would you ask this if you were innocent?” said Mr. Channing. “Arthur, +it is not the punishment you ought to dread, but the consciousness of +meriting it.” + +“And of that I am not conscious,” he answered, emphatically, in his +bitterness. “Father! I would lay down my life to shield you from care! +think of me as favourably as you can.” + +“You will not make me your full confidant?” + +“I wish I could! I _wish_ I could!” + +He wrung his father’s hand, and turned to his mother, halting before +her. Would she give him her good-night kiss? + +Would she? Did a fond mother ever turn against her child? To the prison, +to the scaffold, down to the very depths of obloquy and scorn, a loving +mother clings to her son. All else may forsake; but she, never, be he +what he will. Mrs. Channing drew his face to hers, and burst into sobs +as she sheltered it on her bosom. + +“_You_ will have faith in me, my darling mother!” + +The words were spoken in the softest whisper. He kissed her tenderly, +and hastened from the room, not trusting himself to say good night to +Constance. In the hall he was waylaid by Judith. + +“Master Arthur, it isn’t true?” + +“Of course it is not true, Judith. Don’t you know me better?” + +“What an old oaf I am for asking, to be sure! Didn’t I nurse him, and +haven’t I watched him grow up, and don’t I know my own boys yet?” she +added to herself, but speaking aloud. + +“To be sure you have, Judy.” + +“But, Master Arthur, why is the master casting blame to you? And when +them insolent police came strutting here to-day, as large as life, in +their ugly blue coats and shiny hats, why didn’t you hold the door wide, +and show ‘em out again? I’d never have demeaned myself to go with ‘em +politely.” + +“They wanted me at the town-hall, you know, Judith. I suppose you have +heard it all?” + +“Then, want should have been their master, for me,” retorted Judith. +“I’d never have gone, unless they had got a cord and drawn me. I +shouldn’t wonder but they fingered the money themselves.” + +Arthur made his escape, and went up to his room. He was scarcely +within it when Hamish left his chamber and came in. Arthur’s heart beat +quicker. Was he coming to make a clean breast of it? Not he! + +“Arthur,” Hamish began, speaking in a kindly, but an estranged tone--or +else Arthur fancied it--“can I serve you in any way in this business?” + +“Of course you cannot,” replied Arthur: and he felt vexed with himself +that his tone should savour of peevishness. + +“I am sorry for it, as you may readily believe, old fellow,” resumed +Hamish. “When I entered the court to-day, you might have knocked me down +with a feather.” + +“Ay, I should suppose so,” said Arthur. “You did not expect the charge +would be brought upon me.” + +“I neither expected it nor believed it when I was told. I inquired of +Parkes, the beadle, what unusual thing was going on, seeing so many +people about the doors, and he answered that you were under examination. +I laughed at him, thinking he was joking.” + +Arthur made no reply. + +“What can I do for you?” repeated Hamish. + +“You can leave me to myself, Hamish. That’s about the kindest thing you +can do for me to-night.” + +Hamish did not take the hint immediately. “We must have the accusation +quashed at all hazards,” he went on. “But my father thinks Galloway +will withdraw it. Yorke says he’ll not leave a stone unturned to make +Helstonleigh believe the money was lost in the post-office.” + +“Yorke believes so himself,” reproachfully rejoined Arthur. + +“I think most people do, with the exception of Butterby. Confounded old +meddler! There would have been no outcry at all, but for him.” + +A pause. Arthur did not seem inclined to break it. Hamish had caught up +a bit of whalebone, which happened to be lying on the drawers, and was +twisting it about in his fingers, glancing at Arthur from time to time. +Arthur leaned against the chimneypiece, his hands in his pockets, and, +in like manner, glanced at him. Not the slightest doubt in the world +that each was wishing to speak out more freely. But some inward feeling +restrained them. Hamish broke the silence. + +“Then you have nothing to say to me, Arthur?” + +“Not to-night.” + +Arthur thought the “saying” should have been on the other side. He had +cherished some faint hope that Hamish would at least _acknowledge_ the +trouble he had brought upon him. “I could not help it, Arthur; I was +driven to my wit’s end; but I never thought the reproach would fall upon +you,” or words to that effect. No: nothing of the sort. + +Constance was ascending the stairs as Hamish withdrew. “Can I come in, +Arthur?” she asked. + +For answer, he opened the door and drew her inside. “Has Hamish spoken +of it?” she whispered. + +“Not a word--as to his own share in it. He asked, in a general way, if +he could serve me. Constance,” he feverishly added, “they do not suspect +downstairs, do they?” + +“Suspect what?” + +“That it was Hamish.” + +“Of course they do not. They suspect you. At least, papa does. He cannot +make it out; he never was so puzzled in all his life. He says you must +either have taken the money, or connived at its being taken: to believe +otherwise, would render your manner perfectly inexplicable. Oh, Arthur, +he is so grieving! He says other troubles have arisen without fault on +our part; but this, the greatest, has been brought by guilt.” + +“There is no help for it,” wailed Arthur. “I could only clear myself at +the expense of Hamish, and it would be worse for them to grieve for him +than for me. Bright, sunny Hamish! whom my mother has, I believe in her +heart, loved the best of all of us. Thank you, Constance, for keeping my +counsel.” + +“How unselfish you are, Arthur!” + +“Unselfish! I don’t see it as a merit. It is my simple duty to be so in +this case. If I, by a rash word, directed suspicion to Hamish, and our +home in consequence got broken up, who would be the selfish one then?” + +“There’s the consideration which frightens and fetters us. Papa must +have been thinking of that when he thanked God that the trouble had not +fallen upon Hamish.” + +“Did he do that?” asked Arthur, eagerly. + +“Yes, just now. ‘Thank God that the cloud did not fall upon Hamish!’ he +exclaimed. ‘It had been far worse for us then.’” + +Arthur listened. Had he wanted anything to confirm him in the sacrifice +he was making, those words of his father’s would have done it. Mr. +Channing had no greater regard for one son than for the other; but he +knew, as well as his children, how much depended upon Hamish. + +The tears were welling up into the eyes of Constance. “I wish I could +speak comfort to you!” she whispered. + +“Comfort will come with time, I dare say, darling. Don’t stay. I seem +quite fagged out to-night, and would be alone.” + +Ay, alone. Alone with his grief and with God. + +To bed at last, but not to sleep; not for hours and for hours. His +anxiety of mind was intense, chiefly for Hamish; though he endured some +on his own score. To be pointed at as a thief in the town, stung him to +the quick, even in anticipation; and there was also the uncertainty +as to the morrow’s proceedings; for all he knew, they might end in +the prosecution being carried on, and his committal for trial. Towards +morning he dropped into a heavy slumber; and, to awake from that, was +the worst of all; for his trouble came pressing upon his brain with +tenfold poignancy. + +He rose and dressed, in some perplexity--perplexity as to the immediate +present. Ought he, or ought he not, to go as usual to Mr. Galloway’s? +He really could not tell. If Mr. Galloway believed him guilty--and there +was little doubt of that, now--of course he could no longer be tolerated +in the office. On the other hand, to stop away voluntarily, might look +like an admission of guilt. + +He determined to go, and did so. It was the early morning hour, when +he had the office to himself. He got through his work--the copying of +a somewhat elaborate will--and returned home to breakfast. He found Mr. +Channing had risen, which was not usual. Like Arthur, his night had been +an anxious one, and the bustle of the breakfast-room was more +tolerable than bed. I wonder what Hamish’s had been! The meal passed in +uncomfortable silence. + +A tremendous peal at the hall bell startled the house, echoing through +the Boundaries, astonishing the rooks, and sending them on the wing. +On state occasions it pleased Judith to answer the door herself; her +helpmate, over whom she held undisputed sway, ruling her with a tight +hand, dared not come forward to attempt it. The bell tinkled still, and +Judy, believing it could be no one less than the bishop come to alarm +them with a matutinal visit, hurried on a clean white apron, and stepped +across the hall. + +Mr. Roland Yorke. No one more formidable. He passed Judith with an +unceremonious nod, and marched into the breakfast-room. + +“Good morning all! I say, old chap, are you ready to come to the office? +It’s good to see you down at this early hour, Mr. Channing.” + +He was invited to take a seat, but declined; it was time they were at +Galloway’s, he said. Arthur hesitated. + +“I do not know whether Mr. Galloway will expect me,” he observed. + +“Not expect you!” flashed Roland, lapsing into his loud, excited manner. +“I can tell you what, Arthur: if he doesn’t expect you, he shan’t expect +me. Mr. Channing, did you ever know anything so shamefully overbearing +and unjust as that affair yesterday?” + +“Unjust, if it be unfounded,” replied Mr. Channing. + +“Unfounded!” uttered Roland. “If that’s not unfounded, there never was +an unfounded charge brought yet. I’d answer for Arthur with my own life. +I should like to sew up that Butterby! I hope, sir, you’ll bring an +action against him.” + +“You feel it strongly, Roland.” + +“I should hope I do! Look you, Mr. Channing: it is a slur on our office; +on me, and on Jenkins, and on Galloway himself. Yes, on Galloway. I say +what I mean, and nobody shall talk me down. I’d rather believe it was +Galloway did it than Arthur. I shall tell him so.” + +“This sympathy shows very kind feeling on your part, Ro--” + +“I declare I shall go mad if I hear that again!” interrupted Roland, +turning red with passion. “It makes me wild. Everybody’s on with it. +‘You--are--very--kind--to--take--up--Arthur Channing’s--cause!’ they +mince out. Incorrigible idiots! Kind! Why, Mr. Channing, if that cat of +yours there, were to be accused of swallowing down a mutton chop, and +you felt morally certain that she did not do it, wouldn’t you stand up +for her against punishment?” + +Mr. Channing could not forbear a smile at Roland and his hot +championship. “To be ‘morally certain’ may do when cats are in question, +Mr. Roland; but the law, unfortunately, requires something more for us, +the superior animal. No father living has had more cause to put faith in +his children than I. The unfortunate point in this business is, that the +loss appears to have occurred so mysteriously, when the letter was in +Arthur’s charge.” + +“Yes, if it had occurred that way; but who believes it did, except a few +pates with shallow brains?” retorted Roland. “The note is burning a hole +in the pocket of some poor, ill-paid wight of a letter-carrier; that’s +where the note is. I beg your pardon, Mr. Channing, but it’s of no use +to interrupt me with arguments about old Galloway’s seal. They go in +at one ear and out at the other. What more easy than to put a penknife +under the seal, and unfasten it?” + +“You cannot do this where gum is used as well: as it was to that +letter.” + +“Who cares for the gum!” retorted Mr. Roland. “I don’t pretend to say, +sir, how it was accomplished, but I know it must have been done somehow. +Watch a conjuror at his tricks! You can’t _tell_ how he gets a shilling +out of a box which you yourself put in--all you know is, he does get it +out; or how he exhibits some receptacle, crammed full, which you could +have sworn was empty. Just so with the letter. The bank-note did get +out of it, but we can’t tell how, except that it was not through Arthur. +Come along, old fellow, or Galloway may be blowing us up for arriving +late.” + +Twitching Tom’s hair as he passed him, treading on the cat’s tail, and +tossing a branch of sweetbriar full of thorns at Annabel, Mr. Roland +Yorke made his way out in a commotion. Arthur, yielding to the strong +will, followed. Roland passed his arm within his, and they went towards +Close Street. + +“I say, old chum, I haven’t had a wink of sleep all night, worrying +over this bother. My room is over Lady Augusta’s, and she sent up this +morning to know what I was pacing about for, like a troubled ghost. +I woke at four o’clock, and I could not get to sleep after; so I just +stamped about a bit, to stamp the time away.” + +In a happier mood, Arthur might have laughed at his Irish talk, “I am +glad you stand by me, at any rate, Yorke. I never did it, you know. +Here comes Williams. I wonder in what light he will take up the affair? +Perhaps he will turn me from my post at the organ.” + +“He had better!” flashed Roland. “I’d turn him!” + +Mr. Williams appeared to “take up the affair” in a resentful, haughty +sort of spirit, something like Roland, only that he was quieter over +it. He threw ridicule upon the charge. “I am astonished at Galloway!” + he observed, when he had spoken with them some moments. “Should he go on +with the case, the town will cry shame upon him.” + +“Ah, but you see it was that meddling Butterby, not Galloway,” returned +Yorke. “As if Galloway did not know us chaps in his office better than +to suspect us!” + +“I fancy Butterby is fonder of meddling than he need be,” said the +organist. “A certain person in the town, living not a hundred miles from +this very spot, was suspected of having made free with a ring, which +disappeared from a dressing-table, where she was paying an evening +visit; and I declare if Butterby did not put his nose into it, and worm +out all the particulars!” + +“That she had not taken it?” + +“That she had. But it produced great annoyance; all parties concerned, +even those who had lost the ring, would rather have buried it in +silence. It was hushed up afterwards. Butterby ought to understand +people’s wishes, before he sets to work.” + +“I wish press-gangs were in fashion!” emphatically uttered Roland. “What +a nice prize he’d make!” + +“I suppose I can depend upon you to take the duty at College this +morning?” Mr. Williams said to Arthur, as he was leaving them. + +“Yes, I shall be out in time for the examination at the Guildhall. The +hour fixed is half-past eleven.” + +“Old villains the magistrates must have been, to remand it at all!” was +the concluding comment of Mr. Roland Yorke. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. -- CHECKMATED. + +Constance Channing proceeded to her duties as usual at Lady Augusta +Yorke’s. She drew her veil over her face, only to traverse the very +short way that conveyed her thither, for the sense of shame was strong +upon her; not shame for Arthur, but for Hamish. It had half broken +Constance’s heart. + +There are times in our every-day lives when all things seem to wear a +depressing aspect, turn which way we will. They were wearing it that +day to Constance. Apart from home troubles, she felt particularly +discouraged in the educational task she had undertaken. You heard the +promise made to her by Caroline Yorke, to be up and ready for her every +morning at seven. Caroline kept it for two mornings and then failed. +This morning and the previous morning Constance had been there at seven, +and returned home without seeing either of the children. Both were ready +for her when she entered now. + +“How am I to deal with you?” she said to Caroline, in a sad but +affectionate tone. “I do not wish to force you to obey me; I would +prefer that you should do it cheerfully.” + +“It is tiresome to get up early,” responded Caroline. “I can’t wake when +Martha comes.” + +“Whether Martha goes to you at seven, or at eight, or at nine, she has +the same trouble to get you up.” + +“I don’t see any good in getting up early,” cried Caroline. + +“Do you see any good in acquiring good habits, instead of bad ones?” + asked Constance. + +“But, Miss Channing, why need we learn to get up early? We are ladies. +It’s only the poor who need get up at unreasonable hours--those who have +their living to earn.” + +“Is it only the poor who are accountable to God for waste of time, +Caroline?” + +Caroline paused. She did not like to give up her argument. “It’s so very +low-lived to get up with the sun. I don’t think real ladies ever do it.” + +“You think ‘real ladies’ wait until the sun has been up a few hours and +warmed the earth for them?” + +“Y--es,” said Caroline. But it was not spoken very readily, for she had +a suspicion that Miss Channing was laughing at her. + +“May I ask where you have acquired your notions of ‘real ladies,’ +Caroline?” + +Caroline pouted. “Don’t you call Colonel Jolliffe’s daughters ladies, +Miss Channing?” + +“Yes--in position.” + +“That’s where we went yesterday, you know. Mary Jolliffe says she never +gets up until half-past eight, and that it is not lady-like to get up +earlier. Real ladies don’t, Miss Channing.” + +“My dear, shall I relate to you an anecdote that I have heard?” + +“Oh, yes!” replied Caroline, her listless mood changing to animation; +anecdotes, or anything of that desultory kind, being far more acceptable +to the young lady than lessons. + +“Before I begin, will you tell me whether you condescend to admit that +our good Queen is a ‘real lady’?” + +“Oh, Miss Channing, now you are laughing at me! As if any one, in all +England, could be so great a lady as the Queen.” + +“Very good. When she was a little girl, a child of her own age, the +daughter of one of the nobility, was brought to Kensington Palace to +spend the day with her. In talking together, the Princess Victoria +mentioned something she had seen when out of doors that morning at seven +o’clock. ‘At seven o’clock!’ exclaimed the young visitor; ‘how early +that is to be abroad! I never get out of bed until eight. Is there any +use in rising so early?’ The Duchess of Kent, who was present, took up +the answer: ‘My daughter may be called to fill the throne of England +when she shall be grown up; therefore, it is especially necessary +that she should learn the full value of time.’ You see, Caroline, the +princess was not allowed to waste her mornings in bed, although she was +destined to be the first lady in the land. We may be thankful to her +admirable mother for making her in that, as in many other things, a +pattern to us.” + +“Is it a true anecdote, Miss Channing?” + +“It was related to my mother, many years ago, by a lady who was, at that +time, very much at Kensington Palace. I think there is little doubt of +its truth. One fact we all know, Caroline: the Queen retains her early +habits, and implants them in her children. What do you suppose would +be her Majesty’s surprise, were one of her daughters--say, the Princess +Helena, or the Princess Louise--to decline to rise early for their +morning studies with their governess, Miss Hildyard, on the plea that it +was not ‘lady-like’?” + +Caroline’s objection appeared to be melting away under her. “But it is a +dreadful plague,” she grumbled, “to be obliged to get up from one’s nice +warm bed, for the sake of some horrid old lessons!” + +“You spoke of ‘the poor’--those who ‘have their living to earn’--as the +only class who need rise early,” resumed Constance. “Put that notion +away from you at once and for ever, Caroline; there cannot be a more +false one. The higher we go in the scale of life, the more onerous +become our duties in this world, and the greater is our responsibility +to God. He to whom five talents were intrusted, did not make them other +five by wasting his days in idleness. Oh, Caroline!--Fanny, come +closer and listen to me--your time and opportunities for good must be +_used_--not abused or wasted.” + +“I _will_ try and get up,” said Caroline, repentantly. “I wish mamma had +trained me to it when I was a child, as the Duchess of Kent trained the +princess! I might have learned to like it by this time.” + +“Long before this,” said Constance. “Do you remember the good old +saying, ‘Do what you ought, that you may do what you like’? Habit is +second nature. Were I told that I might lie in bed every morning until +nine or ten o’clock, as a great favour, I should consider it a great +punishment.” + +“But I have not been trained to get up, Miss Channing; and it is nothing +short of punishment to me to do so.” + +“The punishment of self-denial we all have to bear, Caroline. But I can +tell you what will take away half its sting.” + +“What?” asked Caroline, eagerly. + +Constance bent towards her. “Jesus Christ said, ‘If any will come after +me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.’ +When once we learn HOW to take it up cheerfully, bravely, for His sake, +looking to Him to be helped, the sting is gone. ‘No cross, no crown,’ +you know, my children.” + +“No cross, no crown!” Constance had sufficient cross to carry just +then. In the course of the morning Lady Augusta came into the room +boisterously, her manner indicative of great surprise. + +“Miss Channing, what _is_ this tale, about your brother’s having been +arrested for stealing that missing bank-note? Some visitors have just +called in upon me, and they say the town is ringing with the news.” + +It was one of the first of Constance Channing’s bitter pills; they were +to be her portion for many a day. Her heart fluttered, her cheek varied, +and her answer to Lady Augusta Yorke was low and timid. + +“It is true that he was arrested yesterday on suspicion.” + +“What a shocking thing! Is he in prison?” + +“Oh no.” + +“Did he take the note?” + +The question pained Constance worse than all. “He did not take it,” she +replied, in a clear, soft tone. “To those who know Arthur well, it would +be impossible to think so.” + +“But he was before the magistrates yesterday, I hear, and is going up +again to-day.” + +“Yes, that is so.” + +“And Roland could not open his lips to tell me of this when I came home +last night!” grumbled my lady. “We were late, and he was the only one +up; Gerald and Tod were in bed. I shall ask him why he did not. But, +Miss Channing, this must be a dreadful blow for you all?” + +“It would be far worse, Lady Augusta, if we believed him guilty,” she +replied from her aching heart. + +“Oh, dear! I hope he is not guilty!” continued my lady, displaying as +little delicacy of feeling as she could well do. “It would be quite a +dangerous thing, you know, for my Roland to be in the same office.” + +“Be at ease, Lady Augusta,” returned Constance, with a tinge of irony +she could not wholly suppress. “Your son will incur no harm from the +companionship of Arthur.” + +“What does Hamish say?--handsome Hamish! He does not deserve that such a +blow should come to him.” + +Constance felt her colour deepen. She bent her face over the exercise +she was correcting. + +“Is he likely to be cleared of the charge?” perseveringly resumed Lady +Augusta. + +“Not by actual proof, I fear,” answered Constance, pressing her hand +upon her brow as she remembered that he could only be proved innocent by +another’s being proved guilty. “The note seems to have been lost in so +very mysterious a manner, that positive proof of his innocence will be +difficult.” + +“Well, it is a dreadful thing!” concluded Lady Augusta. + +Meanwhile, at the very moment her ladyship was speaking, the magistrates +were in the town-hall in full conclave--the case before them. The news +had spread--had excited interest far and wide; the bench was crowded, +and the court was one dense sea of heads. + +Arthur appeared, escorted by his brother Hamish and by Roland Yorke. +Roland was in high feather, throwing his haughty glances everywhere, for +he had an inkling of what was to be the termination of the affair, and +did not conceal his triumph. Mr. Galloway also was of their party. + +Mr. Galloway was the first witness put forth by Mr. Butterby. The latter +gentleman was in high feather also, believing he saw his way clear to a +triumphant conviction. Mr. Galloway was questioned; and for some minutes +it all went on swimmingly. + +“On the afternoon of the loss, before you closed your letter, who were +in your office?” + +“My clerks--Roland Yorke and Arthur Channing.” + +“They saw the letter, I believe?” + +“They did.” + +“And the bank-note?” + +“Most probably.” + +“It was the prisoner, Arthur Channing, who fetched the bank-note from +your private room to the other? Did he see you put it into the letter?” + +“I cannot say.” + +A halt. “But he was in full possession of his eyes just then?” + +“No doubt he was.” + +“Then what should hinder his seeing you put the note into the letter?” + +“I will not swear that I put the note into the letter.” + +The magistrates pricked up their ears. Mr. Butterby pricked up his, and +looked at the witness. + +“What do you say?” + +“I will not swear that I put the bank-note inside the letter,” + deliberately repeated Mr. Galloway. + +“Not swear that you put the bank-note into the letter? What is it that +you mean?” + +“The meaning is plain enough,” replied Mr. Galloway, calmly. “Must I +repeat it for the third time? I will not swear that I put the note into +the letter.” + +“But your instructions to me were that you did put the note into the +letter,” cried Mr. Butterby, interrupting the examination. + +“I will not swear it,” reiterated the witness. + +“Then there’s an end of the case!” exclaimed the magistrates’ clerk, in +some choler. “What on earth was the time of the bench taken up for in +bringing it here?” + +And there _was_ an end of the case--at any rate for the present--for +nothing more satisfactory could be got out of Mr. Galloway. + +“I have been checkmated,” ejaculated the angry Butterby. + +They walked back arm-in-arm to Mr. Galloway’s, Roland and Arthur. +Hamish went the other way, to his own office, and Mr. Galloway +lingered somewhere behind. Jenkins--truehearted Jenkins, in the black +handkerchief still--was doubly respectful to Arthur, and rose to welcome +him; a faint hectic of pleasure illumining his face at the termination +of the charge. + +“Who said our office was going to be put down for a thief’s!” uttered +Roland. “Old Galloway’s a trump! Here’s your place, Arthur.” + +Arthur did not take it. He had seen from the window the approach of Mr. +Galloway, and delicacy prevented his assuming his old post until bade to +do so. Mr. Galloway came in, and motioned him into his own room. + +“Arthur Channing,” he said, “I have acted leniently in this unpleasant +matter, for your father’s sake; but, from my very heart, I believe you +to be guilty.” + +“I thank you, sir,” Arthur said, “for that and all other kindness. I am +not as guilty as you think me. Do you wish me to leave?” + +“If you can give me no better assurance of your innocence--if you can +give me no explanation of the peculiar and most unsatisfactory manner in +which you have met the charge--yes. To retain you here would be unjust +to my own interests, and unfair as regards Jenkins and Roland Yorke.” + +To give this explanation was impossible; neither dared Arthur assert +more emphatically his innocence. Once convince Mr. Galloway that he was +not the guilty party, and that gentleman would forthwith issue fresh +instructions to Butterby for the further investigation of the affair: of +this Arthur felt convinced. He could only be silent and remain under the +stigma. + +“Then--I had better--you would wish me, perhaps--to go at once?” + hesitated Arthur. + +“Yes,” shortly replied Mr. Galloway. + +He spoke a word of farewell, which Mr. Galloway replied to by a nod, and +went into the front office. There he began to collect together certain +trifles that belonged to him. + +“What’s that for?” asked Roland Yorke. + +“I am going,” he replied. + +“Going!” roared Roland, jumping to his feet, and dashing down his pen +full of ink, with little regard to the deed he was copying. “Galloway +has never turned you off!” + +“Yes, he has.” + +“Then I’ll go too!” thundered Roland, who, truth to say, had flown into +an uncontrollable passion, startling Jenkins and arousing Mr. Galloway. +“I’ll not stop in a place where that sort of injustice goes on! He’ll be +turning me out next! Catch me stopping for it!” + +“Are you taken crazy, Mr. Roland Yorke?” + +The question proceeded from his master, who came forth to make it. +Roland turned to him, his temper unsubdued, and his colour rising. + +“Channing never took the money, sir! It is not just to turn him away.” + +“Did you help him to take it, pray, that you identify yourself with +the affair so persistently and violently?” demanded Mr. Galloway, in a +cynical tone. And Roland answered with a hot and haughty word. + +“If you cannot attend to your business a little better, you will get +your dismissal from me; you won’t require to dismiss yourself,” said Mr. +Galloway. “Sit down, sir, and go on with your work.” + +“And that’s all the thanks a fellow gets for taking up a cause of +oppression!” muttered Mr. Roland Yorke, as he sullenly resumed his place +at the desk. “This is a precious world to live in!” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. -- A PIECE OF PREFERMENT. + +Before the nine days’ wonder, which, you know, is said to be the +accompaniment of all marvels, had died away, Helstonleigh was fated +to be astonished by another piece of news of a different nature--the +preferment of the Reverend William Yorke. + +A different preferment from what had been anticipated for him; otherwise +the news had been nothing extraordinary, for it is usual for the Dean +and Chapter to provide livings for their minor canons. In a fine, open +part of the town was a cluster of buildings, called Hazeldon’s Charity, +so named from its founder Sir Thomas Hazeldon--a large, paved inclosure, +fenced in by iron railings, and a pair of iron gates. A chapel stood in +the midst. On either side, right and left, ran sixteen almshouses, +and at the end, opposite to the iron gates, stood the dwelling of the +chaplain to the charity, a fine residence, called Hazeldon House. This +preferment, worth three hundred a year, had been for some weeks vacant, +the chaplain having died. It was in the gift of the present baronet, +Sir Frederick Hazeldon, a descendant of the founder, and he now suddenly +conferred it upon the Rev. William Yorke. It took Helstonleigh by +surprise. It took Mr. Yorke himself entirely by surprise. He possessed +no interest whatever with Sir Frederick, and had never cast a thought to +the probability of its becoming his. Perhaps, Sir Frederick’s motive +for bestowing it upon him was this--that, of all the clergy in the +neighbourhood, looking out for something good to fall to them, Mr. Yorke +had been almost the only one who had not solicited it of Sir Frederick. + +It was none the less welcome. It would not interfere in the least with +the duties or preferment of his minor canonry: a minor canon had once +before held it. In short, it was one of those slices of luck which do +sometimes come unexpectedly in this world. + +In the soft light of the summer evening, Constance Channing stood under +the cedar-tree. A fine old tree was that, the pride of the Channings’ +garden. The sun was setting in all its beauty; clouds of crimson and +purple floated on the horizon; a roseate hue tinged the atmosphere, and +lighted with its own loveliness the sweet face of Constance. It was an +evening that seemed to speak peace to the soul--so would it have spoken +to that of Constance, but for the ever-present trouble which had fallen +there. + +Another trouble was falling upon her, or seemed to be; one that more +immediately concerned herself. Since the disgrace had come to Arthur, +Mr. Yorke had been less frequent in his visits. Some days had now +elapsed from the time of Arthur’s dismissal from Mr. Galloway’s, and +Mr. Yorke had called only once. This might have arisen from accidental +circumstances; but Constance felt a different fear in her heart. + +Hark! that is his ring at the hall-bell. Constance has not listened for, +and loved that ring so long, to be mistaken now. Another minute, and she +hears those footsteps approaching, warming her life-blood, quickening +her pulses: her face deepens to crimson, as she turns it towards him. +She knows nothing yet of his appointment to the Hazeldon chaplaincy; Mr. +Yorke has not known it himself two hours. + +He came up and laid his hands upon her shoulders playfully, looking +down at her. “What will you give me for some news, by way of greeting, +Constance?” + +“News?” she answered, raising her eyes to his, and scarcely knowing what +she did say, in the confusion of meeting him, in her all-conscious love. +“Is it good or bad news?” + +“Helstonleigh will not call it good, I expect. There are those upon whom +it will fall as a thunder-clap.” + +“Tell it me, William; I cannot guess,” she said, somewhat wearily. “I +suppose it does not concern me.” + +“But it does concern you--indirectly.” + +Poor Constance, timorous and full of dread since this grief had fallen, +was too apt to connect everything with that one source. We have done +the same in our lives, all of us, when under the consciousness of +some secret terror. She appeared to be living upon a mine, which might +explode any hour and bring down Hamish in its _débris_. The words bore +an ominous sound; and, foolish as it may appear to us, who know the +nature of Mr. Yorke’s news, Constance fell into something very like +terror, and turned white. + +“Does--does--it concern Arthur?” she uttered. + +“No. Constance,” changing his tone, and dropping his hands as he gazed +at her, “why should you be so terrified for Arthur? You have been a +changed girl since that happened--shrinking, timid, starting at every +sound, unable to look people in the face. Why so, if he is innocent?” + +She shivered inwardly, as was perceptible to the eyes of Mr. Yorke. +“Tell me the news,” she answered in a low tone, “if, as you say, it +concerns me.” + +“I hope it will concern you, Constance. At any rate, it concerns me. +The news,” he gravely added, “is, that I am appointed to the Hazeldon +chaplaincy.” + +“Oh, William!” The sudden revulsion of feeling from intense, undefined +terror to joyful surprise, was too much to bear calmly. Her emotion +overpowered her, and she burst into tears. Mr. Yorke compelled her to +sit down on the bench, and stood over her--his arm on her shoulder, her +hand clasped in his. + +“Constance, what is the cause of this?” he asked, when her emotion had +passed. + +She avoided the question. She dried her tears and schooled her face to +smiles, and tried to look as unconscious as she might. “Is it really +true that you have the chaplaincy?” she questioned. + +“I received my appointment this evening. Why Sir Frederick should have +conferred it upon me I am unable to say: I feel all the more obliged to +him for its being unexpected. Shall you like the house, Constance?” + +The rosy hue stole over her face again, and a happy smile parted her +lips. “I once said to mamma, when we had been spending the evening +there, that I should like to live at Hazeldon House. I like its rooms +and its situation; I shall like to be busy among all those poor old +people, but, when I said it, William, I had not the slightest idea that +the chance would ever be mine.” + +“You have only to determine now how soon the ‘chance’ shall become +certainty,” he said. “I must take up my residence there within a month, +and I do not care how soon my wife takes up hers after that.” + +The rose grew deeper. She bent her brow down upon her hand and his, +hiding her face. “It could not possibly be, William.” + +“What could not be?” + +“So soon. Papa and mamma are going to Germany, you know, and I must +keep house here. Besides, what would Lady Augusta say at my leaving her +situation almost as soon as I have entered upon it?” + +“Lady Augusta--” Mr. Yorke was beginning impulsively, but checked +himself. Constance lifted her face and looked at him. His brow was knit, +and a stern expression had settled on it. + +“What is it, William?” + +“I want to know what caused your grief just now,” was his abrupt +rejoinder. “And what is it that has made you appear so strange of late?” + +The words fell on her as an ice-bolt. For a few brief moments she had +forgotten her fears, had revelled in the sunshine of the happiness so +suddenly laid out before her. Back came the gloom, the humiliation, the +terror. + +“Had Arthur been guilty of the charge laid to him, and you were +cognizant of it, I could fancy that your manner would be precisely what +it is,” answered Mr. Yorke. + +Her heart beat wildly. He spoke in a reserved, haughty tone, and she +felt a foreboding that some unpleasant explanation was at hand. She +felt more--that perhaps she ought not to become his wife with this cloud +hanging over them. She nerved herself to say what she deemed she ought +to say. + +“William,” she began, “perhaps you would wish that our marriage should +be delayed until--until--I mean, now that this suspicion has fallen upon +Arthur--?” + +She could scarcely utter the words coherently, so great was her +agitation. Mr. Yorke saw how white and trembling were her lips. + +“I cannot believe Arthur guilty,” was his reply. + +She remembered that Hamish was, though Arthur was not; and in point of +disgrace, it amounted to the same thing. Constance passed her hand +over her perplexed brow. “He is looked upon as guilty by many: that, +we unfortunately know; and it may not be thought well that you should, +under the circumstance, make me your wife. _You_ may not think so.” + +Mr. Yorke made no reply. He may have been deliberating the question. + +“Let us put it in this light, William,” she resumed, her tone one of +intense pain. “Suppose, for argument’s sake, that Arthur were guilty; +would you marry me, all the same?” + +“It is a hard question, Constance,” he said, after a pause. + +“It must be answered.” + +“Were Arthur guilty and you cognizant of it--screening him--I should +lose half my confidence in you, Constance.” + +That was the knell. Her heart and her eyes alike fell, and she knew, in +that one moment, that all hope of marrying William Yorke was at an end. + +“You think that, were he guilty--I am speaking only for argument’s +sake,” she breathed in her emotion,--“you think, were I cognizant of it, +I ought to betray him; to make it known to the world?” + +“I do not say that, Constance. No. But you are my affianced wife; and, +whatever cognizance of the matter you might possess, whatever might be +the mystery attending it--and a mystery I believe there is--you should +repose the confidence and the mystery in me.” + +“That you might decide whether or not I am worthy to be your wife!” she +exclaimed, a flash of indignation lighting up her spirit. To doubt her! +She felt it keenly, Oh, that she could have told him the truth! But this +she dare not, for Hamish’s sake. + +He took her hand in his, and gazed searchingly into her face. +“Constance, you know what you are to me. This unhappy business has been +as great a trial to me as to you. Can you deny to me all knowledge of +its mystery, its guilt? I ask not whether Arthur be innocent or guilty; +I ask whether you are innocent of everything in the way of concealment. +Can you stand before me and assure me, in all truth, that you are so?” + +She could not. “I believe in Arthur’s innocence,” she replied, in a low +tone. + +So did Mr. Yorke, or he might not have rejoined as he did. “I believe +also in his innocence,” he said. “Otherwise--” + +“You would not make me your wife. Speak it without hesitation, William.” + +“Well--I cannot tell what my course would be. Perhaps, I would not.” + +A silence. Constance was feeling the avowal in all its bitter +humiliation. It seemed to humiliate _her_. “No, no; it would not be +right of him to make me his wife now,” she reflected. “Hamish’s disgrace +may come out any day; he may still be brought to trial for it. His +wife’s brother! and he attached to the cathedral. No, it would never do. +William,” she said, aloud, “we must part.” + +“Part?” echoed Mr. Yorke, as the words issued faintly from her trembling +lips. + +Tears rose to her eyes; it was with difficulty she kept them from +falling. “I cannot become your wife while this cloud overhangs Arthur. +It would not be right.” + +“You say you believe in his innocence,” was the reply of Mr. Yorke. + +“I do. But the world does not. William,” she continued, placing her +hand in his, while the tears rained freely down her face, “let us say +farewell now.” + +He drew her closer to him. “Explain this mystery, Constance. Why are you +not open with me? What has come between us?” + +“I cannot explain,” she sobbed. “There is nothing for us but to part.” + +“We will not part. Why should we, when you say Arthur is innocent, and I +believe him to be so? Constance, my darling, what is this grief?” + +What were the words but a tacit admission that, if Arthur were not +innocent, they should part? Constance so interpreted them. Had any +additional weight been needed to strengthen her resolution, this would +have supplied it. + +“Farewell! farewell, William! To remain with you is only prolonging the +pain of parting.” + +That her resolution to part was firm, he saw. It was his turn to be +angry now. A slight touch of the haughty Yorke temper was in him, and +there were times when it peeped out. He folded his arms, and the flush +left his countenance. + +“I cannot understand you, Constance. I cannot fathom your motive, or why +you are doing this; unless it be that you never cared for me.” + +“I have cared for you as I never cared for any one; as I shall never +care for another. To part with you will be like parting with life.” + +“Then why speak of it? Be my wife, Constance; be my wife!” + +“No, it might bring you disgrace,” she hysterically answered; “and, +that, you shall never encounter through me. Do not keep me, William; my +resolution is irrevocable.” + +Sobbing as though her heart would break, she turned from him. Mr. Yorke +followed her indoors. In the hall stood Mrs. Channing. Constance turned +aside, anywhere, to hide her face from her mother’s eye. Mrs. Channing +did not particularly observe her, and turned to accost Mr. Yorke. An +angry frown was on his brow, an angry weight on his spirit. Constance’s +words and course of action had now fully impressed him with the belief +that Arthur was guilty; that she knew him to be so; and the proud Yorke +blood within him whispered that it was _well_ so to part. But he had +loved her with a deep and enduring love, and his heart ached bitterly. + +“Will you come in and lend us your help in the discussion?” Mrs. +Channing said to him, with a smile. “We are carving out the plan for our +journey.” + +He bowed, and followed her into the sitting-room. He did not speak of +what had just occurred, leaving that to Constance, if she should choose +to give an explanation. It was not Mr. Yorke’s place to say, “Constance +has given me up. She has impressed me with the conviction that Arthur +is guilty, and she says she will not bring disgrace upon me.” No, +certainly; he could not tell them that. + +Mr. Channing lay as usual on his sofa, Hamish near him. Gay Hamish, +who was looking as light-faced as ever; undoubtedly, he seemed as +light-hearted. Hamish had a book before him, a map, and a pencil. He was +tracing out the route for his father and mother, joking always. + +After much anxious consideration, Mr. Channing had determined to proceed +at once to Germany. It is true that he could not well afford to do so; +and, before he heard from Dr. Lamb the very insignificant cost it +would prove, he had always put it from him, as wholly impracticable at +present. But the information given him by the doctor altered his +views, and he began to think it not only practicable, but feasible. His +children were giving much help now to meet home expenses--Constance, +in going to Lady Augusta’s; Arthur, to the Cathedral. Dr. Lamb strongly +urged his going, and Mr. Channing himself knew that, if he could only +come home restored to health and to activity, the journey instead of +being an expense, would, in point of fact, prove an economy. With much +deliberation, with much prayer to be helped to a right decision, Mr. +Channing at length decided to go. + +It was necessary to start at once, for the season was already advanced; +indeed, as Dr. Lamb observed, he ought to have been away a month ago. +Then all became bustle and preparation. Two or three days were wasted in +the unhappy business concerning Arthur. But all the grieving over that, +all the staying at home for it, could do no good; Mr. Channing was fain +to see this, and the preparations were hastened. Hamish was most active +in all--in urging the departure, in helping to pack, in carving out +their route: but always joking. + +“Now, mind, mother, as you are to be commander in chief, it is the +_Antwerp_ packet you are to take,” he was saying, in a serio-comic, +dictatorial manner. “Don’t get seduced on to any indiscriminate steamer, +or you may find yourselves carried off to some unknown regions inhabited +by cannibals, and never be heard of again. The Antwerp steamer; and it +starts from St. Katherine’s Docks--if you have the pleasure of knowing +that enchanting part of London. I made acquaintance with it in a fog, in +that sight-seeing visit I paid to town; and its beauty, I must confess, +did not impress me. From St. Katherine’s Docks you will reach Antwerp in +about eighteen hours--always provided the ship does not go to pieces.” + +“Hamish!” + +“Well, I won’t anticipate: I dare say it is well caulked. At any rate, +take an insurance ticket against accident, and then you’ll be all right. +An Irishman slept at the top of a very high hotel. ‘Are you not afraid +to sleep up there, in case of fire?’ a friend asked him. ‘By the powers, +no!’ said he; ‘they tell me the house is insured.’ Now, mother mine--” + +“Shall we have to stay in Antwerp, Hamish?” interrupted Mr. Channing. + +“Yes, as you return, sir; an answer that you will think emanated from +our Irish friend. No one ever yet went to Antwerp without giving the +fine old town a few hours’ inspection. I only wish the chance were +offered me! Now, on your way there, you will not be able to get about; +but, as you return, you will--if all the good has been done you that I +anticipate.” + +“Do not be too sanguine, Hamish.” + +“My dear father,” and Hamish’s tone assumed a deeper feeling, “to be +sanguine was implanted in my nature, at my birth: but in this case I am +more than sanguine. You will be cured, depend upon it. When you return, +in three months’ time, I shall not have a fly waiting for you at the +station here, or if I do, it will be for the mother’s exclusive use and +benefit; I shall parade you through the town on my arm, showing your +renewed strength of leg and limb to the delighted eyes of Helstonleigh.” + +“Why are you so silent?” Mrs. Channing inquired of William Yorke. She +had suddenly noticed that he had scarcely said a word; had sat in a fit +of abstraction since his entrance. + +“Silent? Oh! Hamish is talking for all of us,” he answered, starting +from his reverie. + +“The ingratitude of some people!” ejaculated Hamish. “Is he saying that +in a spirit of complaint, now? Mr. Yorke, I am astonished at you.” + +At this moment Tom was heard to enter the house. That it could be no one +but Tom was certain, by the noise and commotion that arose; the others +were quieter, except Annabel, and she was a girl. Tom came in, tongue, +hands, and feet all going together. + +“What luck, is it not, Mr. Yorke? I am so glad it has been given to +you!” + +Mr. Channing looked up in surprise. “Tom, you will never learn manners! +What has been given?” + +“Has he not told you?” exclaimed Tom, ignoring the reproof to his +manners. “He is appointed to Hazeldon Chapel. Where’s Constance? I’ll be +bound he has told _her_!” + +Saucy Tom! They received his news in silence, looking to Mr. Yorke for +explanation. He rose from his chair, and his cheek slightly flushed as +he confirmed the tidings. + +“Does Constance know it?” inquired Mrs. Channing, speaking in the +moment’s impulse. + +“Yes,” was Mr. Yorke’s short answer. And then he said something, not +very coherently, about having an engagement, and took his leave, wishing +Mr. Channing every benefit from his journey. + +“But, we do not go until the day after to-morrow,” objected Mr. +Channing. “We shall see you before that.” + +Another unsatisfactory sentence from Mr. Yorke, that he “was not sure.” + In shaking hands with Mrs. Channing he bent down with a whisper: “I +think Constance has something to say to you.” + +Mrs. Channing found her in her room, in a sad state of distress. “Child! +what is this?” she uttered. + +“Oh! mother, mother, it is all at an end, and we have parted for ever!” + was poor Constance’s wailing answer. And Mrs. Channing, feeling quite +sick with the various troubles that seemed to be coming upon her, +inquired _why_ it was at an end. + +“He feels that the disgrace which has fallen upon us would be reflected +upon him, were he to make me his wife. Mother, there is no help for it: +it _would_ disgrace him.” + +“But where there is no real guilt there can be no real disgrace,” + objected Mrs. Channing. “I am firmly persuaded, however mysterious and +unsatisfactory things may appear, that Arthur is not guilty, and that +time will prove him so.” + +Constance could only shiver and sob. Knowing what she knew, she could +entertain no hope. + +“Poor child! poor child!” murmured Mrs. Channing, her own tears dropping +upon the fair young face, as she gathered it to her sheltering bosom. +“What have you done that this blight should extend to you?” + +“Teach me to bear it, mother. It must be God’s will.” And Constance +Channing lay in her resting-place, and there sobbed out her heart’s +grief, as she had done in her early girlhood. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. -- AN APPEAL TO THE DEAN. + +The first sharpness of the edge worn off, Arthur Channing partially +recovered his cheerfulness. The French have a proverb, which is familiar +to us all: “_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute_.” There is a great +deal of truth in it, as experience teaches us, and as Arthur found. “Of +what use my dependence upon God,” Arthur also reasoned with himself +ten times a day, “if it does not serve to bear me up in this, my first +trouble? As well have been brought up next door to a heathen. Let me +do the best I can under it, and go my way as if it had not happened, +trusting all to God.” + +A good resolution, and one that none could have made, and kept, unless +he had learnt that trust, which is the surest beacon-light we can +possess in the world. Hour after hour, day after day, did that trust +grow in Arthur Channing’s heart. He felt a sure conviction that God +would bring his innocence to light in His own good time: and that +time he was content to wait for. Not at the expense of Hamish. In his +brotherly love for Hamish, which this transaction had been unable +to dispel, he would have shielded his reputation at any sacrifice to +himself. He had grown to excuse Hamish, far more than he could ever have +excused himself, had he been guilty of it. He constantly hoped that +the sin might never be brought home to Hamish, even by the remotest +suspicion. He hoped that he would never fall again. Hamish was now so +kind to Arthur--gentle in manner, thoughtfully considerate, anxious +to spare him. He had taken to profess his full belief in Arthur’s +innocence; not as loudly perhaps, but quite as urgently, as did Roland +Yorke. “He would _prove_ my innocence, and take the guilt to himself, +but that it would bring ruin to my father,” fondly soliloquised Arthur. + +Arthur Channing’s most earnest desire, for the present, was to obtain +some employment. His weekly salary at Mr. Galloway’s had been very +trifling; but still it was so much loss. He had gone to Mr. Galloway’s +not so much to be of help to that gentleman, who really did not require +a third clerk, as to get his hand into the routine of the office, +preparatory to being articled. Hence his weekly pay had been almost a +nominal sum. Small though it was, he was anxious to replace it; and +he sought to hear of something in the town. As yet, without success. +Persons were not willing to engage one on whom a doubt rested; and a +very great doubt, in the opinion of the town, did rest upon Arthur. The +manner in which the case had terminated--by Mr. Galloway’s refusing to +swear he put the bank-note into the envelope, when it was known that Mr. +Galloway _had_ put it in, and that Mr. Galloway himself knew that he had +done so--told more against Arthur than the actual charge had done. It +was not, you see, establishing Arthur’s innocence; on the contrary, +it rather tended to imply his guilt. “If I go on with this, he will be +convicted, therefore I will withdraw it for his father’s sake,” was the +motive the town imputed to Mr. Galloway. His summary dismissal, also, +from the office, was urged against him. Altogether, Arthur did not +stand well with Helstonleigh; and fresh employment did not readily show +itself. This was of little moment, comparatively speaking, while his +post in the Cathedral was not endangered. But that was to come. + +On the day before the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Arthur was +seated at the organ at afternoon service, playing the anthem, when Mr. +Williams came up. Arthur saw him with surprise. It was not the day for +practising the choristers; therefore, what could he want? A feeling of +dread that it might mean ill to him, came over Arthur. + +A feeling all too surely borne out. “Channing,” Mr. Williams began, +scarcely giving himself time to wait until service was over and the +congregation were leaving, “the dean has been talking to me about this +bother. What is to be done?” + +The life-blood at his heart seemed to stand still, and then go on again. +His place there was about to be taken from him; he knew it. Must he +become an idle, useless burden upon them at home? + +“He met me this morning in High Street, and stopped me,” continued Mr. +Williams. “He considers that if you were guilty of the theft, you ought +not to be allowed to retain your place here. I told him you were not +guilty--that I felt thoroughly convinced of it; but he listened coldly. +The dean is a stern man, and I have always said it.” + +“He is a good man, and only stern in the cause of injustice,” replied +Arthur, who was himself too just to allow blame to rest where it was not +due, even though it were to defend himself. “Did he give orders for my +dismissal?” + +“He has not done so yet. I said, that when a man was wrongly accused, +it ought not to be a plea for all the world’s trampling him down. +He answered pretty warmly, that of course it ought not; but that, if +appearances might be trusted, you were not wrongly accused.” + +Arthur sat, scoring some music with his pencil. Never had he felt that +appearances were against him more plainly than he felt it then. + +“I thought I would step down and tell you this, Channing,” Mr. Williams +observed. “I shall not dismiss you, you may be sure of that; but, if +the dean puts forth his veto, I cannot help myself. He is master of the +Cathedral, not I. I cannot think what possesses the people to doubt you! +They never would, if they had ten grains of sense.” + +The organist concluded his words as he hurried down the stairs--he was +always much pressed for time. Arthur, a cold weight lying at his heart, +put the music together, and departed. + +He traversed the nave, crossed the body, and descended the steps to the +cloisters. As he was passing the Chapter House, the doors opened, and +Dr. Gardner came out, in his surplice and trencher. He closed the doors +after him, but not before Arthur had seen the dean seated alone at +the table--a large folio before him. Both of them had just left the +Cathedral. + +Arthur raised his hat to the canon, who acknowledged it, but--Arthur +thought--very coldly. To a sore mind, fancy is ever active. A thought +flashed over Arthur that he would go, there and then, and speak to the +dean. + +Acting upon the moment’s impulse, without premeditation as to what he +should say, he turned back and laid his hand upon the door handle. A +passing tremor, as to the result, arose within him; but he had learned +where help in need is ever to be obtained, and an earnestly breathed +word went up then. The dean looked round, saw that it was Arthur +Channing, rose from his seat, and awaited his approach. + +“Will you pardon my intruding upon you here, Mr. Dean?” he began, in his +gentle, courteous manner; and with the urgency of the occasion, all his +energy seemed to come to him. Timidity and tremor vanished, and he stood +before the dean, a true gentleman and a fearless one. The dean still +wore his surplice, and his trencher lay on the table near him. Arthur +placed his own hat by its side. “Mr. Williams has just informed me that +you cast a doubt as to the propriety of my still taking the organ,” he +added. + +“True,” said the dean. “It is not fitting that one, upon whom so heavy +an imputation lies, should be allowed to continue his duty in this +Cathedral.” + +“But, sir--if that imputation be a mistaken one?” + +“How are we to know that it is a mistaken one?” demanded the dean. + +Arthur paused. “Sir, will you take my word for it? I am incapable of +telling a lie. I have come to you to defend my own cause; and yet I can +only do it by my bare word of assertion. You are not a stranger to the +circumstances of my family, Mr. Dean; and I honestly avow that if this +post is taken from me, it will be felt as a serious loss. I have lost +what little I had from Mr. Galloway; I trust I shall not lose this.” + +“You know, Channing, that I should be the last to do an unjust thing; +you also may be aware that I respect your family very much,” was the +dean’s reply. “But this crime which has been laid to your charge is a +heavy one. If you were guilty of it, it cannot be overlooked.” + +“I was not guilty of it,” Arthur impressively said, his tone full of +emotion. “Mr. Dean! believe me. When I shall come to answer to my Maker +for my actions upon earth, I cannot then speak with more earnest truth +than I now speak to you. I am entirely innocent of the charge. I did +not touch the money; I did not know that the money was lost, until Mr. +Galloway announced it to me some days afterwards.” + +The dean gazed at Arthur as he stood before him; at his tall form--noble +even in its youthfulness--his fine, ingenuous countenance, his earnest +eye; it was impossible to associate such with the brand of guilt, +and the dean’s suspicious doubts melted away. If ever uprightness was +depicted unmistakably in a human countenance, it shone out then from +Arthur Channing’s. + +“But there appears, then, to be some mystery attaching to the loss, to +the proceedings altogether,” debated the dean. + +“No doubt there may be; no doubt there is,” was the reply of Arthur. +“Sir,” he impulsively added, “will you stand my friend, so far as to +grant me a favour?” + +The dean wondered what was coming. + +“Although I have thus asserted my innocence to you; and it is the solemn +truth; there are reasons why I do not wish to speak out so unequivocally +to others. Will you kindly regard this interview as a confidential +one--not speaking of its purport even to Mr. Galloway?” + +“But why?” asked the dean. + +“I cannot explain. I can only throw myself upon your kindness, Mr. Dean, +to grant the request. Indeed,” he added, his face flushing, “my motive +is an urgent one.” + +“The interview was not of my seeking, so you may have your favour,” said +the dean, kindly. “But I cannot see why you should not publicly assert +it, if, as you say, you are innocent.” + +“Indeed, I am innocent,” repeated Arthur. “Should one ray of light ever +be thrown upon the affair, you will see, Mr. Dean, that I have spoken +truth.” + +“I will accept it as truth,” said the dean. “You may continue to take +the organ.” + +“I knew God would be with me in the interview!” thought Arthur, as he +thanked the dean and left the Chapter House. + +He did not go home immediately. He had a commission to execute in the +town, and went to do it. It took him about an hour, which brought it to +five o’clock. In returning through the Boundaries he encountered Roland +Yorke, just released from that bane of his life, the office, for the +day. Arthur told him how near he had been to losing the Cathedral. + +“By Jove!” uttered Roland, flying into one of his indignant fits. “A +nice dean he is! He’d deserve to lose his own place, if he had done it.” + +“Well, the danger is over for the present. I say, Yorke, does Galloway +talk much about it?” + +“Not he,” answered Roland. “He’s as sullen and crabbed as any old bear. +I often say to Jenkins that he is in a temper with himself for having +sent you away, and I don’t care if he hears me. There’s an awful amount +to do since you went. I and Jenkins are worked to death. And there’ll be +the busiest time of all the year coming on soon, with the autumn rents +and leases. I shan’t stop long in it, I know!” + +Smiling at Roland’s account of being “worked to death,” for he knew how +much the assertion was worth, Arthur continued his way. Roland continued +his, and, on entering his own house, met Constance Channing leaving it. +He exchanged a few words of chatter with her, though it struck him that +she looked unusually sad, and then found his way to the presence of his +mother. + +“What an uncommonly pretty girl that Constance Channing is!” quoth he, +in his free, unceremonious fashion. “I wonder she condescends to come +here to teach the girls!” + +“I think I shall dismiss her, Roland,” said Lady Augusta. + +“I expect she’ll dismiss herself, ma’am, without waiting for you to do +it, now William Yorke has found bread and cheese, and a house to live +in,” returned Roland, throwing himself at full length on a sofa. + +“Then you expect wrong,” answered Lady Augusta. “If Miss Channing +leaves, it will be by my dismissal. And I am not sure but I shall do +it,” she added, nodding her head. + +“What for?” asked Roland, lazily. + +“It is not pleasant to retain, as instructress to my children, one whose +brother is a thief.” + +Roland tumbled off the sofa, and rose up with a great cry--a cry of +passionate anger, of aroused indignation. “What?” he thundered. + +“Good gracious! are you going mad?” uttered my lady. “What is Arthur +Channing to you, that you should take up his cause in this startling way +upon every possible occasion?” + +“He is this to me--that he has nobody else to stand up for him,” + stuttered Roland, so excited as to impede his utterance. “We were both +in the same office, and the shameful charge might have been cast upon +me, as it was cast upon him. It was mere chance. Channing is as innocent +of it as you, mother; he is as innocent as that precious dean, who +has been wondering whether he shall dismiss him from the Cathedral. A +charitable lot you all are!” + +“I’m sure I don’t want to be uncharitable,” cried Lady Augusta, whose +heart was kind enough in the main. “And I am sure the dean never was +uncharitable in his life: he is too good and enlightened a man to be +uncharitable. Half the town says he must be guilty, and what is one to +think? Then you would not recommend me to let it make any difference to +Miss Channing’s coming here?” + +“No!” burst forth Roland, in a tone that might have brought down the +roof, had it been made of glass. “I’d scorn such wicked injustice.” + +“If I were you, I’d ‘scorn’ to put myself into these fiery tempers, upon +other people’s business,” cried my lady. + +“It is my business,” retorted Roland. “Better go into tempers than be +hard and unjust. What would William Yorke say at your speaking so of +Miss Channing?” + +Lady Augusta smiled. “It was hearing what William Yorke had done that +almost decided me. He has broken off his engagement with Miss Channing. +And he has done well, Roland. It is not meet that he should take his +wife from a disgraced family. I have been telling him so ever since it +happened.” + +Roland stood before her, as if unable to digest the news: his mouth +open, his eyes staring. “It is not true!” he shrieked. + +“Indeed, it is perfectly true. I gathered a suspicion of it from William +Yorke’s manner to-day, and I put the question plainly to Miss Channing +herself. ‘Had they parted in consequence of this business of Arthur’s?’ +She acknowledged that it was so.” + +Roland turned white with honest anger. He dashed his hair from his brow, +and with an ugly word, he dashed down the stairs four at a time, and +flung out of the house; probably with the intention of having a little +personal explosion with the Reverend William Yorke. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. -- A TASTE OF “TAN.” + +The cloisters of Helstonleigh were echoing with the sounds of a loud +dispute, according as little with their sacred character, as with the +fair beauty of the summer’s afternoon. + +The excitement caused in the college school by the rumour of Lady +Augusta Yorke’s having obtained the promise of the head-master that her +son should be promoted to the seniorship over the heads of Channing and +Huntley, had been smouldering ominously, and gathering greater strength +from the very fact that the boys appeared to be powerless in +it. Powerless they were: in spite of Tom Channing’s boast at the +dinner-table that the school would not stand it tamely, and his meaning +nod when Hamish had mockingly inquired whether the school intended +to send Lady Augusta a challenge, or to recommend Mr. Pye to the +surveillance of the dean. + +In the first flow of their indignation, the boys, freely ringing the +changes of rebellion, had avowed to one another that they would +acquaint the dean with the head-master’s favouritism, and request his +interference--as too many of us do when things happen that annoy us. +We are only too prone to speak out our mind, and to proclaim what our +remedy or revenge shall be. But when our anger has subsided, and we see +things in their true light, we find that those boasts were only loud +talking, and cannot be acted upon. Thus it was with the Helstonleigh +college boys. They had hurled forth indignation at the master, had +pretty nearly conned over the very words in which they should make known +their grievance to the dean; but when the practical part came to be +considered, their courage oozed out at their fingers’ ends. The mice, +you remember, passed a resolution in solemn conclave that their enemy, +the old cat, should be belled: an excellent precaution, and only wanting +one small thing to render it efficient--no mouse would undertake to do +it. + +To prefer a complaint to the dean of their head-master was a daring +measure; such as the school, with all its hardihood, had never yet +attempted. It might recoil upon themselves; might produce no good to the +question at issue, and only end in making the master their enemy. On the +other hand, the boys were resolved not to submit tamely to a piece of +favouritism so unjust, without doing something. In the midst of this +perplexity, one of them suddenly mooted the suggestion that a written +memorial should be sent to the head-master from the school collectively, +respectfully requesting him to allow the choice of senior to be made in +the legitimate order of things, by merit or priority, but not by favour. + +Lame as the suggestion was, the majority were for its adoption simply +because no other plan could be hit upon. Some were against it. Hot +arguments prevailed on both sides, and a few personal compliments rather +tending to break the peace, had been exchanged. The senior boy held +himself aloof from acting personally: it was his place they were +fighting for. Tom Channing and Huntley were red-hot against what they +called the “sneaking,” meaning the underhand work. Gerald Yorke was +equally for non-interference, either to the master or the dean. Yorke +protested it was not in the least true that Lady Augusta had been +promised anything of the sort. In point of fact, there was no proof +that she had been, excepting her own assertion, made in the hearing +of Jenkins. Gerald gravely declared that Jenkins had gone to sleep and +dreamt it. + +Affairs had been going on in a cross-grained sort of manner all day. +The school, taking it as a whole, had been inattentive; Mr. Pye had +been severe; the second master had caned a whole desk, and threatened +another, and double lessons had been set the upper boys for the +following morning. Altogether, when the gentlemen were released at five +o’clock, they were not in the sweetest of tempers, and entered upon a +wordy war in the cloisters. + +“What possessed you to take and tear up that paper you were +surreptitiously scribbling at, when Pye ordered you to go up and hand it +in?” demanded Gaunt, of George Brittle. “It was that which put him out +with us all. Was it a love-letter?” + +“Who was to think he’d go and ask for it?” returned Brittle, an +indifferent sort of gentleman, who liked to take things easily. “Guess +what it was.” + +“Don’t talk to me about guessing!” imperiously spoke Gaunt. “I ask you +what it was?” + +“Nothing less than the memorial to himself,” laughed Brittle. “Some of +us made a rough shell of it, and I thought I’d set on and copy it fair. +When old Pye’s voice came thundering, ‘What’s that you are so stealthily +busy over, Mr. Brittle?--hand it in,’ of course I could only tear it +into minute pieces, and pretend to be deaf.” + +“You had best not try it on again,” said Gaunt. “Nothing puts out Pye +like disobeying him to his face.” + +“Oh, doesn’t it, though!” returned Brittle. “Cribs put him out the +worst. He thought that was a crib, or he’d not have been so eager for +it.” + +“What sort of a shell is it?” asked Harry Huntley. “Who drew it out?” + +“It won’t do at all,” interposed Hurst. “The head of it is, ‘Revered +master,’ and the tail, ‘Yours affectionately.’” + +A shout of laughter; Brittle’s voice rose above the noise. “And the +middle is an eloquent piece of composition, calculated to take the +master’s obdurate heart by storm, and move it to redress our wrongs.” + +“We have no wrongs to redress of that sort,” cried Gerald Yorke. + +“Being an interested party, you ought to keep your mouth shut,” called +out Hurst to Yorke. + +“Keep yours shut first,” retorted Yorke to Hurst. “Not being interested, +there’s no need to open yours at all.” + +“Let’s see the thing,” said Huntley. + +Brittle drew from his pocket a sheet of a copy-book, tumbled, blotted, +scribbled over with the elegance that only a schoolboy can display. +Several heads had been laid together, and a sketch of the memorial drawn +out between them. Shorn of what Hurst had figuratively called the +head and tail, and which had been added for nonsense, it was not a bad +production. The boys clustered round Brittle, looking over his shoulder, +as he read the composition aloud for the benefit of those who could not +elbow space to see. + +“It wouldn’t be bad,” said Huntley, critically, “if it were done into +good grammar.” + +“Into what?” roared Brittle. “The grammar’s as good as you can produce +any day, Huntley. Come!” + +“I’ll correct it for you,” said Huntley, coolly. “There are a dozen +faults in it.” + +“The arrogance of those upper-desk fellows!” ejaculated Brittle. “The +stops are not put in yet, and they haven’t the gumption to allow for +them. You’ll see what it is when it shall be written out properly, +Huntley. It might be sent to the British Museum as a model of good +English, there to be framed and glazed. I’ll do it to-night.” + +“It’s no business of yours, Mr. Brittle, that you should interfere to +take an active part in it,” resumed Gerald Yorke. + +“No business of mine! That’s good! When I’m thinking of going in for the +seniorship myself another time!” + +“It’s the business of the whole batch of us, if you come to that!” + roared Bywater, trying to accomplish the difficult feat of standing on +his head on the open mullioned window-frame, thereby running the danger +of coming to grief amongst the gravestones and grass of the College +burial-yard. “If Pye does not get called to order now, he may lapse into +the habit of passing over hard-working fellows with brains, to exalt +some good-for-nothing cake with none, because he happens to have a +Dutchman for his mother. That _would_ wash, that would!” + +“You, Bywater! do you mean that for me?” hotly demanded Gerald Yorke. + +“As if I did!” laughed Bywater. “As if I meant it for any cake in +particular! Unless the cap happens to fit ‘em. _I_ don’t say it does.” + +“The thing is this,” struck in Hurst: “who will sign the paper? It’s of +no use for Brittle, or any other fellow, to be at the bother of writing +it out, if nobody can be got to sign it.” + +“What do you mean? The school’s ready to sign it.” + +“Are the seniors?” + +With the seniors there was a hitch. Gaunt put himself practically out +of the affair; Gerald Yorke would not sign it; and Channing could not. +Huntley alone remained. + +Why could not Channing sign it? Ah, there was the lever that was swaying +and agitating the whole school this afternoon. Poor Tom Channing was not +just now reposing upon rose-leaves. What with his fiery temper and +his pride, Tom had enough to do to keep himself within bounds; for the +school was resenting upon him the stigma that had fallen upon Arthur. +Not the whole school; but quite sufficient of it. Not that they openly +attacked Tom; he could have repaid that in kind; but they were sending +him to Coventry. Some said they would not sign a petition to the master +headed by Tom Channing:--Tom, you remember, stood on the rolls next to +Gaunt. They said that if Tom Channing were to succeed as senior of the +school, the school would rise up in open rebellion. That this feeling +against him was very much fostered by the Yorkes, was doubted. Gerald +was actuated by a twofold motive, one of which was, that it enhanced his +own chance of the seniorship. The other arose from resentment against +Arthur Channing, for having brought disgrace upon the office which +contained his brother Roland. Tod fraternized in this matter with +Gerald, though the same could not be said of him in general; no two +brothers in the school agreed less well than did the Yorkes. Both of +them fully believed Arthur to be guilty. + +“As good have the thing out now, and settle it,” exclaimed Griffin, who +came next to Gerald Yorke, and would be fourth senior when Gaunt should +leave. “Are you fellows going to sign it, or not?” + +“To whom do you speak?” demanded Gaunt. + +“Well, I speak to all,” said Griffin, a good-humoured lad, but terribly +mischievous, and, for some cause best known to himself, warmly espousing +the cause of Gerald Yorke. “Shall you sign it, Gaunt?” + +“No. But I don’t say that I disapprove of it, mind you,” added Gaunt. +“Were I going in for the seniorship, and one below me were suddenly +hoisted above my head and made cock of the walk, I’d know the reason +why. It is not talking that would satisfy me, or grumbling either; I’d +act.” + +“Gaunt doesn’t sign it,” proceeded Griffin, telling off the names upon +his fingers. “That’s one. Huntley, do you?” + +“I don’t come next to Gaunt,” was Huntley’s answer. “I’ll speak in my +right turn.” + +Tom Channing stood near to Huntley, his trencher stuck aside on his +head, his honest face glowing. One arm was full of books, the other +rested on his hip: his whole attitude bespoke self-possession; his +looks, defiance. Griffin went on. + +“Gerald Yorke, do you sign it?” + +“I’d see it further, first.” + +“That’s two disposed of, Gaunt and Yorke,” pursued Griffin. “Huntley, +there’s only you.” + +Huntley gave a petulant stamp. “I have told you I will not speak out of +my turn. Yes, I will speak, though, as we want the affair set at rest,” + he resumed, changing his mind abruptly. “If Channing signs it, I will. +There! Channing, will you sign it?” + +“Yes, I will,” said Tom. + +Then it was that the hubbub arose, converting the cloisters into an +arena. One word led to another. Fiery blood bubbled up; harsh things +were said. Gerald Yorke and his party reproached Tom Channing with +being a _disgrace_ to the school’s charter, through his brother Arthur. +Huntley and a few more warmly espoused Tom’s cause, of whom saucy +Bywater was one, who roared out cutting sarcasms from his gymnasium on +the window-frame. Tom controlled himself better than might have been +expected, but he and Gerald Yorke flung passionate retorts one to the +other. + +“It is not fair to cast in a fellow’s teeth the shortcomings of his +relations,” continued Bywater. “What with our uncles and cousins, and +mothers and grandmothers, there’s sure to be one among them that goes +off the square. Look at that rich lot, next door to Lady Augusta’s, with +their carriages and servants, and soirées, and all the rest of their +grandeur!--their uncle was hanged for sheep-stealing.” + +“I’d rather steal a sheep and be hanged for it, than help myself to a +nasty bit of paltry money, and then deny that I did it!” foamed Gerald. +“The suspicion might have fallen on my brother, but that he happened, +by good luck, to be away that afternoon. My opinion is, that Arthur +Channing intended suspicion to fall upon him.” + +A howl from Bywater. He had gone over, head foremost, to make +acquaintance with the graves. They were too much engrossed to heed him. + +“Your brother was a great deal more likely to have helped himself to it, +than Arthur Channing,” raged Tom. “He does a hundred dirty things every +day, that a Channing would rather cut off his arm than attempt.” + +The disputants’ faces were almost touching each other, and very fiery +faces they were--that is, speaking figuratively. Tom’s certainly was +red enough, but Gerald’s was white with passion. Some of the bigger boys +stood close to prevent blows, which Gaunt was forbidding. + +“I _know_ he did it!” shrieked Gerald. “There!” + +“You can’t know it!” stamped Tom. “You don’t know it!” + +“I _do_. And for two pins I’d tell.” + +The boast was a vain boast, the heat of passion alone prompting it. +Gerald Yorke was not scrupulously particular in calm moments; but little +recked he what he said in his violent moods. Tom repudiated it with +scorn. But there was another upon whom the words fell with intense fear. + +And that was Charley Channing. Misled by Gerald’s positive and earnest +tone, the boy really believed that there must be some foundation for +the assertion. A wild fear seized him, lest Gerald should proclaim some +startling fact, conveying a conviction of Arthur’s guilt to the minds of +the school. The blood forsook his face, his lips trembled, and he pushed +his way through the throng till he touched Gerald. + +“Don’t say it, Gerald Yorke! Don’t!” he imploringly whispered. “I have +kept counsel for you.” + +“What?” said Gerald, wheeling round. + +“I have kept your counsel about the surplice. Keep Arthur’s in return, +if you do know anything against him.” + +I wish you could have witnessed the change in Gerald Yorke’s +countenance! A streak of scarlet crossed its pallor, his eyes blazed +forth defiance, and a tremor, as of fear, momentarily shook him. To the +surprise of the boys, who had no notion what might have been the purport +of Charley’s whisper, he seized the boy by the arm, and fiercely dragged +him away up the cloisters, turning the corner into the west quadrangle. + +“Get down!” he hissed; “get down upon your knees, and swear that you’ll +never breathe a syllable of that calumny again! Do you hear me, boy?” + +“No, I will not get down,” said brave Charley. + +Gerald drew in his lips. “You have heard of a wild tiger, my boy? One +escaped from a caravan the other day, and killed a few people. I am +worse than a wild tiger now, and you had better not provoke me. Swear +it, or I’ll kill you!” + +“I will not swear,” repeated the child. “I’ll try and keep the promise I +gave you, not to betray about the surplice--I will indeed; but don’t you +say again, please, that Arthur is guilty.” + +To talk of killing somebody, and to set about doing it, are two things. +Gerald Yorke’s “killing” would have amounted to no more than a good +thrashing. He held the victim at arm’s length, his eyes dilating, his +right hand raised, when a head was suddenly propelled close upon them +from the graveyard. Gerald was so startled as to drop his hold of +Charley. + +The head belonged to Stephen Bywater, who must have crept across the +burial-ground and chosen that spot to emerge from, attracted probably by +the noise. “What’s the row?” asked he. + +“I was about to give Miss Channing a taste of tan,” replied Gerald, +who appeared to suddenly cool down from his passion. “He’d have got it +sweetly, had you not come up. I’ll tan you too, Mr. Bywater, if you come +thrusting in yourself, like that, where you are not expected, and not +wanted.” + +“Tan away,” coolly responded Bywater. “I can tan again. What had the +young one been up to?” + +“Impudence,” shortly answered Yorke. “Mark you, Miss Channing! I have +not done with you, though it is my pleasure to let you off for the +present. Halloa! What’s that?” + +It was a tremendous sound of yelling, as if some one amidst the throng +of boys was being “tanned” there. Gerald and Charley flew off towards +it, followed by Bywater, who propelled himself upwards through the +mullioned frame in the best way he could. The sufferer proved to be Tod +Yorke, who was writhing under the sharp correction of some tall fellow, +six feet high. To the surprise of Gerald, he recognized his brother +Roland. + +You may remember it was stated in the last chapter that Roland Yorke +flew off, in wild indignation, from Lady Augusta’s news of the parting +of the Reverend Mr. Yorke and Constance Channing. Roland, in much inward +commotion, was striding through the cloisters on his way to find that +reverend divine, when he strode up to the throng of disputants, who were +far too much preoccupied with their own concerns to observe him. The +first distinct voice that struck upon Roland’s ear above the general +hubbub, was that of his brother Tod. + +When Gerald had rushed away with Charley Channing, it had struck Tod +that he could not do better than take up the dispute on his own score. +He forced himself through the crowd to where Gerald had stood in front +of Tom Channing, and began. For some little time the confusion was +so great he could not be heard, but Tod persevered; his manner was +overbearing, his voice loud. + +“I say that Tom Channing might have the decency to take himself out +of the school. When our friends put us into it, they didn’t expect we +should have to consort with thieves’ brothers.” + +“You contemptible little reptile! How dare you presume to cast aspersion +at my brother?” scornfully uttered Tom. And the scorn was all he threw +at him; for the seniors disdained, whatever the provocation, to attack +personally those younger and less than themselves. Tod Yorke knew this. + +“How dare I! Oh!” danced Tod. “I dare because I dare, and because it’s +true. When my brother Gerald says he knows it was Arthur Channing helped +himself to the note, he does know it. Do you think,” he added, improving +upon Gerald’s suggestion, “that my brother Roland could be in the same +office, and not know that he helped himself to it? He--” + +It was at this unlucky moment that Roland had come up. He heard the +words, dashed the intervening boys right and left, caught hold of Mr. +Tod by the collar of his jacket, and lifted him from the ground, as an +angry lion might lift a contemptible little animal that had enraged him. +Roland Yorke was not an inapt type of an angry lion just then, with his +panting breath, his blazing eye, and his working nostrils. + +“Take that! and that! and that!” cried he, giving Tod a taste of his +strength. “_You_ speak against Arthur Channing!--take that! You false +little hound!--and that! Let me catch you at it again, and I won’t leave +a whole bone in your body!” + +Tod writhed; Tod howled; Tod shrieked; Tod roared for mercy. All in +vain. Roland continued his “and thats!” and Gerald and the other two +absentees came leaping up. Roland loosed him then, and turned his +flashing eyes upon Gerald. + +“Is it true that you said you knew Arthur Channing took the bank-note?” + +“What if I did?” retorted Gerald. + +“Then you told a lie! A lie as false as you are. If you don’t eat your +words, you are a disgrace to the name of Yorke. Boys, believe _me!_” + flashed Roland, turning to the wondering throng--“Gaunt, _you_ believe +me--Arthur Channing never did take the note. I know it. I know it, +I tell you! I don’t care who it was took it, but it was not Arthur +Channing. If you listen again to his false assertions,” pointing +scornfully to Gerald, “you’ll show yourselves to be sneaking curs.” + +Roland stopped for want of breath. Bold Bywater, who was sure to find +his tongue before anybody else, elbowed his way to the inner circle, +and flourished about there, in complete disregard of the sad state +of dilapidation he was in behind; a large portion of a very necessary +article of attire having been, in some unaccountable manner, torn away +by his recent fall. + +“That’s right, Roland Yorke!” cried he. “I’d scorn the action of +bringing up a fellow’s relations against him. Whether Arthur Channing +took the note, or whether he didn’t, what has that to do with Tom?--or +with us? They are saying, some of them, that Tom Channing shan’t sign a +petition to the master about the seniorship!” + +“What petition?” uttered Roland, who had not calmed down a whit. + +“Why! about Pye giving it to Gerald Yorke, over the others’ heads,” + returned Bywater. “_You_ know Gerald’s crowing over it, like anything, +but I say it’s a shame. I heard him and Griffin say this morning that +there was only Huntley to get over, now Tom Channing was put out of it +through the bother about Arthur.” + +“What’s the dean about, that he does not give Pye a word of a sort?” + asked Roland. + +“The dean! If we could only get to tell the dean, it might be all right. +But none of us dare do it.” + +“Thank you for your defence of Arthur,” said Tom Channing to Roland +Yorke, as the latter was striding away. + +Roland looked back. “I am ashamed for all the lot of you! You might know +that Arthur Channing needs no defence. He should not be aspersed in my +school, Gaunt, if I were senior.” + +What with one thing and another, Roland’s temper had not been so aroused +for many a day. Gaunt ran after him, but Roland would not turn his head, +or speak. + +“Your brothers are excited against Tom Channing, and that makes them +hard upon him, with regard to this accusation of Arthur,” observed +Gaunt. “Tom has gone on above a bit, about Gerald’s getting his +seniorship over him and Huntley. Tom Channing can go on at a splitting +rate when he likes, and he has not spared his words. Gerald, being the +party interested, does not like it. That’s what they were having a row +over, when you came up.” + +“Gerald has no more right to be put over Tom Channing’s head, than you +have to be put over Pye’s,” said Roland, angrily. + +“Of course he has not,” replied Gaunt. “But things don’t go by ‘rights,’ +you know. This business of Arthur Channing’s has been quite a windfall +for Gerald; he makes it into an additional reason why Tom, at any rate, +should not have the seniorship. And there only remains Huntley.” + +“He does, does he!” exclaimed Roland. “If the dean--” + +Roland’s voice--it had not been a soft one--died away. The dean himself +appeared suddenly at the door of the chapter-house, which they were then +passing. Roland raised his hat, and Gaunt touched his trencher. The dean +accosted the latter, his tone and manner less serene than usual. + +“What is the cause of this unusual noise, Gaunt? It has disturbed me +in my reading. If the cloisters are to be turned into a bear-garden, I +shall certainly order them to be closed to the boys.” + +“I’ll go and stop it at once, sir,” replied Gaunt, touching his trencher +again, as he hastily retired. He had no idea that the dean was in the +chapter-house. + +Roland, taking no time for consideration--he very rarely did take it, or +any of the Yorkes--burst forth with the grievance to the dean. Not +that Roland was one who cared much about justice or injustice in the +abstract; but he was feeling excessively wroth with Gerald, and in a +humour to espouse Tom Channing’s cause against the world. + +“The college boys are in a state of semi-rebellion, Mr. Dean, and are +not so quiet under it as they might be. They would like to bring their +cause of complaint to you; but they don’t dare.” + +“Indeed!” said the dean. + +“The senior boy leaves the school at Michaelmas,” went on Roland, +scarcely giving the dean time to say the word. “The one who stands first +to step into his place is Tom Channing; the next is Huntley; the last is +Gerald Yorke. There is a belief afloat that Mr. Pye means to pass over +the two first, without reference to their merits or their rights, and to +bestow it upon Gerald Yorke. The rumour is, that he has promised this +to my mother, Lady Augusta. Ought this to be so, Mr. Dean?--although +my asking it may seem to be opposed to Lady Augusta’s wishes and my +brother’s interests.” + +“Where have you heard this?” inquired the dean. + +“Oh, the whole town is talking of it, sir. Of course, that does not +prove its truth; but the college boys believe it. They think,” said +Roland, pointedly, “that the dean ought to ascertain its grounds of +foundation, and to interfere. Tom Channing is bearing the brunt of this +false accusation on his brother, which some of the cowards are casting +to him. It would be too bad were Pye to deprive him of the seniorship!” + +“You think the accusation on Arthur Channing to be a false one?” + returned the dean. + +“There never was a more false accusation brought in this world,” replied +Roland, relapsing into excitement. “I would answer for Arthur Channing +with my own life. He is entirely innocent. Good afternoon, Mr. Dean. If +I stop longer, I may say more than’s polite; there’s no telling. Things +that I have heard this afternoon have put my temper up.” + +He strode away towards the west door, leaving the dean looking after him +with a smile. The dean had been on terms of friendship with Dr. Yorke, +and was intimate with his family. Roland’s words were a somewhat +singular corroboration of Arthur Channing’s private defence to the dean +only an hour ago. + +Meanwhile Gaunt had gone up to scatter the noisy crew. “A nice row you +have got me into with your quarrelling,” he exclaimed. “The dean has +been in the chapter-house all the time, and isn’t he in a passion! He +threatens to shut up the cloisters.” + +The announcement brought stillness, chagrin. “What a bothering old +duffer he is, that dean!” uttered Bywater. “He is always turning up when +he’s not wanted.” + +“Take your books, and disperse in silence,” was the command of the +senior boy. + +“Stop a bit,” said Bywater, turning himself round and about for general +inspection. “Look at me! Can I go home?” + +“My!” roared the boys, who had been too preoccupied to be observant. +“Haven’t they come to grief!” + +“But can I go through the streets?” + +“Oh yes! Make a rush for it. Tell the folks you have been in the wars.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. -- THE DEPARTURE. + +I like to see fair skies and sunshine on the morning fixed for a +journey. It seems to whisper a promise that satisfaction from that +journey lies before it: a foolish notion, no doubt, but a pleasant one. + +Never did a more lovely morning arise to gladden the world, than that +fixed upon for Mr. and Mrs. Channing’s departure. The August sky was +without a cloud, the early dew glittered in the sunbeams, bees and +butterflies sported amidst the opening flowers. + +Mr. Channing was up early, and had gathered his children around him. Tom +and Charles had, by permission, holiday that morning from early school, +and Constance had not gone to Lady Augusta Yorke’s. The very excitement +and bustle of preparation had appeared to benefit Mr. Channing; perhaps +it was the influence of the hope which had seated itself in his heart, +and was at work there. But Mr. Channing did not count upon this hope one +whit more than he could help; for disappointment _might_ be its ending. +In this, the hour of parting from his home and his children, the hope +seemed to have buried itself five fathoms deep, if not to have died away +completely. Who, in a similar position to Mr. Channing’s, has not felt +this depression on leaving a beloved home? + +The parting had been less sad but for the dark cloud hanging over +Arthur. Mr. Channing had no resource but to believe him guilty, and his +manner to him had grown cold and stern. It was a pleasing sight--could +you have looked in upon it that morning--one that would put you in mind +of that happier world where partings are not. + +For it was to that world that Mr. Channing had been carrying the +thoughts of his children in these, the last moments. The Bible was +before him, but all that he had chosen to read was a short psalm. And +then he prayed God to bless them; to keep them from evil; to be their +all-powerful protector. There was not a dry eye present; and Charles and +Annabel--Annabel with all her wildness--sobbed aloud. + +He was standing up now, supported by Hamish, his left hand leaning +heavily, also for support, on the shoulder of Tom. Oh! Arthur felt it +keenly! felt it as if his heart would break. It was Tom whom his father +had especially called to his aid; _he_ was passed over. It was hard to +bear. + +He was giving a word of advice, of charge to all. “Constance, my +pretty one, the household is in your charge; you must take care of your +brothers’ comforts. And, Hamish, my son, I leave Constance to _your_ +care. Tom, let me enjoin you to keep your temper within bounds, +particularly with regard to that unsatisfactory matter, the seniorship. +Annabel, be obedient to your sister, and give her no care. And Charley, +my little darling, be loving and gentle as you always are. Upon my +return--if I shall be spared to return--” + +“Father,” exclaimed Arthur, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, “have +you no word for _me_?” + +Mr. Channing laid his hand upon the head of Arthur. “Bless, oh bless +this my son!” he softly murmured. “And may God forgive him, if he be +indeed the erring one we fear!” + +But a few minutes had elapsed since Mr. Channing had repeated aloud +the petition in the prayer taught us by our Saviour--“Lead us not +into temptation!” It had come quickly to one of his hearers. If ever +temptation assailed a heart, it assailed Arthur’s then. “Not I, father; +it is Hamish who is guilty; it is for him I have to bear. Hamish, +whom you are caressing, was the true culprit; I, whom you despise, am +innocent.” Words such as these might have hovered on Arthur’s lips; he +had nearly spoken them, but for the strangely imploring look cast to +him from the tearful eyes of Constance, who read his struggle. Arthur +remembered One who had endured temptation far greater than this; Who +is ever ready to grant the same strength to those who need it. A few +moments, and the struggle and temptation passed, and he had not yielded +to it. + +“Children, I do not like these partings. They always sadden my heart. +They make me long for that life where partings shall be no more. Oh, my +dear ones, do you all strive on to attain to that blessed life! Think +what would be our woeful grief--if such can assail us there; if memory +of the past may be allowed us--should we find any one of our dear ones +absent--of you who now stand around me! I speak to you all--not more to +one than to another--absent through his own fault, his own sin, his own +carelessness! Oh, children! you cannot tell my love for you--my anxious +care!--lest any of you should lose this inconceivable blessing. Work on; +strive on; and if we never meet again here--” + +“Oh, papa, papa,” wildly sobbed Annabel, “we shall meet again! You will +come back well.” + +“I trust we shall! I do trust I may! God is ever merciful and good. All +I would say is, that my life is uncertain; that, if it be His will +not to spare me, I shall have but preceded you to that better land. My +blessing be upon you, my children! God’s blessing be upon you! Fare you +well.” + +In the bustle of getting Mr. Channing to the fly, Arthur was left alone +with his mother. She clung to him, sobbing much. Even her faith in him +was shaken. When the rupture occurred between Mr. Yorke and Constance, +Arthur never spoke up to say: “There is no cause for parting; I am not +guilty.” Mrs. Channing was not the only one who had expected him to say +this, or something equivalent to it; and she found her expectation vain. +Arthur had maintained a studied silence; of course it could only tell +against him. + +“Mother! my darling mother! I would ask you to trust me still, but that +I see how difficult it is for you!” he said, as hot tears were wrung +from his aching heart. + +Hamish came in. Arthur, not caring to exhibit his emotion for every +one’s benefit, retired to a distant window. “My father is in, all +comfortable,” said Hamish. “Mother, are you sure you have everything?” + +“Everything, I believe.” + +“Well--put this into your private purse, mother mine. You’ll find some +use for it.” + +It was a ten-pound note. Mrs. Channing began protesting that she should +have enough without it. + +“Mrs. Channing, I know your ‘enoughs,’” laughed Hamish, in his very +gayest and lightest tone. “You’ll be for going without dinner every +other day, fearing that funds won’t last. If you don’t take it, I shall +send it after you to-morrow.” + +“Thank you, my dear, considerate boy!” she gratefully said, as she put +up the money, which would, in truth, prove useful. “But how have you +been able to get it for me?” + +“As if a man could not save up his odd sixpences for a rainy day!” quoth +Hamish. + +She implicitly believed him. She had absolute faith in her darling +Hamish; and the story of his embarrassments had not reached her ear. +Arthur heard all from his distant window. “For that very money, given +to my mother as a gift from _him_, I must suffer,” was the rebellious +thought that ran through his mind. + +The fly started. Mr. and Mrs. Channing and Charley inside, Hamish on the +box with the driver. Tom galloped to the station on foot. Of course +the boys were eager to see them off. But Arthur, in his refined +sensitiveness, would not put himself forward to make one of them; and no +one asked him to do so. + +The train was on the point of starting. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were in +their places, certain arrangements having been made for the convenience +of Mr. Channing, who was partially lying across from one seat to the +other; Hamish and the others were standing round for a last word; when +there came one, fighting his way through the platform bustle, pushing +porters and any one else who impeded his progress to the rightabout. It +was Roland Yorke. + +“Haven’t I come up at a splitting pace! I overslept myself, Mr. +Channing, and I thought I should not be in time to give you a God-speed. +I hope you’ll have a pleasant time, and come back cured, sir!” + +“Thank you, Roland. These heartfelt wishes from you all are very +welcome.” + +“I say, Mr. Channing,” continued Roland, leaning over the carriage +window, in utter disregard of danger: “If you should hear of any good +place abroad, that you think I might do for, I wish you’d speak a word +for me.” + +“Place abroad?” repeated Mr. Channing, while Hamish burst into a laugh. + +“Yes,” said Roland. “My brother George knew a fellow who went over to +Austria or Prussia, or some of those places, and dropped into a very +good thing there, quite by accident. It was connected with one of the +embassies, I think; five or six hundred a year, and little to do.” + +Mr. Channing smiled. “Such windfalls are rare. I fear I am not likely +to hear of anything of the sort. But what has Mr. Galloway done to you, +Roland? You are a fixture with him.” + +“I am tired of Galloway’s,” frankly confessed Roland. “I didn’t enjoy +myself there before Arthur left, but I am ready to hang myself since, +with no one to speak to but that calf of a Jenkins! If Galloway will +take on Arthur again, and do him honour, I’ll stop and make the best of +it; but, if he won’t--” + +“Back! back! hands off there! Are you mad?” And amidst much shouting, +and running, and dragging careless Roland out of danger, the train +steamed out of the station. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. -- ABROAD. + +A powerful steamer was cutting smoothly through the waters. A large +expanse of sea lay around, dotted with its fishing-boats, which had come +out with the night’s tide. A magnificent vessel, her spars glittering in +the rising sun, might be observed in the distance, and the grey, misty +sky, overhead, gave promise of a hot and lovely day. + +Some of the passengers lay on deck, where they had stationed themselves +the previous night, preferring its open air to the closeness of the +cabins, in the event of rough weather. Rough weather they need not have +feared. The passage had been perfectly calm; the sea smooth as a lake; +not a breath of wind had helped the good ship on her course; steam had +to do its full work. But for this dead calm, the fishing-craft would not +be close in-shore, looking very much like a flock of sea-gulls. Had +a breeze, ever so gentle, sprung up, they would have put out to more +prolific waters. + +A noise, a shout, a greeting! and some of the passengers, already awake, +but lying lazily, sprang up to see what caused it. It was a passing +steamer, bound for the great metropolis which they had left not +seventeen hours ago. The respective captains exchanged salutes from +their places aloft, and the fine vessels flew past each other. + +“_Bon voyage! bon voyage!_” shouted out a little French boy to the +retreating steamer. + +“We have had a fine passage, captain,” observed a gentleman who was +stretching himself and stamping about the deck, after his night’s repose +on the hard bench. + +“Middling,” responded the captain, to whom a dead calm was not quite +so agreeable as it was to his passengers. “Should ha’ been in all the +sooner for a breeze.” + +“How long will it be, now?” + +“A good time yet. Can’t go along as if we had wind at our back.” + +The steamer made good progress, however, in spite of the faithless wind. +It glided up the Scheldt, and, by-and-by, the spire of Antwerp Cathedral +was discerned, rising against the clear sky. Mrs. Channing, who had been +one of those early astir, went back to her husband. He was lying where +he had been placed when the vessel left St. Katherine’s Docks. + +“We shall soon be in, James. I wish you could see that beautiful spire. +I have been searching for it ever so long; it is in sight, now. Hamish +told me to keep a look-out for it.” + +“Did he?” replied Mr. Channing. “How did Hamish know it might be seen?” + +“From the guide-books, I suppose; or from hearsay. Hamish seems to know +everything. What a good passage we have had!” + +“Ay,” said Mr. Channing. “What I should have done in a rough sea, I +cannot tell. The dread of it has been pressing on me as a nightmare +since our voyage was decided upon.” + +Mrs. Channing smiled. “Troubles seldom come from the quarter we +anticipate them.” + +Later, when Mrs. Channing was once more leaning over the side of the +vessel, a man came up and put a card into her hand, jabbering away in +German at the same time. The Custom House officers had come on board +then. + +“Oh, dear, if Constance were only here! It is for interpreting that +we shall miss her,” thought Mrs. Channing. “I am sorry that I do not +understand you,” she said, turning to the man. + +“Madame want an hot-el? That hot-el a good one,” tapping the card with +his finger, and dexterously turning the reverse side upward, where was +set forth in English the advantages of a certain Antwerp inn. + +“Thank you, but we make no stay at Antwerp; we go straight on at once.” + And she would have handed back the card. + +No, he would not receive it. “Madame might be wanting an hot-el at +another time; on her return, it might be. If so, would she patronize it? +it was a good hot-el; perfect!” + +Mrs. Channing slipped the card into her reticule, and searched her +directions to see what hotel Hamish had indicated, should they require +one at Antwerp. She found it to be the Hôtel du Parc. Hamish certainly +had contrived to acquire for them a great fund of information; and, as +it turned out, information to be relied on. + +Breakfast was to be obtained on board the steamer, and they availed +themselves of it, as did a few of the other passengers. Some delay +occurred in bringing the steamer to the side, after they arrived. +Whether from that cause, or the captain’s grievance--want of wind--or +from both, they were in later than they ought to have been. When the +first passenger put his foot on land, they had been out twenty hours. + +Mr. Channing was the last to be removed, as, with him, aid was required. +Mrs. Channing stood on the shore at the head of the ladder, looking down +anxiously, lest in any way harm should come to him, when she found a +hand laid upon her shoulder, and a familiar voice saluted her. + +“Mrs. Channing! Who would have thought of seeing you here! Have you +dropped from the moon?” + +Not only was the voice familiar, but the face also. In the surprise +of being so addressed, in the confusion around her, Mrs. Channing +positively did not for a moment recognize it; all she saw was, that it +was a _home_ face. “Mr. Huntley!” she exclaimed, when she had gathered +her senses; and, in the rush of pleasure of meeting him, of not feeling +utterly alone in that strange land, she put both her hands into his. +“I may return your question by asking where you have dropped from. I +thought you were in the south of France.” + +“So I was,” he answered, “until a few days ago, when business brought me +to Antwerp. A gentleman is living here whom I wished to see. Take care, +my men!” he continued to the English sailors, who were carrying up +Mr. Channing. “Mind your footing.” But the ascent was accomplished in +safety, and Mr. Channing was placed in a carriage. + +“Do you understand their lingo?” Mr. Huntley asked, as the porters +talked and chattered around. + +“Not a syllable,” she answered. “I can manage a little French, but this +is as a sealed book to me. Is it German or Flemish?” + +“Flemish, I conclude,” he said laughingly; “but my ears will not tell +me, any more than yours tell you. I should have done well to bring +Ellen with me. She said, in her saucy way, ‘Papa, when you are among the +French and Germans, you will be wishing for me to interpret for you.’” + +“As I have been wishing for Constance,” replied Mrs. Channing. “In our +young days, it was not thought more essential to learn German than it +was to learn Hindustanee. French was only partially taught.” + +“Quite true,” said Mr. Huntley. “I managed to rub through France after a +fashion, but I don’t know what the natives thought of my French. What I +did know, I have half forgotten. But, now for explanations. Of course, +Mr. Channing has come to try the effect of the German springs?” + +“Yes, and we have such hopes!” she answered. “There does appear to be +a probability that not only relief, but a cure, may be effected; +otherwise, you may be sure we should not have ventured on so much +expense.” + +“I always said Mr. Channing ought to try them.” + +“Very true; you did so. We were only waiting, you know, for the +termination of the chancery suit. It is terminated, Mr. Huntley; and +against us.” + +Mr. Huntley had been abroad since June, travelling in different parts +of the Continent; but he had heard from home regularly, chiefly from +his daughter, and this loss of the suit was duly communicated with other +news. + +“Never mind,” said he to Mrs. Channing. “Better luck next time.” + +He was of a remarkably pleasant disposition, in temperament not unlike +Hamish Channing. A man of keen intellect was Mr. Huntley; his fine face +expressing it. The luggage collected, they rejoined Mr. Channing. + +“I have scarcely said a word to you,” cried Mr. Huntley, taking his +hand. “But I am better pleased to see you here, than I should be to see +any one else living. It is the first step towards a cure. Where are you +bound for?” + +“For Borcette. It is--” + +“I know it,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “I was at it a year or two ago. +One of the little Brunnens, near Aix-la-Chapelle. I stayed a whole week +there. I have a great mind to accompany you thither, now, and settle you +there.” + +“Oh, do!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, his face lighting up, as the faces of +invalids will light up at the anticipated companionship of a friend. “If +you can spare time, do come with us!” + +“My time is my own; the business that brought me here is concluded, and +I was thinking of leaving to-day. Having nothing to do after my early +breakfast, I strolled down to watch in the London steamer, little +thinking I should see you arrive by it. That’s settled, then. I will +accompany you as far as Borcette, and see you installed.” + +“When do you return home?” + +“Now; and glad enough I shall be to get there. Travelling is delightful +for a change, but when you have had enough of it, home peeps out in the +distance with all its charms.” + +The train which Mr. and Mrs. Channing had intended to take was already +gone, through delay in the steamer’s reaching Antwerp, and they had to +wait for another. When it started, it had them safely in it, Mr. Huntley +with them. Their route lay through part of the Netherlands, through +Malines, and some beautiful valleys; so beautiful that it is worth going +the whole distance from England to see them. + +“What is this disturbance about the seniorship, and Lady Augusta Yorke?” + asked Mr. Huntley, as it suddenly occurred to his recollection, in the +earlier part of their journey. “Master Harry has written me a letter +full of notes of exclamation and indignation, saying I ‘ought to come +home and see about it.’ What is it?” + +Mr. Channing explained; at least, as far as he was able to do so. “It +has given rise to a good deal of dissatisfaction in the school,” he +added, “but I cannot think, for my own part, that it can have any +foundation. Mr. Pye would not be likely to give a promise of the kind, +either to Lady Augusta, or to any other of the boys’ friends.” + +“If he attempted to give one to me, I should throw it back to him with a +word of a sort,” hastily rejoined Mr. Huntley, in a warm tone. “Nothing +can possibly be more unjust, than to elevate one boy over another +undeservedly; nothing, in my opinion, can be more pernicious. It is +enough to render the boy himself unjust through life; to give him loose +ideas of right and wrong. Have you not inquired into it?” + +“No,” replied Mr. Channing. + +“I shall. If I find reason to suspect there may be truth in the report, +I shall certainly inquire into it. Underhand work of that sort goes, +with me, against the grain. I can stir in it with a better grace than +you can,” Mr. Huntley added: “my son being pretty sure not to succeed to +the seniorship, so long as yours is above him to take it. Tom Channing +will make a good senior; a better than Harry would. Harry, in his easy +indifference, would suffer the school to lapse into insubordination; Tom +will keep a tight hand over it.” + +A sensation of pain darted across the heart of Mr. Channing. Only the +day before his leaving home, he had accidentally heard a few words +spoken between Tom and Charley, which had told him that Tom’s chance +of the seniorship was emperilled through the business connected with +Arthur. Mr. Channing had then questioned Tom, and found that it was so. +He must speak of this now to Mr. Huntley, however painful it might be to +himself to do so. It were more manly to meet it openly than to bury it +in silence, and let Mr. Huntley hear of it (if he had not heard of it +already) as soon as he reached Helstonleigh. + +“Have you heard anything in particular about Arthur lately?” inquired +Mr. Channing. + +“Of course I have,” was the answer. “Ellen did not fail to give me a +full account of it. I congratulate you on possessing such sons.” + +“Congratulate! To what do you allude?” asked Mr. Channing. + +“To Arthur’s applying after Jupp’s post, as soon as he knew that the +suit had failed. He’s a true Channing. I am glad he got it.” + +“Not to that--I did not allude to that,” hastily rejoined Mr. Channing. +And then, with downcast eyes, and a downcast heart, he related +sufficient to put Mr. Huntley in possession of the facts. + +Mr. Huntley heard the tale with incredulity, a smile of ridicule parting +his lips. “Suspect Arthur of theft!” he exclaimed. “What next? Had +I been in my place on the magistrates’ bench that day, I should have +dismissed the charge at once, upon such defective evidence. Channing, +what is the matter?” + +Mr. Channing laid his hand upon his aching brow, and Mr. Huntley had to +bend over him to catch the whispered answer. “I do fear that he may be +guilty. If he is not guilty, some strange mystery altogether is attached +to it.” + +“But why do you fear that he is guilty?” asked Mr. Huntley, in surprise. + +“Because his own conduct, relating to the charge, is so strange. He will +not assert his innocence; or, if he does attempt to assert it, it is +with a faint, hesitating manner and tone, that can only give one the +impression of falsehood, instead of truth.” + +“It is utterly absurd to suppose your son Arthur capable of the +crime. He is one of those whom it is impossible to doubt; noble, true, +honourable! No; I would suspect myself, before I could suspect Arthur +Channing.” + +“I would have suspected myself before I had suspected him,” impulsively +spoke Mr. Channing. “But there are the facts, coupled with his not +denying the charge. He could not deny it, even to the satisfaction of +Mr. Galloway: did not attempt it; had he done so, Galloway would not +have turned him from the office.” + +Mr. Huntley fell into thought, revolving over the details, as they had +been related to him. That Arthur was the culprit, his judgment utterly +repudiated; and he came to the conclusion that he must be screening +another. He glanced at Mrs. Channing, who sat in troubled silence. + +“You do not believe Arthur guilty?” he said, in a low tone, suddenly +bending over to her. + +“I do not know what to believe; I am racked with doubt and pain,” she +answered. “Arthur’s words to me in private are only compatible with +entire innocence; but then, what becomes of the broad facts?--of +his strange appearance of guilt before the world? God can bring his +innocence to light, he says; and he is content to wait His time.” + +“If there is a mystery, I’ll try to come to the bottom of it, when I +reach Helstonleigh,” thought Mr. Huntley. “Arthur’s not guilty, whoever +else may be.” + +It was impossible to shake his firm faith in Arthur Channing. Mr. +Huntley was one of the few who read character strongly and surely, and +he _knew_ Arthur was incapable of doing wrong. Had his eyes witnessed +Arthur positively stealing the bank-note, his mind, his judgment would +have refused credence to his eyes. You may, therefore, judge that +neither then, nor afterwards, was he likely to admit the possibility of +Arthur’s guilt. + +“And the college school is saying that Tom shall not stand for the +seniorship!” he resumed aloud. “Does my son say it?” + +“Some of them are saying it; I believe the majority of the school. I do +not know whether your son is amongst the number.” + +“He had better not let me find him so,” cried Mr. Huntley. “But now, +don’t suffer this affair to worry you,” he added, turning heartily to +Mr. Channing. “If Arthur’s guilty, I’ll eat him; and I shall make it +my business to look into it closely when I reach home. You are +incapacitated, my old friend, and I shall act for you.” + +“Did Ellen not mention this, in writing to you?” + +“No; the sly puss! Catch Miss Ellen writing to me anything that might +tell against the Channings.” + +A silence followed. The subject, which the words seemed to hint at, +was one upon which there could be no openness between them. A warm +attachment had sprung up between Hamish Channing and Ellen Huntley; but +whether Mr. Huntley would sanction it, now that the suit had failed, was +doubtful. He had never absolutely sanctioned it before: tacitly, in so +far as that he had not interfered to prevent Ellen from meeting Hamish +in society--in friendly intercourse. Probably, he had never looked upon +it from a serious point of view; possibly, he had never noticed it. +Hamish had not spoken, even to Ellen; but, that they did care for each +other very much, was evident to those who chose to open their eyes. + +“No two people in all Helstonleigh were so happy in their children as +you!” exclaimed Mr. Huntley. “Or had such cause to be so.” + +“None happier,” assented Mrs. Channing, tears rising to her eyes. “They +were, and are good, dutiful, and loving. Would you believe that Hamish, +little as he can have to spare, has been one of the chief contributors +to help us here?” + +Mr. Huntley lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Hamish has! How did he +accomplish it?” + +“He has, indeed. I fancy he has been saving up with this in view. Dear, +self-denying Hamish!” + +Now, it just happened that Mr. Huntley was cognizant of Mr. Hamish’s +embarrassments; so, how the “saving up” could have been effected, he was +at a loss to know. “Careless Hamish may have borrowed it,” thought he to +himself, “but saved it up he has not.” + +“What are we approaching now?” interrupted Mr. Channing. + +They were approaching the Prussian frontier; and there they had to +change trains: more embarrassment for Mr. Channing. After that, they +went on without interruption, and arrived safely at the terminus, almost +close to Borcette, having been about four hours on the road. + +“Borcette at last!” cheerily exclaimed Mr. Huntley, as he shook Mr. +Channing’s hand. “Please God, it may prove to you a place of healing!” + +“Amen!” was the earnestly murmured answer. + +Mrs. Channing was delighted with Borcette. Poor Mr. Channing could as +yet see little of it. It was a small, unpretending place, scarcely ten +minutes’ distance from Aix-la-Chapelle, to which she could walk through +an avenue of trees. She had never before seen a bubbling fountain of +boiling water, and regarded those of Borcette with much interest. The +hottest, close to the Hotel Rosenbad, where they sojourned, boasted +a temperature of more than 150° Fahrenheit; it was curious to see it +rising in the very middle of the street. Other things amused her, too; +in fact, all she saw was strange, and bore its peculiar interest. She +watched the factory people flocking to and fro at stated hours in +the day--for Borcette has its factories for woollen fabrics and +looking-glasses--some thousands of souls, their walk as regular +and steady as that of school-girls on their daily march under the +governess’s eye. The men wore blue blouses; the women, neat and clean, +wore neither bonnets nor caps; but their hair was twisted round their +heads, as artistically as if done by a hairdresser. Not one, women or +girls, but wore enormous gold earrings, and the girls plaited their +hair, and let it hang behind. + +What a contrast they presented to their class in England! Mrs. Channing +had, not long before, spent a few weeks in one of our large factory +towns in the north. She remembered still the miserable, unwholesome, +dirty, poverty-stricken appearance of the factory workers there--their +almost _disgraceful_ appearance; she remembered still the boisterous +or the slouching manner with which they proceeded to their work; their +language anything but what it ought to be. But these Prussians looked a +respectable, well-conducted, well-to-do body of people. + +Where could the great difference lie? Not in wages; for the English were +better paid than the Germans. We might go abroad to learn economy, and +many other desirable accompaniments of daily life. Nothing amused her +more than to see the laundresses and housewives generally, washing the +linen at these boiling springs; wash, wash, wash! chatter, chatter, +chatter! She thought they must have no water in their own homes, for +they would flock in numbers to the springs with their kettles and jugs +to fill them. + +It was Doctor Lamb who had recommended them to the Hotel Rosenbad; +and they found the recommendation a good one. Removed from the narrow, +dirty, offensive streets of the little town, it was pleasantly situated. +The promenade, with its broad walks, its gay company (many of them +invalids almost as helpless as Mr. Channing), and its musical bands, was +in front of the hotel windows; a pleasant sight for Mr. Channing until +he could get about himself. On the heights behind the hotel were two +churches; and the sound of their services would be wafted down in soft, +sweet strains of melody. In the neighbourhood there was a shrine, to +which pilgrims flocked. Mrs. Channing regarded them with interest, some +with their alpen-stocks, some in fantastic dresses, some with strings of +beads, which they knelt and told; and her thoughts went back to the old +times of the Crusaders. All she saw pleased her. But for her anxiety as +to what would be the effect of the new treatment upon her husband, and +the ever-lively trouble about Arthur, it would have been a time of real +delight to Mrs. Channing. + +They could not have been better off than in the Hotel Rosenbad. +Their rooms were on the second floor--a small, exquisitely pretty +sitting-room, bearing a great resemblance to most continental +sitting-rooms, its carpet red, its muslin curtains snowy white; from +this opened a bed-room containing two beds, all as conveniently arranged +as it could be. Their meals were excellent; the dinner-table especially +being abundantly supplied. For all this they paid five francs a day +each, and the additional accommodation of having the meals served in +their room, on account of Mr. Channing, was not noted as an additional +expense. Their wax-lights were charged extra, and that was all. I think +English hotel-keepers might take a lesson from Borcette! + +The doctor gave great hopes of Mr. Channing. His opinion was, that, +had Mr. Channing come to these baths when he was first taken ill, his +confinement would have been very trifling. “You will find the greatest +benefit in a month,” said the doctor, in answer to the anxious question, +How long the restoration might be in coming. “In two months you will +walk charmingly; in three, you will be well.” Cheering news, if it could +only be borne out. + +“I will not have you say ‘If,’” cried Mr. Huntley, who had made one in +consultation with the doctor. “You are told that it will be so, under +God’s blessing, and all you have to do is to anticipate it.” + +Mr. Channing smiled. They were stationed round the open window of +the sitting-room, he on the most comfortable of sofas, Mrs. Channing +watching the gay prospect below, and thinking she should never tire of +it. “There can be no hope without fear,” said he. + +“But I would not think of fear: I would bury that altogether,” said Mr. +Huntley. “You have nothing to do here but to take the remedies, look +forward with confidence, and be as happy as the day’s long.” + +“I will if I can,” said Mr. Channing, with some approach to gaiety. “I +should not have gone to the expense of coming here, but that I had great +hopes of the result.” + +“Expense, you call it! I call it a marvel of cheapness.” + +“For your pocket. Cheap as it is, it will tell upon mine: but, if it +does effect my restoration, I shall soon repay it tenfold.” + +“‘If,’ again! It will effect it, I say. What shall you do with Hamish, +when you resume your place at the head of your office?” + +“Let me resume it first, Huntley.” + +“There you go! Now, if you were only as sanguine and sure as you ought +to be, I could recommend Hamish to something good to-morrow.” + +“Indeed! What is it?” + +“But, if you persist in saying you shall not get well, or that there’s a +doubt whether you will get well, where’s the use of my doing it? So long +as you are incapacitated, Hamish must be a fixture in Guild Street.” + +“True.” + +“So I shall say no more about it at present. But remember, my old +friend, that when you are upon your legs, and have no further need of +Hamish--who, I expect, will not care to drop down into a clerk again, +where he has been master--I may be able to help him to something; so +do not let anticipations on his score worry you. I suppose you will be +losing Constance soon?” + +Mr. Channing gave vent to a groan: a sharp attack of his malady pierced +his frame just then. Certain reminiscences, caused by the question, may +have helped its acuteness; but of that Mr. Huntley had no suspicion. + +In the evening, when Mrs. Channing was sitting under the acacia trees, +Mr. Huntley joined her, and she took the opportunity of alluding to the +subject. “Do not mention it again in the presence of my husband,” she +said: “talking of it can only bring it before his mind with more vivid +force. Constance and Mr. Yorke have parted.” + +Had Mrs. Channing told him the cathedral had parted, Mr. Huntley could +not have felt more surprise. “Parted!” he ejaculated. “From what cause?” + +“It occurred through this dreadful affair of Arthur’s. I fancy the fault +was as much Constance’s as Mr. Yorke’s, but I do not know the exact +particulars. He did not like it; he thought, I believe, that to marry +a sister of Arthur’s would affect his own honour--or she thought it. +Anyway, they parted.” + +“Had William Yorke been engaged to my daughter, and given her up upon +so shallow a plea, I should have been disposed to chastise him,” + intemperately spoke Mr. Huntley, carried away by his strong feeling. + +“But, I say I fancy that the giving up was on Constance’s side,” + repeated Mrs. Channing. “She has a keen sense of honour, and she knows +the pride of the Yorkes.” + +“Pride, such as that, would be the better for being taken down a peg,” + returned Mr. Huntley. “I am sorry for this. The accusation has indeed +been productive of serious effects. Why did not Arthur go to William +Yorke and avow his innocence, and tell him there was no cause for their +parting? Did he not do so?” + +Mrs. Channing shook her head only, by way of answer; and, as Mr. Huntley +scrutinized her pale, sad countenance, he began to think there must be +greater mystery about the affair than he had supposed. He said no more. + +On the third day he quitted Borcette, having seen them, as he expressed +it, fully installed, and pursued his route homewards, by way of Lille, +Calais, and Dover. Mr. Huntley was no friend to long sea passages: +people with well-filled purses seldom are so. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. -- AN OMINOUS COUGH. + + “I say, Jenkins, how you cough!” + +“Yes, sir, I do. It’s a sign that autumn’s coming on. I have been pretty +free from it all the summer. I think the few days I lay in bed through +that fall, must have done good to my chest; for, since then, I have +hardly coughed at all. This last day or two it has been bad again.” + +“What cough do you call it?” went on Roland Yorke--you may have guessed +he was the speaker. “A churchyard cough?” + +“Well, I don’t know, sir,” said Jenkins. “It _has_ been called that, +before now. I dare say it will be the end of me at last.” + +“Cool!” remarked Roland. “Cooler than I should be, if I had a cough, or +any plague of the sort, that was likely to be _my_ end. Does it trouble +your mind, Jenkins?” + +“No, sir, not exactly. It gives me rather down-hearted thoughts now +and then, till I remember that everything is sure to be ordered for the +best.” + +“The best! Should you call it for ‘the best’ if you were to go off?” + demanded Roland, drawing pen-and-ink chimneys upon his blotting-paper, +with clouds of smoke coming out, as he sat lazily at his desk. + +“I dare say, sir, if that were to happen, I should be enabled to see +that it was for the best. There’s no doubt of it.” + +“According to that theory, everything that happens must be for the +best. You may as well say that pitching on to your head and half killing +yourself, was for the best. Moonshine, Jenkins!” + +“I think even that accident was sent for some wise purpose, sir. I know, +in some respects, it was very palpably for the best. It afforded me some +days of quiet, serious reflection, and it served to show how considerate +everybody was for me.” + +“And the pain?” + +“That was soon over, sir. It made me think of that better place where +there will be no pain. If I am to be called there early, Mr. Roland, it +is well that my thoughts should be led to it.” + +Roland stared with all his eyes. “I say, Jenkins, what do you mean? You +have nothing serious the matter with you?” + +“No, sir; nothing but the cough, and a weakness that I feel. My mother +and brother both died of the same thing, sir.” + +“Oh, nonsense!” returned Roland. “Because one’s mother dies, is that any +reason why we should fall into low spirits and take up the notion +that we are going to die, and look out for it? I am surprised at you, +Jenkins.” + +“I am not in low spirits, sir; and I am sure I do not look out for it. +I might have looked out for it any autumn or any spring of late, had I +been that way inclined, for I have had the cough at those periods, as +you know, sir. There’s a difference, Mr. Roland, between looking out for +a thing, and not shutting one’s eyes to what may come.” + +“I say, old fellow, you just put all such notions away from you”--and +Roland really meant to speak in a kindly, cheering spirit. “My father +died of dropsy; and I may just as well set on, and poke and pat at +myself every other morning, to see if it’s not attacking me. Only think +what would become of this office without you! Galloway would fret and +fume himself into his tomb at having nobody but me in it.” + +A smile crossed Jenkins’s face at the idea of the office, confided to +the management of Roland Yorke. Poor Jenkins was one of the doubtful +ones, from a sanitary point of view. Always shadowy, as if a wind would +blow him away, and, for some years, suffering much from a cough, which +only disappeared in summer, he could not, and did not, count upon a long +life. He had quite recovered from his accident, but the cough had now +come on with much force, and he was feeling unusually weak. + +“You don’t look ill, Jenkins.” + +“Don’t I, sir? The Reverend Mr. Yorke met me, to-day--” + +“Don’t bring up his name before me!” interrupted Roland, raising his +voice to anger. “I may begin to swear, perhaps, if you do.” + +“Why, what has he done?” wondered Jenkins. + +“Never mind what he has done,” nodded Roland. “He is a disgrace to +the name of Yorke. I enjoyed the pleasure of telling him so, the other +night, more than I have enjoyed anything a long while. He was so mad! If +he had not been a parson, I shouldn’t wonder but he’d have pitched into +me.” + +“Mr. Roland, sir, you know the parties are waiting for that lease,” + Jenkins ventured to remind him. + +“Let the parties wait,” rejoined Roland. “Do they think this office is +going to be hurried as if it were a common lawyer’s? I say, Jenkins, +where has old Galloway taken flight to, this afternoon?” + +“He has an appointment with the surrogate,” answered Jenkins. “Oh!--I +quite forgot to mention something to you, Mr. Roland.” + +“Mention it now,” said Roland. + +“A person came this morning, sir, and was rather loud,” said Jenkins, in +a tone of deprecation, as if he would apologize for having to repeat the +news. “He thought you were in, Mr. Roland, and that I was only denying +you, and he grew insolent. Mr. Galloway happened to be in his room, +unfortunately, and heard it, and he came out himself, and sent the +person away. Mr. Galloway was very angry, and he desired me to tell you, +sir, that he would not have that sort of people coming here.” + +Roland took up the ruler, and essayed to balance it on the edge of his +nose. “Who was it?” asked he. + +“I am not sure who it was, though I know I have seen the man, somewhere. +I think he wanted payment of a bill, sir.” + +“Nothing more likely,” rejoined Roland, with characteristic +indifference. “I hope his head won’t ache till he gets it! I am cleared +out for some time to come. I’d like to know who the fellow was, though, +Jenkins, that I might punish him for his impudence. How dared he come +here?” + +“I asked him to leave his name, sir, and he said Mr. Roland Yorke knew +his name quite well enough, without having it left for him.” + +“As brassy as that, was he! I wish to goodness it was the fashion to +have a cistern in your house-roofs!” emphatically added Roland. + +“A what, sir?” cried Jenkins, lifting his eyes from his writing. + +“A water-cistern, with a tap, worked by a string, at pleasure. You could +give it a pull, you know, when such customers as those came, and they’d +find themselves deluged. That would cool their insolence, if anything +would. I’d get up a company for it, and take out a patent, if I only had +the ready money.” + +Jenkins made no reply. He was applying himself diligently to his work, +perhaps hoping that Mr. Roland Yorke might take the hint, and do the +same. Roland actually did take it; at any rate, he dipped his pen in the +ink, and wrote, at the very least, five or six words; then he looked up. + +“Jenkins,” began he again, “do you know much about Port Natal?” + +“I don’t know anything about it, sir; except that there is such a +place.” + +“Why, you know nothing!” cried Roland. “I never saw such a muff. I +wonder what you reckon yourself good for, Jenkins?” + +Jenkins shook his head. No matter what reproach was brought against him, +he received it meekly, as if it were his due. “I am not good for much, +sir, beyond just my daily duty here. To know about Port Natal and those +foreign places is not in my work, sir, and so I’m afraid I neglect them. +Did you want any information about Port Natal, Mr. Roland?” + +“I have got it,” said Roland; “loads of it. I am not sure that I shan’t +make a start for it, Jenkins.” + +“For Port Natal, sir? Why! it’s all the way to Africa!” + +“Do you suppose I thought it was in Wales?” retorted Roland. “It’s the +jolliest opening for an enterprising man, is Port Natal. You may land +there to-day with half-a-crown in your pocket, and come away in a year +or two with your fortune made.” + +“Indeed!” ejaculated Jenkins. “How is it made, sir?” + +“Oh, you learn all that when you get there. I shall _go_, Jenkins, if +things don’t look up a bit in these quarters.” + +“What things, sir?” Jenkins ventured to ask. + +“Tin, for one thing; work for another,” answered Roland. “If I don’t get +more of the one, and less of the other, I shall try Port Natal. I had +a row with my lady at dinner-time. She thinks a paltry sovereign or two +ought to last a fellow for a month. My service to her! I just dropped a +hint of Port Natal, and left her weeping. She’ll have come to, by this +evening, and behave liberally.” + +“But about the work, sir?” said Jenkins. “I’m sure I make it as light +for you as I possibly can. You have only had that lease, sir, all day +yesterday and to-day.” + +“Oh, it’s not just the _amount_ of work, Jenkins,” acknowledged Roland; +“it’s the being tied by the leg to this horrid old office. As good work +as play, if one has to be in it. I have been fit to cut it altogether +every hour, since Arthur Channing left: for you know you are no company, +Jenkins.” + +“Very true, sir.” + +“If I could only get Arthur Channing to go with me, I’d be off +to-morrow! But he laughs at it. He hasn’t got half pluck. Only fancy, +Jenkins! my coming back in a year or two with twenty thousand pounds in +my pocket! Wouldn’t I give you a treat, old chap! I’d pay a couple of +clerks to do your work here, and carry you off somewhere, in spite of +old Galloway, for a six-months’ holiday, where you’d get rid of that +precious cough. I _would_, Jenkins.” + +“You are very kind, sir--” + +Jenkins was stopped by the “precious cough.” It seemed completely to +rack his frame. Roland looked at him with sympathy, and just then steps +were heard to enter the passage, and a knock came to the office door. + +“Who’s come bothering now?” cried Roland. “Come in!” + +Possibly the mandate was not heard, for poor Jenkins was coughing still. +“Don’t I tell you to come in?” roared out Roland. “Are you deaf?” + +“Open the door. I don’t care to soil my gloves,” came the answer from +the other side. And Mr. Roland slid off his stool to obey, rather +less lazily than usual, for the voice was that of his mother, the Lady +Augusta Yorke. + +“A very dutiful son, you are, Mr. Roland!” was the salutation of Lady +Augusta. “Forcing me up from dinner before I had finished!” + +“I didn’t do anything of the sort,” said Roland. + +“Yes, you did. With your threats about Port Natal! What do you know +about Port Natal? Why should you go to Port Natal? You will break my +heart with grief, that’s what you will do.” + +“I was not going to start this afternoon,” returned Roland. “But the +fact is, mother, I shall have to go to Port Natal, or to some other +port, unless I can get a little money to go on with here. A fellow can’t +walk about with empty pockets.” + +“You undutiful, extravagant boy!” exclaimed Lady Augusta. “I am worried +out of my life for money, between you all. Gerald got two sovereigns +from me yesterday. What money do you want?” + +“As much as you can let me have,” replied Mr. Roland. + +Lady Augusta threw a five-pound note by his side upon the desk. “When +you boys have driven me into the workhouse, you’ll be satisfied, +perhaps. And now hold your foolish tongue about Port Natal.” + +Roland gathered it up with alacrity and a word of thanks. Lady Augusta +had turned to Jenkins. + +“You are the best off, Jenkins; you have no children to disturb your +peace. You don’t look well, Jenkins.” + +“Thank you kindly, my lady, I feel but poorly. My cough has become +troublesome again.” + +“He has just been saying that he thought the cough was going to take him +off,” interposed Roland. + +Lady Augusta laughed; she supposed it was spoken in jest; and desired +her son to open the door for her. Her gloves were new and delicate. + +“Had you chosen to remain at the dinner-table, as a gentleman ought, I +should have told you some news, Mr. Roland,” said Lady Augusta. + +Roland was always ready for news. He opened his eyes and ears. “Tell it +me now, good mother. Don’t bear malice.” + +“Your uncle Carrick is coming here on a visit.” + +“I am glad of that; that’s good!” cried Roland. “When does he come? I +say, mother, don’t be in a hurry! When does he come?” + +But Lady Augusta apparently was in a hurry, for she did not wait +to reply. Roland looked after her, and saw her shaking hands with a +gentleman, who was about to enter. + +“Oh, he’s back, is he!” cried unceremonious Roland. “I thought he was +dead and buried, and gone to heaven.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. -- NO SENIORSHIP FOR TOM CHANNING. + +Shaking hands with Lady Augusta Yorke as she turned out of Mr. +Galloway’s office, was Mr. Huntley. He had only just arrived at +Helstonleigh; had not yet been home; but he explained that he wished to +give at once a word of pleasant news to Constance Channing of her +father and mother, and, on his way to the Boundaries, was calling on Mr. +Galloway. + +“You will find Miss Channing at my house,” said Lady Augusta, after some +warm inquiries touching Mr. and Mrs. Channing. “I would offer to go +back there with you, but I am on my way to make some calls.” She turned +towards the town as she spoke, and Mr. Huntley entered the office. + +“I thought you were never coming home again!” cried free Roland. “Why, +you have been away three months, Mr. Huntley!” + +“Very nearly. Where is Mr. Galloway?” + +“In his skin,” said Roland. + +Jenkins looked up deprecatingly, as if he would apologize for the +rudeness of Roland Yorke. “Mr. Galloway is out, sir. I dare say he will +not be away more than half an hour.” + +“I cannot wait now,” said Mr. Huntley. “So you are one less in this +office than you were when I left?” + +“The awfullest shame!” struck in Roland. “Have you heard that Galloway +lost a bank-note out of a letter, sir?” + +“Yes. I have heard of it from Mr. Channing.” + +“And they accused Arthur Channing of taking it!” exclaimed Roland. +“They took him up for it; he was had up twice to the town-hall, like any +felon. You may be slow to believe it, Mr. Huntley, but it’s true.” + +“It was Butterby, sir,” interposed Jenkins. “He was rather too officious +over it, and acted without Mr. Galloway’s orders.” + +“Don’t talk rubbish, Jenkins,” rebuked Roland. “You have defended +Galloway all through the piece, but he is as much to blame as Butterby. +Why did he turn off Channing?” + +“You do not think him guilty, Roland, I see,” said Mr. Huntley. + +“I should hope I don’t,” answered Roland. “Butterby pitched upon Arthur, +because there happened to be nobody else at hand to pitch upon; just as +he’d have pitched upon you, Mr. Huntley, had you happened to be in the +office that afternoon.” + +“Mr. Arthur Channing was not guilty, I am sure, sir; pray do not think +him so,” resumed Jenkins, his eye lighting as he turned to Mr. Huntley. +And Mr. Huntley smiled in response to the earnestness. _He_ believe +Arthur Channing guilty! + +He left a message for Mr. Galloway, and quitted the office. Roland, who +was very difficult to settle to work again, if once disturbed from it, +strided himself across his stool, and tilted it backwards. + +“I’m uncommonly glad Carrick’s coming!” cried he. “Do you remember him, +Jenkins?” + +“Who, sir?” + +“That uncle of mine. He was at Helstonleigh three years ago.” + +“I am not sure that I do, sir.” + +“What a sieve of a memory you must have! He is as tall as a house. We +are not bad fellows for height, but Carrick beats us. He is not married, +you know, and we look to him to square up many a corner. To do him +justice, he never says No, when he has the cash, but he’s often out at +elbows himself. It was he who bought George his commission and fitted +him out; and I know my lady looks to him to find the funds Gerald will +want to make him into a parson. I wonder what he’ll do for me?” + +Jenkins was about to answer, but was stopped by his cough. For some +minutes it completely exhausted him; and Roland, for want of a hearer, +was fain to bring the legs of his stool down again, and apply himself +lazily to his work. + +At this very moment, which was not much past two o’clock in the day, +Bywater had Charley Channing pinned against the palings underneath the +elm trees. He had him all to himself. No other boys were within hearing; +though many were within sight; for they were assembling in and round the +cloisters after their dinner. + +“Now, Miss Charley, it’s the last time I’ll ask you, as true as that +we are living here! You are as obstinate as a young mule. I’ll give you +this one chance, and I’ll not give you another. I’d advise you to take +it, if you have any regard for your skin.” + +“I don’t know anything, Bywater.” + +“You shuffling little turncoat! I don’t _know_ that there’s any fire in +that kitchen chimney of the old dean’s, but I am morally certain that +there is, because clouds of black smoke are coming out of it. And you +know just as well who it was that played the trick to my surplice. I +don’t ask you to blurt it out to the school, and I won’t bring your name +up in it at all; I won’t act upon what you tell me. There!” + +“Bywater, I don’t know; and suspicion goes for nothing. Gaunt said it +did not.” + +Bywater gave Charley a petulant shake. “I say that you know morally, +Miss Channing. I protest that I heard you mention the word ‘surplice’ to +Gerald Yorke, the day there was that row in the cloisters, when Roland +Yorke gave Tod a thrashing and I tore the seat out of my pants. Gerald +Yorke looked ready to kill you for it, too! Come, out with it. This is +about the sixth time I have had you in trap, and you have only defied +me.” + +“I don’t defy you, Bywater. I say that I will not tell. I would not if I +knew. It is no business of mine.” + +“You little ninny! Don’t you see that your obstinacy is injuring Tom +Channing? Yorke is going in for the seniorship; is sure to get it--if +it’s true that Pye has given the promise to Lady Augusta. But, let it +come out that he was the Jack-in-the-box, and his chance falls to the +ground. And you won’t say a word to do good to your brother!” + +Charley shook his head. He did not take the bait. “And Tom himself would +be the first to punish me for doing wrong! He never forgives a sneak. +It’s of no use your keeping me, Bywater.” + +“Listen, youngster. I have my suspicions; I have had them all along; +and I have a clue--that’s more. But, for a certain reason, I think my +suspicions and my clue point to the wrong party; and I don’t care to +stir in it till I am sure. One--two--three! for the last time. Will you +tell me?” + +“No.” + +“Then, look you, Miss Charley Channing. If I do go and denounce the +wrong party, and find out afterwards that it is the wrong one, I’ll give +you as sweet a drubbing as you ever had, and your girl’s face shan’t +save you. Now go.” + +He propelled Charley from him with a jerk, and propelled him against Mr. +Huntley, who was at that moment turning the corner close to them, on his +way from Mr. Galloway’s office. + +“You can’t go through me, Charley,” said Mr. Huntley. “Did you think I +was made of glass, Bywater?” + +“My patience!” exclaimed Bywater. “Why, Harry was grumbling, not five +minutes ago, that you were never coming home at all, Mr. Huntley.” + +“He was, was he? Is he here?” + +“Oh, he’s somewhere amongst the ruck of them,” cried Bywater, looking +towards the distant boys. “He wants you to see about this bother of the +seniorship. If somebody doesn’t, we shall get up a mutiny, that’s all. +Here, Huntley,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “here’s an arrival +from foreign parts!” + +Some of the nearer boys looked round, and the word was passed to +Huntley. Harry Huntley and the rest soon surrounded him, and Mr. Huntley +had no reason to complain of the warmth of his reception. When news had +recently arrived that Mr. Huntley was coming home, the boys had taken +up the hope of his interference. Of course, schoolboy-like, they all +entered upon it eagerly. + +“Stop, stop, stop!” said Mr. Huntley. “One at a time. How can I hear, if +you all talk together? Now, what’s the grievance?” + +They detailed it as rationally and with as little noise as it was in +their nature to do. Huntley was the only senior present, but Gaunt came +up during the conference. + +“It’s all a cram, Mr. Huntley,” cried Tod Yorke. “My brother Gerald says +that Jenkins dreamt it.” + +“I’ll ‘dream’ you, if you don’t keep your tongue silent, Tod Yorke,” + reprimanded Gaunt. “Take yourself off to a distance, Mr. Huntley,” he +added, turning to that gentleman, “it is certain that Lady Augusta +said it; and we can’t think she’d say it, unless Pye promised it. It is +unfair upon Channing and Huntley.” + +A few more words given to the throng, upon general matters--for Mr. +Huntley touched no more on the other topic--and then he continued his +way to Lady Augusta’s. As he passed the house of the Reverend Mr. +Pye, that gentleman was coming out of it. Mr. Huntley, a decisive, +straightforward man, entered upon the matter at once, after some moments +spent in greeting. + +“You will pardon my speaking of it to you personally,” he said, when +he had introduced the subject, “In most cases I consider it perfectly +unjustifiable for the friends of boys in a public school to interfere +with the executive of its master; but this affair is different. Is it, +or is it not correct, that there is an intention afloat to exalt Yorke +to the seniorship?” + +“Mr. Huntley, you must be aware that in _no case_ can the head-master of +a public school allow himself to be interfered with, or questioned,” was +the reply of the master. + +“I hope you will meet this amicably,” returned Mr. Huntley. + +“I have no other wish than to be friendly; quite so. We all deem +ourselves under obligations to you, Mr. Pye, and esteem you highly; we +could not have, or wish, a better preceptor for our sons. But in this +instance, my duty is plain. The injustice--if any such injustice is +contemplated--tells particularly upon Tom Channing and my son. Mr. +Channing does not give ear to it; I would rather not; nevertheless, +you must pardon me for acting, in the uncertainty, as though it had +foundation. I presume you cannot be ignorant of the dissatisfied feeling +that reigns in the school?” + +“I have intimated that I will not be questioned,” said Mr. Pye. + +“Quite right. I merely wished to express a hope that there may be no +foundation for the rumour. If Tom Channing and Harry forfeit their +rights legally, through want of merit, or ill conduct, it is not I that +would urge a word in their favour. Fair play’s a jewel: and the highest +boy in the school should have no better chance given him than the +lowest. But if the two senior boys do not so forfeit their rights, Yorke +must not be exalted above them.” + +“Who is to dictate to me?” demanded Mr. Pye. “Certainly not I,” replied +Mr. Huntley, in a courteous but firm tone. “Were the thing to take +place, I should simply demand, through the Dean and Chapter, that the +charter of the school might be consulted, as to whether its tenets had +teen strictly followed.” + +The head-master made no reply. Neither did he appear angry; only +impassible. Mr. Huntley had certainly hit the right nail on the head; +for the master of Helstonleigh College school was entirely under the +control, of the Dean and Chapter. + +“I can speak to you upon this all the more freely and with better +understanding, since it is not my boy who stands any chance,” said Mr. +Huntley, with a cordial smile. “Tom Channing heads him on the rolls.” + +“Tom Channing will not be senior; I have no objection to affirm so much +to you,” observed the master, falling in with Mr. Huntley’s manner, +“This sad affair of his brother Arthur’s debars him.” + +“It ought not to debar him, even were Arthur guilty,” warmly returned +Mr. Huntley. + +“In justice to Tom Channing himself, no. But,” and the master dropped +his voice to a confidential tone, “it is necessary sometimes to study +the prejudices taken up by a school; to see them, and not to appear +to see them--if you understand me. Were Tom Channing made head of the +school, part of the school would rise up in rebellion; some of the boys +would, no doubt, be removed from it. For the peace of the school alone, +it could not be done. The boys would not now obey him as senior, and +there would be perpetual warfare, resulting we know not in what.” + +“Arthur Channing was not guilty. I feel as sure of it as I do of my own +life.” + +“He is looked upon as guilty by those who must know best, from their +familiarity with the details,” rejoined Mr. Pye, “For my own part, I +have no resource but to believe him so, I regard it as one of those +anomalies which you cannot understand, or would believe in, but that it +happens under your own eye; where the moment’s yielding to temptation +is at variance with the general character, with the whole past life. +Of course, in these cases, the disgrace is reflected upon relatives and +connections, and they have to suffer for it. I cannot help the school’s +resenting it upon Tom.” + +“It will be cruel to deprive Tom of the seniorship upon these grounds,” + remonstrated Mr. Huntley. + +“To himself individually,” assented the master. “But it is well that +one, promoted to a foundation-school’s seniorship, should be free from +moral taint. Were there no feeling whatever against Tom Channing in the +school, I do not think I could, consistently with my duty and with a due +regard to the fitness of things, place him as senior. I am sorry for +the boy; I always liked him; and he has been of good report, both as to +scholarship and conduct.” + +“I know one thing,” said Mr. Huntley: “that you may search the school +through, and not find so good a senior as Tom Channing would make.” + +“He would have made a very good one, there’s no doubt. Would have ruled +the boys well and firmly, though without oppression. Yes, we lose a good +senior in Tom Channing.” + +There was no more to be said. Mr. Huntley felt that the master was +thoroughly decided; and for the other matter, touching Yorke, he had +done with it until the time of appointment. As he went musing on, he +began to think that Mr. Pye might be right with regard to depriving Tom +of the seniorship, however unjust it might appear to Tom himself. Mr. +Huntley remembered that not one of the boys, except Gaunt, had mentioned +Tom Channing’s name in his recent encounter with them; they had spoken +of the injustice of exalting Yorke over _Harry Huntley_. He had not +noticed it at the time. + +He proceeded to Lady Augusta’s, and Constance was informed of his visit. +She had three pupils at Lady Augusta’s now, for that lady had kindly +insisted that Constance should bring Annabel to study with her +daughters, during the absence of Mrs. Channing. Constance left them to +themselves and entered the drawing-room. Pretty Constance! so fresh, so +lovely, in her simple muslin dress, and her braided hair. Mr. Huntley +caught her hands, and imprinted a very fatherly kiss upon her fair +forehead. + +“That is from the absentees, Constance. I told them I should give it to +you. And I bring you the bravest news, my dear. Mr. Channing was already +finding benefit from his change; he was indeed. There is every hope that +he will be restored.” + +Constance was radiant with delight. To see one who had met and stayed +with her father and mother at their distant sojourn, was almost like +seeing her parents themselves. + +“And now, my dear, I want a word with you about all those untoward +trials and troubles, which appear to have come thickly during my +absence,” continued Mr. Huntley. “First of all, as to yourself. What +mischief-making wind has been arising between you and William Yorke?” + +The expression of Constance’s face changed to sadness, and her cheeks +grew crimson. + +“My dear, you will not misunderstand me,” he resumed. “I heard of these +things at Borcette, and I said that I should undertake to inquire into +them in the place of your father: just as he, health permitting him, +would have undertaken for me in my absence, did any trouble arise to +Ellen. Is it true that you and Mr. Yorke have parted?” + +“Yes,” faltered Constance. + +“And the cause?” + +Constance strove to suppress her tears. “You can do nothing, Mr. +Huntley; nothing whatever. Thank you all the same.” + +“He has made this accusation upon Arthur the plea for breaking off his +engagement?” + +“I could not marry him with this cloud upon me,” she murmured. “It would +not be right.” + +“Cloud upon _you!_” hastily ejaculated Mr. Huntley. “The accusation +against Arthur was the sole cause, then, of your parting?” + +“Yes; the sole cause which led to it.” + +Mr. Huntley paused, apparently in thought. “He is presented to Hazeldon +Chapel, I hear. Did his rupture with you take place _after_ that +occurrence?” + +“I see what you are thinking,” she impulsively cried, caring too much +for Mr. Yorke not to defend him. “The chief fault of the parting was +mine. I felt that it would not do to become his wife, being--being--” + she hesitated much--“Arthur’s sister. I believe that he also felt it. +Indeed, Mr. Huntley, there is no help for it; nothing can be done.” + +“Knowing what I do of William Yorke, I am sure that the pain of +separation must be keen, whatever may be his pride. Constance, unless I +am mistaken, it is equally keen to you.” + +Again rose the soft damask blush to the face of Constance. But she +answered decisively. “Mr. Huntley, I pray you to allow the subject to +cease. Nothing can bring about the renewal of the engagement between +myself and Mr. Yorke. It is irrevocably at an end.” + +“Until Arthur shall be cleared, you mean?” + +“No,” she answered--a vision of Hamish and _his_ guilt flashing across +her--“I mean for good.” + +“Why does not Arthur assert his innocence to Mr. Yorke? Constance, I am +sure you know, as well as I do, that he is not guilty. _Has_ he asserted +it?” + +She made no answer. + +“As I would have wished to serve you, so will I serve Arthur,” said Mr. +Huntley. “I told your father and mother, Constance, that I should make +it my business to investigate the charge against him; I shall leave not +a stone unturned to bring his innocence to light.” + +The avowal terrified Constance, and she lost her self-possession. “Oh +don’t! don’t!” she uttered. “You must not, indeed! you do not know the +mischief it might do.” + +“Mischief to what?--to whom?” exclaimed Mr. Huntley. + +Constance buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The next +moment she had raised it, and taken Mr. Huntley’s hand between hers. +“You are papa’s friend! You would do us good and not harm--is it not +so?” she beseechingly said. + +“My dear child,” he exclaimed, quite confounded by her words--her +distress: “you know that I would not harm any of you for the world.” + +“Then _pray_ do not seek to dive into that unhappy story,” she +whispered. “It must not be too closely looked into.” + +And Mr. Huntley quitted Constance, as a man who walks in a dream, so +utterly amazed was he. What did it all mean? + +As he was going through the cloisters--his nearest way to the +town--Roland Yorke came flying up. With his usual want of ceremony, +he passed his arm within Mr. Huntley’s. “Galloway’s come in now,” he +exclaimed, “and I am off to the bank to pay in a bag of money for him. +Jenkins told him you had called. Just hark at that clatter!” + +The clatter, alluded to by Mr. Roland, was occasioned by the tramp of +the choristers on the cloister flags. They were coming up behind, full +speed, on their way from the schoolroom to enter the cathedral, for the +bell had begun for service. + +“And here comes that beautiful relative of mine,” continued Roland, as +he and Mr. Huntley passed the cathedral entrance, and turned into the +west quadrangle of the cloisters. “Would you credit it, Mr. Huntley, +that he has turned out a sneak? He has. He was to have married Constance +Channing, you know, and, for fear Arthur should have touched the note, +he has declared off it. If I were Constance, I would never allow the +fellow to speak to me again.” + +Apparently it was the course Mr. Roland himself intended to observe. +As the Rev. Mr. Yorke, who was coming in to service, drew near, Roland +strode on, his step haughty, his head in the air, which was all the +notice he vouchsafed to take. Probably the minor canon did not care very +much for Mr. Roland’s notice, one way or the other; but his eye lighted +with pleasure at the sight of Mr. Huntley, and he advanced to him, his +hand outstretched. + +But Mr. Huntley--a man given to show in his manner his likes and +dislikes--would not see the hand, would not stop at all, but passed Mr. +Yorke with a distant bow. That gentleman had fallen pretty deeply in his +estimation, since he had heard of the rupture with Constance Channing. +Mr. Yorke stood for a moment as if petrified, and then strode on his way +with a step as haughty as Roland’s. + +Roland burst into a glow of delight. “That’s the way to serve him, Mr. +Huntley! I hope he’ll get cut by every good man in Helstonleigh.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. -- GERALD YORKE MADE INTO A “BLOCK.” + +The Rev. Mr. Yorke, in his surplice and hood, stood in his stall in the +cathedral. His countenance was stern, absorbed; as that of a man who is +not altogether at peace with himself. Let us hope that he was absorbed +in the sacred service in which he was taking a part: but we all know, +to our cost, that the spirit will wander at these times, and worldly +thoughts obtrude themselves. The greatest divine that the Church can +boast, is not always free from them. + +Not an official part in the service was Mr. Yorke taking, that +afternoon; the duty was being performed by the head-master, whose week +it was to take it. Very few people were at service, and still less of +the clergy; the dean was present, but not one of the chapter. + +Arthur Channing sat in his place at the organ. Arthur’s thoughts, too, +were wandering; and--you know it is of no use to make people out to be +better than they are--wandering to things especially mundane. Arthur had +not ceased to look out for something to do, to replace the weekly +funds lost when he left Mr. Galloway’s. He had not yet been successful: +employment is more easily sought than found, especially by one lying +under doubt, as he was. But he had now heard of something which he hoped +he might gain. + +Jenkins, saying nothing to Roland Yorke, or to any one else, had hurried +to Mr. Channing’s house that day between one and two o’clock; and +hurrying there and back had probably caused that temporary increase of +cough, which you heard of a chapter or two back. Jenkins’s errand was to +inform Arthur that Dove and Dove (solicitors in the town, who were by +no means so dove-like as their name) required a temporary clerk, and +he thought Arthur might suit them. Arthur had asked Jenkins to keep a +look-out for him. + +“Is one of their clerks leaving?” Arthur inquired. + +“One of them met with an accident last night up at the railway-station,” + replied Jenkins. “Did you not hear of it, sir?” + +“I heard of that. I did not know who was hurt. He was trying to cross +the line, was he not?” + +“Yes, sir. It was Marston. He had been out with some friends, and had +taken, it is thought, more than was good for him. A porter pulled him +back, but Marston fell, and the engine crushed his foot. He will be laid +up two months, the doctor says, and Dove and Dove are looking out for +some one to fill his place for the time. If you would like to take it, +sir, you could be looking out for something else while you are there. +You would more readily get the two hours’ daily leave of absence from +a place like that, where they keep three or four clerks, than you would +from where they keep only one.” + +“If I like to take it!” repeated Arthur. “Will they like to take me? +That’s the question. Thank you, Jenkins; I’ll see about it at once.” + +He was not able to do so immediately after Jenkins left; for Dove and +Dove’s offices were situated at the other end of the town, and he might +not be back in time for service. So he waited and went first to college, +and sat, I say, in his place at the organ, his thoughts filled, in spite +of himself, with the new project. + +The service came to an end: it had seemed long to Arthur--so prone are +we to estimate time by our own feelings--and his voluntary, afterwards, +was played a shade faster than usual. Then he left the cathedral by the +front entrance, and hastened to the office of Dove and Dove. + +Arthur had had many a rebuff of late, when bent on a similar +application, and his experience taught him that it was best, if +possible, to see the principals: not to subject himself to the careless +indifference or to the insolence of a clerk. Two young men were writing +at a desk when he entered. “Can I see Mr. Dove?” he inquired. + +The elder of the writers scrutinized him through the railings of the +desk. “Which of them?” asked he. + +“Either,” replied Arthur. “Mr. Dove, or Mr. Alfred Dove. It does not +matter.” + +“Mr. Dove’s out, and Mr. Alfred Dove’s not at home,” was the response. +“You’ll have to wait, or to call again.” + +He preferred to wait: and in a very few minutes Mr. Dove came in. Arthur +was taken into a small room, so full of papers that it seemed difficult +to turn in it, and there he stated his business. + +“You are a son of Mr. Channing’s, I believe,” said Mr. Dove. He spoke +morosely, coarsely; and he had a morose, coarse countenance--a sure +index of the mind, in him, as in others. “Was it you who figured in the +proceedings at the Guildhall some few weeks ago?” + +You may judge whether the remark called up the blood to Arthur’s face. +He suppressed his mortification, and spoke bravely. + +“It was myself, sir. I was not guilty. My employment in your office +would be the copying of deeds solely, I presume; that would afford me +little temptation to be dishonest, even were I inclined to be so.” + +Had any one paid Arthur in gold to keep in that little bit of sarcasm, +he could not have done so. Mr. Dove caught up the idea that the words +_were_ uttered in sarcasm, and scowled fitfully. + +“Marston was worth twenty-five shillings a week to us: and gained it. +You would not be worth half as much.” + +“You do not know what I should be worth, sir, unless you tried me. I am +a quick and correct copyist; but I should not expect to receive as much +as an ordinary clerk, on account of having to attend the cathedral for +morning and afternoon service. Wherever I go, I must have that privilege +allowed me.” + +“Then I don’t think you’ll get it with us. But look here, young +Channing, it is my brother who undertakes the engaging and management of +the clerks--you can speak to him.” + +“Can I see him this afternoon, sir?” + +“He’ll be in presently. Of course, we could not admit you into our +office unless some one became security. You must be aware of that.” + +The words seemed like a checkmate to Arthur. He stopped in hesitation. +“Is it usual, sir?” + +“Usual--no! But it is necessary in _your_ case” + +There was a coarse, pointed stress upon the “your,” natural to the man. +Arthur turned away. For a moment he felt that to Dove and Dove’s he +could not and would not go; every feeling within him rebelled against +it. Presently the rebellion calmed down, and he began to think about the +security. + +It would be of little use, he was sure, to apply to Mr. Alfred Dove--who +was a shade coarser than Mr. Dove, if anything--unless prepared to say +that security could be given. His father’s he thought he might command: +but he was not sure of that, under present circumstances, without first +speaking to Hamish. He turned his steps to Guild Street, his unhappy +position pressing with unusual weight upon his feelings. + +“Can I see my brother?” he inquired of the clerks in the office. + +“He has some gentlemen with him just now, sir. I dare say you can go +in.” + +There was nothing much amiss in the words; but in the tone there was. It +was indicative of slight, of contempt. It was the first time Arthur had +been there since the suspicion had fallen on him, and they seemed to +stare at him as if he had been a hyena; not a respectable hyena either. + +He entered Hamish’s room. Hamish was talking with two gentlemen, +strangers to Arthur, but they were on the point of leaving. Arthur stood +away against the wainscoting by the corner table, waiting until +they were gone, his attitude, his countenance, his whole appearance +indicative of depression and sadness. + +Hamish closed the door and turned to him. He laid his hand kindly upon +his shoulder; his voice was expressive of the kindest sympathy. “So you +have found your way here once more, Arthur! I thought you were never +coming again. What can I do for you, lad?” + +“I have been to Dove and Dove’s. They are in want of a clerk. I think +perhaps they would take me; but, Hamish, they want security.” + +“Dove and Dove’s,” repeated Hamish. “Nice gentlemen, both of them!” he +added, in his half-pleasant, half-sarcastic manner. “Arthur, boy, I’d +not be under Dove and Dove if they offered me a gold nugget a day, as +weighty as the Queen’s crown. You must not go there.” + +“They are not agreeable men; I know that; they are not men who are liked +in Helstonleigh, but what difference will that make to me? So long as +I turn out their parchments properly engrossed, that is all I need care +for.” + +“What has happened? Why are you looking so sad?” reiterated Hamish, who +could not fail to perceive that there was some strange grief at work. + +“Is my life so sunny just now, that I can always be as bright as you?” + retorted Arthur--for Hamish’s undimmed gaiety did sometimes jar upon his +wearied spirit. “I shall go to Dove and Dove’s if they will take me,” + he added, resolutely. “Will you answer for me, Hamish, in my father’s +name?” + +“What amount of security do they require?” asked Hamish. And it was a +very proper, a very natural question; but even that grated on Arthur’s +nerves. + +“Are you afraid of me?” he rejoined. “Or do you fear my father would +be?” + +“I dare say they would take my security,” was Hamish’s reply. “I will +answer for you to any amount. That is,” and again came his smile, “to +any amount they may deem me good for. If they don’t like mine, I can +offer my father’s. Will that do, Arthur?” + +“Thank you; that is all I want.” + +“Don’t go to Dove and Dove’s, old boy,” Hamish said again, as Arthur +was leaving the room. “Wait patiently for something better to turn +up. There’s no such great hurry. I wish there was room for you to come +here!” + +“It is only a temporary thing; it is not for long,” replied Arthur; and +he went out. + +On going back to Dove and Dove’s, the first person he saw, upon opening +the door of the clerks’ room, was Mr. Alfred Dove. He appeared to be in +a passion over something that had gone wrong, and was talking fast and +furiously. + +“What do you want?” he asked, wheeling round upon Arthur. Arthur replied +by intimating that he would be glad to speak with him. + +“Can’t you speak, then?” returned Mr. Alfred Dove. “I am not deaf.” + +Thus met, Arthur did not repeat his wish for privacy. He intimated his +business, uncertain whether Mr. Alfred Dove had heard of it or not; and +stated that the security could be given. + +“I don’t know what you mean about ‘security,’” was Mr. Alfred Dove’s +rejoinder. “What security?” + +“Mr. Dove said that if I came into your office security would be +required,” answered Arthur. “My friends are ready to give it.” + +“Mr. Dove told you that, did he? Just like him. He has nothing to do +with the details of the office. Did he know who you are?” + +“Certainly he did, sir.” + +“I should have thought not,” offensively returned Mr. Alfred Dove. +“You must possess some assurance, young man, to come after a place in +a respectable office. Security, or no security, we can’t admit one into +ours, who lies under the accusation of being light-fingered.” + +It was the man all over. Hamish had said, “Don’t go to Dove and Dove’s.” + Mr. Alfred Dove stood with his finger pointing to the door, and the two +clerks stared in an insolent manner at Arthur. With a burning brow and +rising spirit, Arthur left the room, and halted for a moment in +the passage outside. “Patience, patience,” he murmured to himself; +“patience, and trust in God!” He turned into the street quickly, and ran +against Mr. Huntley. + +For a minute he could not speak. That gentleman detected his emotion, +and waited till it was over. “Have you been insulted, Arthur?” he +breathed. + +“Not much more so than I am now getting accustomed to,” was the answer +that came from his quivering lips. “I heard they wanted a clerk, and +went to offer myself. I am looked upon as a felon now, Mr. Huntley.” + +“Being innocent as the day.” + +“I am innocent, before God,” spoke Arthur, in the impulse of his +emotion, in the fervency of his heart. That he spoke but the solemn +truth, it was impossible to doubt, even had Mr. Huntley been inclined to +doubt; and Arthur may be excused for forgetting his usual caution in the +moment’s bitterness. + +“Arthur,” said Mr. Huntley, “I promised your father and mother that I +should do all in my power to establish your innocence. Can you tell me +how I am to set about it?” + +“You cannot do it at all, Mr. Huntley. Things must remain as they are.” + +“Why?” + +“I cannot explain why. I can only repeat it.” + +“There is some strange mystery attaching to this.” + +Arthur did not gainsay it. + +“Arthur, if I am to allow the affair to rest as I find it, you must at +least give me a reason why I may not act. What is it?” + +“Because the investigation could only cause tenfold deeper trouble. You +are very good to think of helping me, Mr. Huntley, but I must fight my +own battle. Others must be quiet in this matter--for all our sakes.” + +Mr. Huntley gazed after Arthur as he moved away. Constance first! Arthur +next! What could be the meaning of it all? Where did the mystery lie? A +resolution grew up in Mr. Huntley’s heart that he would fathom it, for +private reasons of his own; and, in the impulse of the moment, he bent +his steps there and then, towards the police-station, and demanded an +interview with Roland Yorke’s _bête noire_, Mr. Butterby. + +But the cathedral is not quite done with for the afternoon. + +Upon the conclusion of service, the dean lingered a few minutes in the +nave, speaking to one of the vergers. When he turned to continue his +way, he encountered the Rev. Mr. Pye, who had been taking off his +surplice in the vestry. The choristers had been taking off their +surplices also, and were now trooping through the cloisters back to the +schoolroom, not more gently than usual. The dean saluted Mr. Pye, and +they walked out together. + +“It is impossible to keep them quiet unless one’s eye is continually +upon them!” exclaimed the head-master, half apologetically, as they came +in view of the rebels. He had a great mind to add, “And one’s cane.” + +“Boys will be boys,” said the dean. “How has this foolish opinion +arisen among them, that the names, standing first on the roll for the +seniorship, will not be allowed to compete for it?” continued he, with +much suavity. + +Mr. Pye looked rather flushed. “Really I am unable to say, Mr. Dean. It +is difficult to account for all the notions taken up by schoolboys.” + +“Boys do take up strange notions,” blandly assented the dean. “But, +I think, were I you, Mr. Pye, I would set their minds at rest in this +respect. You have not yet deemed it worth while, I dare say: but it may +perhaps be as well to do so. When the elders of a school once take up +the idea that their studies may not meet with due reward, it tends to +render them indifferent. I remember once--it was just after I came here +as dean, many years ago--the head-master of the school exalted a boy to +be senior who stood sixth or seventh on the rolls, and was positively +half an idiot. But those times are past.” + +“Certainly they are,” remarked the master. + +“It was an unpleasant duty I had to perform then,” continued the +dean, in the same agreeable tone, as if he were relating an anecdote: +“unpleasant both for the parents of the boy, and for the head-master. +But, as I remark, such things could not occur now. I think I would +intimate to the king’s scholars that they have nothing to fear.” + +“It shall be done, Mr. Dean,” was the response of the master; and they +exchanged bows as the dean turned into the deanery. “She’s three parts +a fool, is that Lady Augusta,” muttered the master to the cloister-flags +as he strode over them. “Chattering magpie!” + +As circumstances had it, the way was paved for the master to speak at +once. Upon entering the college schoolroom, in passing the senior desk, +he overheard whispered words of dispute between Gerald Yorke and Pierce +senior, touching this very question, the seniorship. The master reached +his own desk, gave it a sharp rap with a cane that lay near to hand, and +spoke in his highest tone, looking red and angry. + +“What _are_ these disputes that appear to have been latterly +disturbing the peace of the school? What is that you are saying, Gerald +Yorke?--that the seniorship is to be yours?” + +Gerald Yorke looked red in his turn, and somewhat foolish. “I beg +your pardon, sir; I was not saying precisely that,” he answered with +hesitation. + +“I think you were saying precisely that,” was the response of the +master. “My ears are quicker than you may fancy, Mr. Yorke. If you +really have been hugging yourself with the notion that the promotion +will be yours, the sooner you disabuse your mind of it, the better. +Whoever gains the seniorship will gain it by priority of right, by +scholarship, or by conduct--as the matter may be. Certainly not by +anything else. Allow me to recommend you, one and all”--and the master +threw his eyes round the desks generally, and gave another emphatic +stroke with the cane--“that you concern yourselves with your legitimate +business; not with mine.” + +Gerald did not like the reproof, or the news. He remained silent and +sullen until the conclusion of school, and then went tearing home. + +“A pretty block you have made of me!” he uttered, bursting into the +presence of Lady Augusta, who had just returned home, and sat fanning +herself on a sofa before an open window. + +“Why, what has taken you?” returned her ladyship. + +“It’s a shame, mother! Filling me up with the news that I was to be +senior? And now Pye goes and announces that I’m a fool for supposing so, +and that it’s to go in regular rotation.” + +“Pye does not mean it,” said my lady. “There, hold your tongue, Gerald. +I am too hot to talk.” + +“I know that every fellow in the school will have the laugh at me, if I +am to be made a block of, like this!” grumbled Gerald. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. -- THE EARL OF CARRICK. + +On a fine afternoon in August--and the month was now drawing towards +its close--the 2.25 train from London steamed into the station at +Helstonleigh, eight minutes behind time, and came to a standstill. +Amongst the passengers who alighted, was a gentleman of middle age, as +it is called--in point of fact, he had entered his fiftieth year, as +the peerage would have told any curious inquirer. As he stepped out of a +first-class carriage, several eyes were drawn towards him, for he was of +notable height, towering above every one; even above Roland Yorke, who +was of good height himself, and stood on the platform waiting for him. + +It was the Earl of Carrick, brother to Lady Augusta Yorke, and much +resembling her--a pleasant, high cheek-boned, easy face, betraying more +of good humour than of high or keen intellect, and nothing of pride. The +pride of the young Yorkes was sometimes talked of in Helstonleigh, but +it came from their father’s side, not from Lady Augusta’s. The earl +spoke with a slight brogue, and shook both Roland’s hands heartily, as +soon as he found that it was to Roland they belonged. + +“Sure then! but I didn’t know ye, Roland! If ye had twenty years more on +to ye’re head, I should have thought it was ye’re father.” + +“Have I grown like him, Uncle Carrick?” + +“Ye’ve grown out of knowledge, me boy. And how’s ye’re mother, and how +are the rest of ye?” + +“Stunning,” responded Roland. “They are all outside. She would bring up +the whole caravan. The last time the lot came to the station, the two +young ones got upon the line to dance a hornpipe on the rails; so she +has kept them by her, and is making Gerald and Tod look after them. +Where’s your luggage, Uncle Carrick? Have you brought a servant?” + +“Not I,” replied the earl. “Servants are only troubles in other folk’s +houses, and me bit of luggage isn’t so much but I can look after it +meself. I hope they put it in,” he continued, looking about amid the +boxes and portmanteaus, and unable to see his own. + +The luggage was found at last, and given in charge of a porter; and Lord +Carrick went out to meet his relatives. There were enough of them to +meet--the whole caravan, as Roland had expressed it. Lady Augusta sat in +her barouche--her two daughters and Constance and Annabel Channing with +her. Little Percy and Frank, two most troublesome children, were darting +in and out amidst the carriages, flys, and omnibuses; and Gerald and +Tod had enough to do to keep them out of danger. It was so like Lady +Augusta--bringing them all to the station to welcome their uncle! +Warm-hearted and impulsive, she had little more judgment than a child. +Constance had in vain protested against herself and Annabel being +pressed into the company; but her ladyship looked upon it as a sort of +triumphal expedition, and was deaf to remonstrances. + +The earl, warm-hearted and impulsive also, kissed them all, Constance +included. She could not help herself; before she was aware of the honour +intended her, the kiss was given--a hearty smack, as all the rest had. +The well-meaning, simple-minded Irishman could not have been made to +understand why he should not give a kiss of greeting to Constance as +readily as he gave it to his sister, or his sister’s daughters. He +protested that he remembered Constance and Annabel well. It may be +questioned whether there was not more of Irish politeness than of truth +in the assertion, though he had seen them occasionally, during his visit +of three years ago. + +How were they all to get home? In and on the barouche, as all, except +Roland, had come, to the gratification of the curious town? Lord Carrick +wished to walk; his long legs were cramped: but Lady Augusta would not +hear of it, and pulled him into the carriage, Gerald, Percy, and Frank +were fighting for places on the box beside the driver, Tod intending to +hang on behind, as he had done in coming, when the deep-toned college +bell struck out a quarter to three, and the sound came distinctly to +their ears, borne from the distance. It put a stop to the competition, +so far as Gerald was concerned. He and Tod, startled half out of their +senses, for they had not observed the lapse of time, set off on foot as +hard as they could go. + +Meanwhile, Roland, putting aside the two young ones with his strong +hand, chose to mount the box himself; at which they both began to shriek +and roar. Matters were compromised after a while; Percy was taken up by +Roland, and Frank was, by some process of packing, stowed away inside. +Then the cargo started! Lady Augusta happy as a princess, with her +newly-met brother and her unruly children, and not caring in the least +for the gaze of the people who stood in the street, or came rushing to +their windows and doors to criticise the load. + +Crowded as the carriage was, it was pleasanter to be in it, on that +genial day, than to be at work in close rooms, dark shops, or dull +offices. Amongst others, who were so confined and hard at work, was +Jenkins at Mr. Galloway’s. Poor Jenkins had not improved in health +during the week or two that had elapsed since you last saw him. His +cough was more troublesome still, and he was thinner and weaker. But +Jenkins, humble and conscientious, thinking himself one who was not +worth thinking of at all in comparison with others, would have died +at his post rather than give in. Certainly, Arthur Channing had been +discharged at a most inopportune moment, for Mr. Galloway, as steward to +the Dean and Chapter, had more to do about Michaelmas, than at any other +time of the year. From that epoch until November, when the yearly audit +took place, there was a good deal of business to be gone through. + +On this afternoon, Jenkins was particularly busy. Mr. Galloway was away +from home for a day or two--on business connected with that scapegrace +cousin of his, Roland Yorke proclaimed; though whether Mr. Roland +had any foundation for the assertion, except his own fancy, may be +doubted--and Jenkins had it all upon his own shoulders. Jenkins, +unobtrusive and meek though he was, was perfectly competent to manage, +and Mr. Galloway left him with entire trust. But it is one thing to be +competent to manage, and another thing to be able to do two persons’ +work in one person’s time; and, that, Jenkins was finding this +afternoon. He had letters to write; he had callers to answer; he had the +general business of the office to attend to; he had the regular deeds to +prepare and copy. The copying of those deeds was the work belonging +to Roland Yorke. Roland did not seem to be in a hurry to come to them. +Jenkins cast towards them an anxious eye, but Jenkins could do no +more, for his own work could not be neglected. He felt very unwell that +afternoon--oppressed, hot, unable to breathe. He wiped the moisture from +his brow three or four times, and then thought he might be the better +for a little air, and opened the window. But the breeze, gentle as it +was, made him cough, and he shut it again. + +Of course, no one, knowing Mr. Roland Yorke, could be surprised at his +starting to the station to meet Lord Carrick, instead of to the office +to do his work. He had gone home at one o’clock that day, as usual. Not +that there was any necessity for his doing so, for the dinner hour was +postponed until later, and it would have furthered the business of the +office had he remained for once at his post. Had any one suggested to +Roland to do so, he would have thought he was going to be worked to +death. About twenty minutes past three he came clattering in. + +“I say, Jenkins, I want a holiday this afternoon.” + +Jenkins, albeit the most accommodating spirit in the world, looked +dubious, and cast a glance at the papers on Roland’s desk. “Yes, sir. +But what is to be done about the Uphill farm leases?” + +“Now, Jenkins, it’s not a bit of good for you to begin to croak! If I +gave in to you, you’d get as bad as Galloway. When I have my mind off +work, I can’t settle to it again, and it’s of no use trying. Those +Uphill deeds are not wanted before to-morrow.” + +“But they are wanted by eleven o’clock, sir, so that they must be +finished, or nearly finished, to-night. You know, sir, there has been a +fuss about them, and early to-morrow, is the very latest time they must +be sent in.” + +“I’ll get up, and be here in good time and finish them,” said Roland. +“Just put it to yourself, Jenkins, if you had an uncle that you’d not +seen for seventeen ages, whether you’d like to leave him the minute he +puts his foot over the door-sill.” + +“I dare say I should not, sir,” said good-natured Jenkins, turning about +in his mind how he could make time to do Roland’s work. “His lordship is +come, then, Mr. Roland?” + +“His lordship’s come, bag and baggage,” returned Roland. “I say, +Jenkins, what a thousand shames it is that he’s not rich! He is the +best-natured fellow alive, and would do anything in the world for us, if +he only had the tin.” + +“Is he not rich, sir?” + +“Why, of course he’s not,” confidentially returned Roland. “Every one +knows the embarrassments of Lord Carrick. When he came into the estates, +they had been mortgaged three deep by the last peer, my grandfather--an +old guy in a velvet skull-cap, I remember, who took snuff +incessantly--and my uncle, on his part, had mortgaged them three +deep again, which made six. How Carrick manages to live nobody knows. +Sometimes he’s in Ireland, in the tumble-down old homestead, with just +a couple of servants to wait upon him; and sometimes he’s on the +Continent, _en garçon_--if you know what that means. Now and then he +gets a windfall when any of his tenants can be brought to pay up; but he +is the easiest-going coach in life, and won’t press them. Wouldn’t I!” + +“Some of those Irish tenants are very poor, sir, I have heard.” + +“Poor be hanged! What is a man’s own, ought to be his own. Carrick says +there are some years that he does not draw two thousand pounds, all +told.” + +“Indeed, sir! That is not much for a peer.” + +“It’s not much for a commoner, let alone a peer,” said Roland, growing +fierce. “If I were no better off than Carrick, I’d drop the title; +that’s what I’d do. Why, if he could live as a peer ought, do you +suppose we should be in the position we are? One a soldier; one (and +that’s me) lowered to be a common old proctor; one a parson; and all the +rest of it! If Carrick could be as other earls are, and have interest +with the Government, and that, we should stand a chance of getting +properly provided for. Of course he can make interest with nobody while +his estates bring him in next door to nothing.” + +“Are there no means of improving his estates, Mr. Roland?” asked +Jenkins. + +“If there were, he’s not the one to do it. And I don’t know that it +would do him any material good, after all,” acknowledged Roland. “If he +gets one thousand a year, he spends two; and if he had twenty thousand, +he’d spend forty. It might come to the same in the long run, so far as +he goes: _we_ might be the better for it, and should be. It’s a shame, +though, that we should need to be the better for other folk’s money; if +this were not the most unjust world going, everybody would have fortunes +of their own.” + +After this friendly little bit of confidence touching his uncle’s +affairs, Roland prepared to depart. “I’ll be sure to come in good time +nn the morning, Jenkins, and set to it like a brick,” was his parting +salutation. + +Away he went. Jenkins, with his aching head and his harassing cough, +applied himself diligently, as he ever did, to the afternoon’s work, and +got through it by six o’clock, which was later than usual. There then +remained the copying, which Mr. Roland Yorke ought to have done. Knowing +the value of Roland’s promises, and knowing also that if he kept this +promise ever so strictly, the amount of copying was more than could be +completed in time, if left to the morning, Jenkins did as he had been +aware he must do, when talking with Roland--took it home with him. + +The parchments under his arm, he set out on his walk. What could be +the matter with him, that he felt so weak, he asked himself as he went +along. It must be, he believed, having gone without his dinner. +Jenkins generally went home to dinner at twelve, and returned at +one; occasionally, however, he did not go until two, according to the +exigencies of the office; this day, he had not gone at all, but had cut +a sandwich at breakfast-time and brought it with him in his pocket. + +He had proceeded as far as the elm trees in the Boundaries--for Jenkins +generally chose the quiet cloister way for his road home--when he saw +Arthur Channing advancing towards him. With the ever-ready, respectful, +cordial smile with which he was wont to greet Arthur whenever he saw +him, Jenkins quickened his steps. But suddenly the smile seemed to +fix itself upon his lips; and the parchments fell from his arm, and he +staggered against the palings. But that Arthur was at hand to support +him, he might have fallen to the ground. + +“Why, what is it, Jenkins?” asked Arthur, kindly, when Jenkins was +beginning to recover himself. + +“Thank you, sir; I don’t know what it could have been. Just as I was +looking at you, a mist seemed to come before my eyes, and I felt giddy. +I suppose it was a sort of faintness that came over me. I had been +thinking that I felt weary. Thank you very much, sir.” + +“Take my arm, Jenkins,” said Arthur, as he picked up the parchments, and +took possession of them. “I’ll see you home.” + +“Oh no, sir, indeed,” protested simple-hearted Jenkins; “I’d not think +of such a thing. I should feel quite ashamed, sir, at the thought of +your being seen arm-in-arm with me in the street. I can go quite well +alone; I can, indeed, sir.” + +Arthur burst out laughing. “I wish you wouldn’t be such an old duffer, +Jenkins--as the college boys have it! Do you suppose I should let you go +home by yourself? Come along.” + +Drawing Jenkins’s arm within his own, Arthur turned with him. Jenkins +really did not like it. Sensitive to a degree was he: and, to his humble +mind, it seemed that Arthur was out of place, walking familiarly with +him. + +“You must have been doing something to tire yourself,” said Arthur as +they went along. + +“It has been a pretty busy day, sir, now Mr. Galloway’s away. I did not +go home to dinner, for one thing.” + +“And Mr. Roland Yorke absent for another, I suppose?” + +“Only this afternoon, sir. His uncle, Lord Carrick, has arrived. Oh, +sir!” broke off Jenkins, stopping in a panic, “here’s his lordship the +bishop coming along! Whatever shall you do?” + +“Do!” returned Arthur, scarcely understanding him. “What should I do?” + +“To think that he should see you thus with the like of me!” + +It amused Arthur exceedingly. Poor, lowly-minded Jenkins! The bishop +appeared to divine the state of the case, for he stopped when he came +up. Possibly he was struck by the wan hue which overspread Jenkins’s +face. + +“You look ill, Jenkins,” he said, nodding to Arthur Channing. “Keep your +hat on, Jenkins--keep your hat on.” + +“Thank you, my lord,” replied Jenkins, disregarding the injunction +touching his hat. “A sort of faintness came over me just now under the +elm trees, and this gentleman insisted upon walking home with me, in +spite of my protestations to--” + +Jenkins was stopped by a fit of coughing--a long, violent fit, sounding +hollow as the grave. The bishop watched him till it was over. Arthur +watched him. + +“I think you should take better care of yourself, Jenkins,” remarked his +lordship. “Is any physician attending you?” + +“Oh, my lord, I am not ill enough yet for that. My wife made me go to +Mr. Hurst the other day, my lord, and he gave me a bottle of something. +But he said it was not medicine that I wanted.” + +“I should advise you to go to a physician, Jenkins. A stitch in time +saves nine, you know,” the bishop added, in his free good humour. + +“So it does, my lord. Thank your lordship for thinking of me,” added +Jenkins, as the bishop said good afternoon, and pursued his way. And +then, and not till then, did Jenkins put on his hat again. + +“Mr. Arthur, would you be so kind as not to say anything to my wife +about my being poorly?” asked Jenkins, as they drew near to his home. +“She’d be perhaps, for saying I should not go again yet to the office; +and a pretty dilemma that would put me in, Mr. Galloway being absent. +She’d get so fidgety, too: she kills me with kindness, if she thinks I +am ill. The broth and arrowroot, and other messes, sir, that she makes +me swallow, are untellable.” + +“All right,” said Arthur. + +But the intention was frustrated. Who should be standing at the +shop-door but Mrs. Jenkins herself. She saw them before they saw her, +and she saw that her husband looked like a ghost, and was supported by +Arthur. Of course, she drew her own conclusions; and Mrs. Jenkins was +one who did not allow her conclusions to be set aside. When Jenkins +found that he was seen and suspected, he held out no longer, but +honestly confessed the worst--that he had been taken with a giddiness. + +“Of course,” said Mrs. Jenkins, as she pushed a chair here and another +there, partly in temper, partly to free the narrow passage through the +shop to the parlour. “I have been expecting nothing less all day. Every +group of footsteps slower than usual, I have thought it was a shutter +arriving and you on it, dropped dead from exhaustion. Would you +believe”--turning short round on Arthur Channing--“that he has been such +a donkey as to fast from breakfast time? And with that cough upon him!” + +“Not quite so fast, my dear,” deprecated Jenkins. “I ate the paper of +sandwiches.” + +“Paper of rubbish!” retorted Mrs. Jenkins. “What good do sandwiches do +a weakly man? You might eat a ton-load, and be none the better for it. +Well, Jenkins, you may take your leave of having your own way.” + +Poor Jenkins might have deferentially intimated that he never did have +it. Mrs. Jenkins resumed: + +“He said he’d carry a sandwich with him this morning, instead of coming +home to dinner. I said, ‘No.’ And afterwards I was such a simpleton +as to yield! And here’s the effects of it! Sit yourself down in the +easy-chair,” she added, taking Jenkins by the arms and pushing him into +it. “And I’ll make the tea now,” concluded she, turning to the table +where the tea-things were set out. “There’s some broiled fowl coming up +for you.” + +“I don’t feel as if I could eat this evening,” Jenkins ventured to say. + +“_Not eat_!” she repeated with emphasis. “You had better eat--that’s +all. I don’t want to have you falling down exhausted here, as you did in +the Boundaries.” + +“And as soon as you have had your tea, you should go to bed,” put in +Arthur. + +“I can’t, sir. I have three or four hours’ work at that deed. It must be +done.” + +“At this?” returned Arthur, opening the papers he had carried home. “Oh, +I see; it is a lease. I’ll copy this for you, Jenkins. I have nothing to +do to-night. You take your ease, and go to bed.” + +And in spite of their calls, Jenkins’s protestations against taking up +his time and trouble, and Mrs. Jenkins’s proffered invitation to partake +of tea and broiled fowl, Arthur departed carrying off the work. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. -- ELLEN HUNTLEY. + + “A pretty time o’ day this is to deliver the letters. It’s eleven o’clock!” + +“I can’t help it. The train broke down, and was three hours behind its +time.” + +“I dare say! You letter-men want looking up: that’s what it is. Coming +to folks’s houses at eleven o’clock, when they have been waiting and +looking ever since breakfast-time!” + +“It’s not my fault, I say. Take the letter.” + +Judith received it with a grunt, for it was between her and the postman +that the colloquy had taken place. A delay had occurred that morning +in the delivery, and Judith was resenting it, feeling half inclined +to reject the letter, now that it had come. The letters from Germany +arrived irregularly; sometimes by the afternoon post at four, sometimes +by the morning; the only two deliveries in Helstonleigh. A letter had +been fully expected this morning, and when the time passed over, they +supposed there was none. + +It was directed to Miss Channing. Judith, who was quite as anxious about +her master’s health as the children were, went off at once with it to +Lady Augusta Yorke’s, just as she was, without the ceremony of putting +on a bonnet. Though she did wear a mob-cap and a check apron, she looked +what she was--a respectable servant in a respectable family; and the +Boundaries so regarded her, as she passed through them, letter in +hand. Martha, Lady Augusta’s housemaid, answered the door, presenting a +contrast to Judith. Martha wore a crinoline as big as her lady’s, and +a starched-out muslin gown over it, with flounces and frillings, +for Martha was “dressed” for the day. Her arms, red and large, were +displayed beneath her open sleeves, and something that looked like a bit +of twisted lace was stuck on the back of her head. Martha called it a +“cap.” Judith was a plain servant, and Martha was a fashionable one; but +I know which looked the better of the two. + +Judith would not give in the letter. She asked for the young mistress, +and Constance came to her in the hall. “Just open it, please, Miss +Constance, and tell me how he is,” said she anxiously; and Constance +broke the seal of the letter. + + + “_Borcette. Hotel Rosenbad, September, 18--_.” + +“My Dear Child,--Still better and better! The improvement, which I told +you in my last week’s letter had begun to take place so rapidly as to +make us fear it was only a deceitful one, turns out to have been real. +Will you believe it, when I tell you that your papa can _walk_! With the +help of my arm, he can walk across the room and along the passage; and +to-morrow he is going to try to get down the first flight of stairs. +None but God can know how thankful I am; not even my children. If this +change has taken place in the first month (and it is not yet quite +that), what may we not expect in the next--and the next? Your papa is +writing to Hamish, and will confirm what I say.” + +This much Constance read aloud. Judith gave a glad laugh. “It’s just +as everybody told the master,” said she. “A fine, strong, handsome man, +like him, wasn’t likely to be laid down for life like a baby, when he +was hardly middle-aged. These doctors here be just so many muffs. When I +get too old for work, I’ll go to Germany myself, Miss Constance, and ask +‘em to make me young again.” + +Constance smiled. She was running her eyes over the rest of the letter, +which was a long one. She caught sight of Arthur’s name. There were +some loving, gentle messages to him, and then these words: “Hamish says +Arthur applied at Dove and Dove’s for a clerk’s place, but did not come +to terms with them. We are glad that he did not. Papa says he should not +like to have one of his boys at Dove and Dove’s.” + +“And here’s a little bit for you, Judith,” Constance said aloud. +“Tell Judith not to be over-anxious in her place of trust; and not to +over-work herself, but to let Sarah take her full share. There is no +hurry about the bed-furniture; Sarah can do it in an evening at her +leisure.” + +Judith received the latter portion of the message with scorn. “‘Tisn’t +me that’s going to let _her_ do it! A fine do it would be, Miss +Constance! The first thing I shall see, when I go back now, will be her +head stretched out at one of the windows, and the kidney beans left to +string and cut themselves in the kitchen!” + +Judith turned to depart. She never would allow any virtues to her +helpmate Sarah, who gave about the same trouble to her that young +servants of twenty generally give to old ones. Constance followed her to +the door, saying something which had suddenly occurred to her mind about +domestic affairs, when who should she meet, coming in, but the Rev. +William Yorke! He had just left the Cathedral after morning prayers, and +was calling at Lady Augusta’s. + +Both were confused; both stopped, face to face, in hesitation. Constance +grew crimson; Mr. Yorke pale. It was the first time they had met since +the parting. There was an angry feeling against Constance in the mind +of Mr. Yorke; he considered that she had not treated him with proper +confidence; and in his proud nature--the Yorke blood was his--he was +content to resent it. He did not expect to _lose_ Constance eventually; +he thought that the present storm would blow over some time, and that +things would come right again. We are all too much given to trust to +that vague “some time.” In Constance’s mind there existed a soreness +against Mr. Yorke. He had doubted her; he had accepted (if he had not +provoked) too readily her resignation of him. Unlike him, she saw no +prospect of the future setting matters right. Marry him, whilst the +cloud lay upon Arthur, she would not, after he had intimated his opinion +and sentiments: and that cloud could only be lifted at the expense of +another. + +They exchanged a confused greeting; neither of them conscious how it +passed. Mr. Yorke’s attention was then caught by the open letter in +her hand--by the envelope bearing the foreign post-marks. “How is Mr. +Channing?” he asked. + +“So much better that it seems little short of a miracle,” replied +Constance. “Mamma says,” glancing at the letter, “that he can walk, +leaning on her arm.” + +“I am so glad to hear it! Hamish told me last week that he was +improving. I trust it may go on to a cure.” + +“Thank you,” replied Constance. And she made him a pretty little state +curtsey as she turned away, not choosing to see the hand he would fain +have offered her. + +Mr. Yorke’s voice brought a head and shoulders out at the breakfast-room +door. They belonged to Lord Carrick. He and Lady Augusta were positively +at breakfast at that hour of the day. His lordship’s eyes followed the +pretty form of Constance as she disappeared up the staircase on +her return to the schoolroom. William Yorke’s were cast in the same +direction. Then their eyes--the peer’s and the clergyman’s--met. + +“Ye have given her up, I understand, Master William?” + +“Master William” vouchsafed no reply. He deemed it a little piece of +needless impertinence. + +“Bad taste!” continued Lord Carrick. “If I were only twenty years +younger, and she’d not turn up her nose at me for a big daft of an +Irishman, _you’d_ not get her, me lad. She’s the sweetest little thing I +have come across this many a day.” + +To which the Rev. William Yorke condescended no answer, unless a haughty +gesture expressive of indignation might be called one, as he brushed +past Lord Carrick into the breakfast-room. + +At that very hour, and in a breakfast-room also--though all signs of the +meal had long been removed--were Mr. Huntley and his daughter. The same +praise, just bestowed by Lord Carrick upon Constance Channing, might +with equal justice be given to Ellen Huntley. She was a lovely girl, +three or four years older than Harry, with pretty features and soft dark +eyes. What is more, she was a good girl--a noble, generous-hearted girl, +although (you know no one is perfection) with a spice of self-will. For +the latter quality I think Ellen was more indebted to circumstances than +to Nature. Mrs. Huntley was dead, and a maiden sister of Mr. Huntley’s, +older than himself, resided with them and ruled Ellen; ruled her with a +tight hand; not a kind one, or a judicious one; and that had brought +out Miss Ellen’s self-will. Miss Huntley was very starched, prim, and +stiff--very unnatural, in short--and she wished to make Ellen the same. +Ellen rebelled, for she much disliked everything artificial. She was +truthful, honest, straightforward; not unlike the character of Tom +Channing. Miss Huntley complained that she was too straightforward to +be ladylike; Ellen said she was sure she should never be otherwise than +straightforward, so it was of no use trying. Then Miss Huntley would +take offence, and threaten Ellen with “altering her will,” and that +would vex Ellen more than anything. Young ladies rarely care for money, +especially when they have plenty of it; and Ellen Huntley would have +that, from her father. “As if I cared for my aunt’s money!” she would +say. “I wish she may not leave it to me.” And she was sincere in the +wish. Their controversies frequently amused Mr. Huntley. Agreeing in +heart and mind with his daughter, he would yet make a playful show of +taking his sister’s part. Miss Huntley knew it to be show--done to laugh +at her--and would grow as angry with him as she was with Ellen. + +Mr. Huntley was not laughing, however, this morning. On the contrary, +he appeared to be in a very serious, not to say solemn mood. He slowly +paced the room, as was his custom when anything disturbed him, stopping +at moments to reflect, buried in thought. Ellen sat at a table by the +window, drawing. The house was Mr. Huntley’s own--a white villa with +a sloping lawn in front. It was situated outside the town, on a gentle +eminence, and commanded a view of the charming scenery for which the +county was famous. + +Ellen, who had glanced up two or three times, concerned to see the +very stern, perplexed look on her father’s face, at length spoke, “Is +anything the matter, papa?” + +Mr. Huntley did not answer. He was standing close to the table then, +apparently looking at Ellen, at her white morning dress and its blue +ribbons: it, and she altogether, a fair picture. Probably he saw neither +her nor her dress--he was too deeply absorbed. + +“You are not ill, are you, papa?” + +“Ill!” he answered, rousing himself. “No, Ellen, I am not ill.” + +“Then you have had something to vex you, papa?” + +“I have,” emphatically replied Mr. Huntley. “And the worst is, that my +vexation will not be confined to myself, I believe. It may extend to +you, Ellen.” + +Mr. Huntley’s manner was so serious, his look so peculiar as he gazed at +her, that Ellen felt a rush of discomfort, and the colour spread itself +over her fair face. She jumped to the conclusion that she had been +giving offence in some way--that Miss Huntley must have been complaining +of her. + +“Has my aunt been telling you about last night, papa? Harry had two of +the college boys here, and I unfortunately laughed and talked with them, +and she said afterwards I had done it on purpose to annoy her. But I +assure you, papa--” + +“Never mind assuring me, child,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “Your aunt has +said nothing to me; and if she had, it would go in at one ear and out +at the other. It is worse business than any complaint that she could +bring.” + +Ellen laid down her pencil, and gazed at her father, awe-struck at his +strange tone. “What is it?” she breathed. + +But Mr. Huntley did not answer. He remained perfectly still for a few +moments, absorbed in thought: and then, without a word of any sort to +Ellen, turned round to leave the room, took his hat as he passed through +the hall, and left the house. + +Can you guess what it was that was troubling Mr. Huntley? Very probably, +if you can put, as the saying runs, this and that together. + +Convinced, as he was, that Arthur Channing was not, could not be guilty +of taking the bank-note, yet puzzled by the strangely tame manner in +which he met the charge--confounded by the behaviour both of Arthur and +Constance relating to it--Mr. Huntley had resolved, if possible, to dive +into the mystery. He had his reasons for it. A very disagreeable, a very +improbable suspicion, called forth by the facts, had darted across his +mind; _therefore_ he resolved to penetrate to it. And he set to work. He +questioned Mr. Galloway, he questioned Butterby, he questioned Jenkins, +and he questioned Roland Yorke. He thus became as thoroughly conversant +with the details of the transaction as it was possible for any one, +except the actual thief, to be; and he drew his own deductions. Very +reluctantly, very slowly, very cautiously, were they drawn, but very +surely. The behaviour of Arthur and Constance could only have one +meaning: they were screening the real culprit. And that culprit must be +Hamish Channing. + +Unwilling as Mr. Huntley was to admit it, he had no resource but to do +so. He grew as certain of it as he was of his own life. He had loved and +respected Hamish in no measured degree. He had observed the attachment +springing up between him and his daughter, and he had been content to +observe it. None were so worthy of her, in Mr. Huntley’s eyes, as Hamish +Channing, in all respects save one--wealth; and, of that, Ellen would +have plenty. Mr. Huntley had known of the trifling debts that were +troubling Hamish, and he found that those debts, immediately on the loss +of the bank-note, had been partially satisfied. That the stolen money +must have been thus applied, and that it had been taken for that +purpose, he could not doubt. + +Hamish! It nearly made Mr. Huntley’s hair stand on end. That he must +be silent over it, as were Hamish’s own family, he knew--silent for Mr. +Channing’s sake. And what about Ellen? + +_There_ was the sad, very sad grievance. Whether Hamish went wrong, +or whether Hamish went right, it was not of so much consequence to Mr. +Huntley; but it might be to Ellen--in fact, he thought it would be. He +had risen that morning resolved to hint to Ellen that any particular +intimacy with Hamish must cease. But he was strangely undecided about +it. Now that the moment was come, he almost doubted, himself, Hamish’s +guilt. All the improbabilities of the case rose up before him in marked +colours; he lost sight of the condemning facts; and it suddenly occurred +to him that it was scarcely fair to judge Hamish so completely without +speaking to him. “Perhaps he can account to me for the possession of the +money which he applied to those debts,” thought Mr. Huntley. “If so, in +spite of appearances, I will not deem him guilty.” + +He went out, on the spur of the moment, straight down to the office +in Guild Street. Hamish was alone, not at all busy, apparently. He was +standing up by the fireplace, his elbow on the mantelpiece, a letter +from Mr. Channing (no doubt the one alluded to in Mrs. Channing’s letter +to Constance) in his hand. He received Mr. Huntley with his cordial, +sunny smile; spoke of the good news the letter brought, spoke of the +accident which had caused the delay of the mail, and finally read out +part of the letter, as Constance had to Judith. + +It was all very well; but this only tended to embarrass Mr. Huntley. +He did not like his task, and the more confidential they grew over Mr. +Channing’s health, the worse it made it for him to enter upon. As chance +had it, Hamish himself paved the way. He began telling of an incident +which had taken place that morning, to the scandal of the town. A young +man, wealthy but improvident, had been arrested for debt. Mr. Huntley +had not yet heard of it. + +“It stopped his day’s pleasure,” laughed Hamish. “He was going along +with his gun and dogs, intending to pop at the partridges, when he got +popped upon himself, instead. Poor fellow! it was too bad to spoil his +sport. Had I been a rich man, I should have felt inclined to bail him +out.” + +“The effect of running in debt,” remarked Mr. Huntley. “By the way, +Master Hamish, is there no fear of a similar catastrophe for you?” he +added, in a tone which Hamish might, if he liked, take for a jesting +one. + +“For me, sir?” returned Hamish. + +“When I left Helstonleigh in June, a certain young friend of mine was +not quite free from a suspicion of such liabilities,” rejoined Mr. +Huntley. + +Hamish flushed rosy red. Of all people in the world, Mr. Huntley was the +one from whom he would, if possible, have kept that knowledge, but he +spoke up readily. + +“I did owe a thing or two, it can’t be denied,” acknowledged he. “Men, +better and wiser and richer than I, have owed money before me, Mr. +Huntley.” + +“Suppose they serve you as they have served Jenner this morning?” + +“They will not do that,” laughed Hamish, seeming very much inclined to +make a joke of the matter. “I have squared up some sufficiently to be on +the safe side of danger, and I shall square up the rest.” + +Mr. Huntley fixed his eyes upon him. “How did you get the money to do +it, Hamish?” + +Perhaps it was the plain, unvarnished manner in which the question was +put; perhaps it was the intent gaze with which Mr. Huntley regarded him; +but, certain it is, that the flush on Hamish’s face deepened to crimson, +and he turned it from Mr. Huntley, saying nothing. + +“Hamish, I have a reason for wishing to know.” + +“To know what, sir?” asked Hamish, as if he would temporize, or avoid +the question. + +“Where did you obtain the money that you applied to liquidate, or +partially to liquidate, your debts?” + +“I cannot satisfy you, sir. The affair concerns no one but myself. I did +get it, and that is sufficient.” + +Hamish had come out of his laughing tone, and spoke as firmly as Mr. +Huntley; but, that the question had embarrassed him, was palpably +evident. Mr. Huntley said good morning, and left the office without +shaking hands. All his doubts were confirmed. + +He went straight home. Ellen was where he had left her, still alone. Mr. +Huntley approached her and spoke abruptly. “Are you willing to give up +all intimacy with Hamish Channing?” + +She gazed at him in surprise, her complexion changing, her voice +faltering. “Oh, papa! what have they done?” + +“Ellen, did I say ‘they!’ The Channings are my dear friends, and I hope +ever to call them such. They have done nothing unworthy of my friendship +or of yours. I said Hamish.” + +Ellen rose from her seat, unable to subdue her emotion, and stood with +her hands clasped before Mr. Huntley. Hamish was far dearer to her than +the world knew. + +“I will leave it to your good sense, my dear,” Mr. Huntley whispered, +glancing round, as if not caring that even the walls should hear. “I +have liked Hamish very much, or you may be sure he would not have been +allowed to come here so frequently. But he has forfeited my regard now, +as he must forfeit that of all good men.” + +She trembled excessively, almost to impede her utterance, when she would +have asked what it was that he had done. + +“I scarcely dare breathe it to you,” said Mr. Huntley, “for it is a +thing that we must hush up, as the family are hushing it up. When that +bank-note was lost, suspicion fell on Arthur.” + +“Well, papa?” wonderingly resumed Ellen. + +“It was not Arthur who took it. It was Hamish. And Arthur is bearing the +stigma of it for his father’s sake.” + +Ellen grew pale. “Papa, who says it?” + +“No one _says_ it, Ellen. But the facts leave no room for doubt. +Hamish’s own manner--I have just left him--leaves no room for it. He is +indisputably guilty.” + +Then Ellen’s anger, her _straightforwardness_, broke forth. She clasped +her hands in pain, and her face grew crimson. “He is _not_ guilty, papa. +I would answer for it with my own life. How dare they accuse him! how +dare they asperse him? Is he not Hamish Channing?” + +“Ellen! _Ellen_!” + +Ellen burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Forgive me, papa. If +he has no one else to take his part, I will do it. I do not wish to be +undutiful; and if you bid me never to see or speak to Hamish Channing +again, I will implicitly obey you; but, hear him spoken of as guilty, I +will not. I wish I could stand up for him against the world.” + +“After that, Miss Ellen Huntley, I think you had better sit down.” + +Ellen sat down, and cried until she was calm. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. -- THE CONSPIRATORS. + +Nothing of sufficient consequence to record here, occurred for some +weeks to the Channings, or to those connected with them. October came +in; and in a few days would be decided the uncertain question of the +seniorship. Gaunt would leave the college on the fifth; and on the +sixth the new senior would be appointed. The head-master had given no +intimation whatever to the school as to which of the three seniors would +obtain the promotion, and discussion ran high upon the probabilities. +Some were of opinion that it would be Huntley; some, Gerald Yorke; a +very few, Tom Channing. Countenanced by Gaunt and Huntley, as he had +been throughout, Tom bore on his way, amid much cabal; but for the +circumstance of the senior boy espousing (though not very markedly) +his cause, his place would have been unbearable. Hamish attended to his +customary duties in Guild Street, and sat up at night as usual in his +bedroom, as his candle testified to Judith. Arthur tried bravely for a +situation, and tried in vain; he could get nothing given to him--no one +seemed willing to take him on. There was nothing for it but to wait in +patience. He took the organ daily, and copied, at home, the cathedral +music. Constance was finding great favour with the Earl of Carrick--but +you will hear more about that presently. Jenkins grew more like a shadow +day by day. Roland Yorke went on in his impulsive, scapegrace fashion. +Mr. and Mrs. Channing sent home news, hopeful and more hopeful, from +Germany. And Charley, unlucky Charley, had managed to get into hot water +with the college school. + +Thus uneventfully had passed the month of September. October was now in, +and the sixth rapidly approaching. What with the uncertainty prevailing, +the preparation for the examination, which on that day would take place, +and a little private matter, upon which some few were entering, the +college school had just then a busy and exciting time of it. + +Stephen Bywater sat in one of the niches of the cloisters, a pile of +books by his side. Around him, in various attitudes, were gathered seven +of the most troublesome of the tribe--Pierce senior, George Brittle, Tod +Yorke, Fred Berkeley, Bill Simms, Mark Galloway, and Hurst, who had +now left the choir, but not the school. They were hatching mischief. +Twilight overhung the cloisters; the autumn evenings were growing long, +and this was a gloomy one. Half an hour, at the very least, had the boys +been gathered there since afternoon school, holding a council of war in +covert tones. + +“Paid out he shall be, by hook or by crook,” continued Stephen Bywater, +who appeared to be president--if talking more than his _confrères_ +constitutes one. “The worst is, how is it to be done? One can’t wallop +him.” + +“Not wallop him!” repeated Pierce senior, who was a badly disposed boy, +as well as a mischievous one. “Why not, pray?” + +“Not to any good,” said Bywater. “_I_ can’t, with that delicate face of +his. It’s like beating a girl.” + +“That’s true,” assented Hurst. “No, it won’t do to go in for beating; +might break his bones, or something. I can’t think what’s the good of +those delicate ones putting themselves into a school of this sort. A +parson’s is the place for them; eight gentlemanly pupils, treated as a +private family, with a mild usher, and a lady to teach the piano.” + +The council burst into a laugh at Hurst’s mocking tones, and Pierce +senior interrupted it. + +“I don’t see why he shouldn’t--” + +“Say she, Pierce,” corrected Mark Galloway. + +“She, then. I don’t see why she shouldn’t get a beating if she deserves +it; it will teach her not to try her tricks on again. Let her be +delicate; she’ll feel it the more.” + +“It’s all bosh about his being delicate. She’s not,” vehemently +interrupted Tod Yorke, somewhat perplexed, in his hurry, with the +genders. “Charley Channing’s no more delicate than we are. It’s all +in the look. As good say that detestable little villain, Boulter, is +delicate, because he has yellow curls. I vote for the beating.” + +“I’ll vote you out of the business, if you show insubordination, Mr. +Tod,” cried Bywater. “We’ll pay out Miss Charley in some way, but it +shan’t be by beating him.” + +“Couldn’t we lock him up in the cloisters, as we locked up Ketch, and +that lot; and leave him there all night?” proposed Berkeley. + +“But there’d be getting the keys?” debated Mark Galloway. + +“As if we couldn’t get the keys if we wanted them!” scoffingly retorted +Bywater. “We did old Ketch the other time, and we could do him again. +_That_ would not serve the young one out, locking him up in the +cloisters.” + +“Wouldn’t it, though!” said Tod Yorke. “He’d be dead of fright before +morning, he’s so mortally afraid of ghosts.” + +“Afraid of what?” cried Bywater. + +“Of ghosts. He’s a regular coward about them. He dare not go to bed +in the dark for fear of their coming to him. He’d rather have five and +twenty pages of Virgil to do, than he’d be left alone after nightfall.” + +The notion so tickled Bywater, that he laughed till he was hoarse. +Bywater could not understand being afraid of “ghosts.” Had Bywater met +a whole army of ghosts, the encounter would only have afforded him +pleasure. + +“There never was a ghost seen yet, as long as any one can remember,” + cried he, when he came out of his laughter. “I’d sooner believe in +Gulliver’s travels, than I’d believe in ghosts. What a donkey you are, +Tod Yorke!” + +“It’s Charley Channing that’s the donkey; not me,” cried Tod, fiercely. +“I tell you, if we locked him up here for a night, we should find him +dead in the morning, when we came to let him out. Let’s do it.” + +“What, to find him dead in the morning!” exclaimed Hurst. “You are a +nice one, Tod!” + +“Oh, well, I don’t mean altogether dead, you know,” acknowledged Tod. +“But he’d have had a mortal night of it! All his clothes gummed together +from fright, I’ll lay.” + +“I don’t think it would do,” deliberated Bywater. “A whole night--twelve +hours, that would be--and in a fright all the time, if he _is_ +frightened. Look here! I have heard of folks losing their wits through a +thing of the sort.” + +“I won’t go in for anything of the kind,” said Hurst. “Charley’s not +a bad lot, and he shan’t be harmed. A bit of a fright, or a bit of +a whacking, not too much of either; that’ll be the thing for Miss +Channing.” + +“Tod Yorke, who told you he was afraid of ghosts?” demanded Bywater. + +“Oh, I know it,” said Tod. “Annabel Channing was telling my sisters +about it, for one thing: but I knew it before. We had a servant once who +told us so, she had lived at the Channings’. Some nurse frightened him +when he was a youngster, and they have never been able to get the fear +out of him since.” + +“What a precious soft youngster he must have been!” said Mr. Bywater. + +“She used to get a ghost and dress it up and show it off to Miss +Charley--” + +“Get a ghost, Tod?” + +“Bother! you know what I mean,” said Tod, testily. “Get a broom or +something of that sort, and dress it up with a mask and wings: and he is +as scared over it now as he ever was. I don’t care what you say.” + +“Look here!” exclaimed Bywater, starting from his niche, as a bright +idea occurred to him. “Let one of us personate a ghost, and appear to +him! That would be glorious! It would give him a precious good fright +for the time, and no harm done.” + +If the boys had suddenly found the philosopher’s stone, it could +scarcely have afforded them so much pleasure as did this idea. It was +received with subdued shouts of approbation: the only murmur of dissent +to be heard was from Pierce senior. Pierce grumbled that it would not be +“half serving him out.” + +“Yes, it will,” said Bywater. “Pierce senior shall be the ghost: he tops +us all by a head.” + +“Hurst is as tall as Pierce senior.” + +“That he is not,” interrupted Pierce senior, who was considerably +mollified at the honour being awarded to him. “Hurst is not much above +the tips of my ears. Besides, Hurst is fat; and you never saw a fat +ghost yet.” + +“Have you seen many ghosts, Pierce?” mocked Bywater. + +“A few; in pictures. Wretched old scarecrows they always are, with a +cadaverous face and lantern jaws.” + +“That’s the reason you’ll do so well, Pierce,” said Bywater. “You are as +thin as a French herring, you know, with a yard and a half of throat.” + +Pierce received the doubtful compliment flatteringly, absorbed in the +fine vista of mischief opening before him. “How shall I get myself up, +Bywater?” asked he, complaisantly. “With horns and a tail?” + +“Horns and a tail be bothered!” returned Hurst. “It must be like a real +ghost, all white and ghastly.” + +“Of course it must,” acquiesced Bywater. + +“I know a boy in our village that they served out like that,” interposed +Bill Simms, who was a country lad, and boarded in Helstonleigh. “They +got a great big turnip, and scooped it out and made it into a man’s +face, and put a light inside, and stuck it on a post where he had to +pass at night. He was so frightened that he died.” + +“Cram!” ejaculated Tod Yorke. + +“He did, though,” repeated Simms. “They knew him before for an awful +little coward, and they did it to have some fun out of him. He didn’t +say anything at the time; didn’t scream, or anything of that sort; but +after he got home he was taken ill, and the next day he died. My father +was one of the jury on the inquest. He was a little chap with no father +or mother--a plough-boy.” + +“The best thing, if you want to make a ghost,” said Tod Yorke, “is +to get a tin plate full of salt and gin, and set it alight, and wrap +yourself round with a sheet, and hold the plate so that the flame lights +up your face. You never saw anything so ghastly. Scooped-out turnips are +all bosh!” + +“I could bring a sheet off my bed,” said Bywater. “Thrown over my arm, +they’d think at home I was bringing out my surplice. And if--” + +A wheezing and coughing and clanking of keys interrupted the +proceedings. It was Mr. Ketch, coming to lock up the cloisters. As the +boys had no wish to be fastened in, themselves, they gathered up their +books, and waited in silence till the porter was close upon them. Then, +with a sudden war-whoop, they sprang past him, very nearly startling the +old man out of his senses, and calling forth from him a shower of hard +words. + +The above conversation, puerile and school-boyish as it may seem, was +destined to lead to results all too important; otherwise it would not +have been related here. You very likely may have discovered, ere this, +that this story of the Helstonleigh College boys is not merely a work +of imagination, but taken from facts of real life. Had you been in the +cloisters that night with the boys--and you might have been--and heard +Master William Simms, who was the son of a wealthy farmer, tell the tale +of a boy’s being frightened to death, you would have known it to be +a true one, if you possessed any knowledge of the annals of the +neighbourhood. In like manner, the project they were getting up to +frighten Charles Channing, and Charles’s unfortunate propensity _to be_ +frightened, are strictly true. + +Master Tod Yorke’s account of what had imbued his mind with this fear, +was a tolerably correct one. Charley was somewhat troublesome and +fractious as a young child, and the wicked nurse girl who attended upon +him would dress up frightful figures to terrify him into quietness. She +might not have been able to accomplish this without detection, but that +Mrs. Channing was at that time debarred from the active superintendence +of her household. When Charley was about two years old she fell into +ill health, and for eighteen months was almost entirely confined to +her room. Judith was much engaged with her mistress and with household +matters, and the baby, as Charley was still called, was chiefly left to +the mercies of the nurse. Not content with frightening him practically, +she instilled into his young imagination the most pernicious stories of +ghosts, dreams, and similar absurdities. But, foolish as _we_ know them +to be, they are not the less horrible to a child’s vivid imagination. At +two, or three, or four years old, it is eagerly opening to impressions; +and things, solemnly related by a mother or a nurse, become impressed +upon it almost as with gospel truth. Let the fears once be excited in +this terrible way, and not a whole lifetime can finally eradicate the +evil. I would rather a nurse broke one of my children’s limbs, than thus +poison its fair young mind. + +In process of time the girl’s work was discovered--discovered by Judith. +But the mischief was done. You may wonder that Mrs. Channing should not +have been the first to discover it; or that it could have escaped +her notice at all, for she had the child with her often for his early +religious instruction; but, one of the worst phases of this state of +things is, the shrinking tenacity with which the victim buries the fears +within his own breast. He dare not tell his parents; he is taught not; +and taught by fear. It may not have been your misfortune to meet with +a case of this sort; I hope you never will. Mrs. Channing would observe +that the child would often shudder, as with terror, and cling to her +in an unaccountable manner; but, having no suspicion of the evil, she +attributed it to a sensitive, timid temperament. “What is it, my little +Charley?” she would say. But Charley would only bury his face the +closer, and keep silence. When Martha--that was the girl’s name: not the +same Martha who was now living at Lady Augusta’s--came for him, he +would go with her willingly, cordially. It was not her he feared. On the +contrary, he was attached to her; she had taught him to be so; and he +looked upon her as a protector from those awful ghosts and goblins. + +Well, the thing was in time discovered, but the mischief, I say, was +done. It could not be eradicated. Charles Channing’s judgment and good +sense told him that all those bygone terrors were only tricks of +that wretched Martha’s: but, overcome the fear, he could not. All +consideration was shown to him; he was never scolded for it, never +ridiculed; his brothers and sisters observed to him entire silence upon +the subject--even Annabel; and Mr. and Mrs. Channing had done reasoning +lovingly with him now. It is not argument that will avail in a case +like this. In the broad light of day, Charley could be very brave; would +laugh at such tales with the best of them; but when night came, and he +was left alone--if he ever was left alone--then all the old terror rose +up again, and his frame would shake, and he would throw himself on the +bed or on the floor, and hide his face; afraid of the darkness, and of +what he might see in it. He was as utterly unable to prevent or subdue +this fear, as he was to prevent his breathing. He knew it, in the sunny +morning light, to be a foolish fear, utterly without reason: but, in the +lonely night, there it came again, and he could not combat it. + +Thus, it is easy to understand that the very worst subject for a ghost +trick to be played upon, was Charley Channing. It was, however, going to +be done. The defect--for it really is a defect--had never transpired to +the College school, who would not have spared their ridicule, or spared +Charley. Reared, in that point, under happier auspices, they could have +given nothing but utter ridicule to the fear. Chattering Annabel, in +her thoughtless communications to Caroline and Fanny Yorke, had not +bargained for their reaching the ears of Tod; and Tod, when the report +did reach his ears, remembered to have heard the tale before; until then +it had escaped his memory. + +Charley had got into hot water with some of the boys. Bywater had been +owing him a grudge for weeks, on account of Charley’s persistent silence +touching what he had seen the day the surplice was inked; and now there +arose another grudge on Bywater’s score, and also on that of others. +There is not space to enter into the particulars of the affair; it is +sufficient to say that some underhand work, touching cribs, came to the +knowledge of one of the under-masters--and came to him through Charley +Channing. + +Not that Charley went, open-mouthed, and told; there was nothing of that +disreputable character--which the school held in especial dislike--the +sneak, about Charles Channing. Charley would have bitten his tongue out +first. By an unfortunate accident Charles was pinned by the master, +and questioned; and he had no resource but to speak out. In honour, in +truth, he could not do otherwise; but, the consequence was--punishment +to the boys; and they turned against him. Schoolboys are not famous for +being swayed by the rules of strict justice; and they forgot to remember +that in Charles Channing’s place they would (at any rate, most of them) +have felt bound to do the same. They visited the accident upon him, +and were determined--as you have heard them express it in their own +phrase--to “serve him out.” + +Leaving this decision to fructify, let us turn to Constance. Lady +Augusta Yorke--good-hearted in the main, liberal natured, swayed by +every impulse as the wind--had been particularly kind to Constance +and Annabel Channing during the absence of their mother. Evening after +evening she would insist upon their spending at her house, Hamish--one +of Lady Augusta’s lasting favourites, probably from his good +looks--being pressed into the visit with them by my lady. Hamish was +nothing loth. He had given up indiscriminate evening visiting; and, +since the coolness which had arisen in the manner of Mr. Huntley, Hamish +did not choose to go much to Mr. Huntley’s, where he had been a pretty +constant visitor before; and he found his evenings hang somewhat heavily +on his hands. Thus Constance saw a good deal of the Earl of Carrick; or, +it may be more to the purpose to say, the earl saw a good deal of her. + +For the earl grew to like her very much indeed. He grew to think that if +she would only consent to become his wife, he should be the happiest man +in ould Ireland; and one day, impulsive in his actions as was ever Lady +Augusta, he told Constance so, in that lady’s presence. + +Constance--much as we may regret to hear it of her--behaved in by +no means a dignified manner. She laughed over it. When brought to +understand, which took some little time, that she was actually paid that +high compliment, she laughed in the earl’s face. He was as old as her +father; and Constance had certainly regarded him much more in the light +of a father than a husband. + +“I do beg your pardon, Lord Carrick,” she said, apologetically “but I +think you must be laughing at me.” + +“Laughing at ye!” said the earl. “It’s not I that would do that. I’d +like ye to be Countess of Carrick to-morrow, me dear, if you can only +get over me fifty years and me grey hair. Here’s me sister--she knows +that I’d like to have ye. It’s you that are laughing at me, Miss +Constance; at me ould locks.” + +“No, indeed, indeed it is not that,” said Constance, while Lady Augusta +sat with an impassive countenance. “I don’t know why I laughed. It so +took me by surprise; that was why, I think. Please do not say any more +about it, Lord Carrick.” + +“Ye could not like me as well as ye like William Yorke? Is that it, +child?” + +Constance grew crimson. Like him as she liked William Yorke! + +“Ye’re the nicest girl I have seen since Kathleen Blake,” resumed the +straightforward, simple earl. “She promised to have me; she said she +liked me grey hair better than brown, and me fifty years better than +thirty, but, while I was putting the place a bit in order for her, +she went and married a young Englishman. Did ye ever see him, +Augusta?”--turning to his sister. “He is a baronet. He came somewhere +from these parts.” + +Lady Augusta intimated stiffly that she had not the honour of the +baronet’s acquaintance. She thought her brother was making a simpleton +of himself, and had a great mind to tell him so. + +“And since Kathleen Blake went over to the enemy, I have not seen +anybody that I’d care to look twice at, till I came here and saw you, +Miss Constance,” resumed the earl. “And if ye can only get to overlook +the natural impediments on me side, and not mind me being poor, I’d be +delighted, me dear, if ye’d say the word.” + +“You are very kind, very generous, Lord Carrick,” said Constance, with +an impulse of feeling; “but I can only beg you never to ask me such a +thing again.” + +“Ah! well, child, I see ye’re in earnest,” good-naturedly responded the +earl, as he gave it up. “I was afraid ye’d only laugh at me. I knew I +was too old.” + +And that was the beginning and the ending of Lord Carrick’s wooing. +Scarcely worth recording, you will think. But there was a reason for +doing so. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. -- THE DECISION. + +The important sixth of October--important to the Helstonleigh College +boys--did not rise very genially. On the contrary, it rose rather +sloppily. A soaking rain was steadily descending, and the streets +presented a continuous scene of puddles. The boys dashed through it +without umbrellas (I never saw one of them carry an umbrella in my life, +and don’t believe the phenomenon ever was seen), their clean surplices +on their arms; on their way to attend ten-o’clock morning prayers in +the cathedral. The day was a holiday from school, but not from morning +service. + +The college bell was beginning to ring out as they entered the +schoolroom. Standing in the senior’s place, and calling over the roll, +was Tom Channing, the acting senior for a few brief hours. Since Gaunt’s +departure, the previous day, Tom Channing had been head of the school; +it lay in the custom of the school for him so to be. Would his place be +confirmed? or would he lose it? Tom looked flurried with suspense. +It was not so much being appointed senior that he thought of, as the +disgrace, the humiliation that would be his portion, were he deposed +from it. He knew that he deserved the position; that it was his by +right; he stood first on the rolls, and he had done nothing whatever to +forfeit it. He was the school’s best scholar; and--if he was not always +a perfect model for conduct--there was this much to be said in his +favour, that none of them could boast of being better. + +The opinion of the school had been veering round for the last few days +in favour of Tom. I do not mean that he, personally, was in better +odour with it--not at all, the snow-ball, touching Arthur, had gathered +strength in rolling--but in favour of his chances of the seniorship. Not +a breath of intimation had the head-master given; except that, one day, +in complaining to Gaunt of the neglect of a point of discipline in the +school, which point was entirely under the control of the senior boy, +he had turned to Tom, and said, “Remember, Channing, it must be observed +for the future.” + +Tom’s heart leaped within him as he heard it, and the boys looked +inquiringly at the master. But the master’s head was then buried in the +deep drawer of his desk, hunting for a lost paper. Unless he had spoken +it in forgetfulness--which was not improbable--there could be no doubt +that he looked upon Tom as Gaunt’s successor. The school so interpreted +it, and chose to become, amongst themselves, sullenly rebellious. As to +Tom, who was nearly as sanguine in temperament as Hamish, his hopes and +his spirits went up to fever heat.-- + +One of the last to tear through the street, splashing his jacket, and +splashing his surplice, was Harry Huntley. He, like all the rest, took +care to be in time that morning. There would have been no necessity +for his racing, however, had he not lingered at home, talking. He was +running down from his room, whither he had gone again after breakfast, +to give the finishing brush to his hair (I can tell you that some of +those college gentlemen were dandies), when Mr. Huntley’s voice was +heard, calling him into the breakfast-room. + +“Harry,” said he, “I don’t think that I need enjoin you not to suffer +your manner to show triumph towards Tom Channing, should you be promoted +over him to-day.” + +“I shan’t be, papa. Channing will have the seniorship.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“Oh, from something Pye let drop. We look upon it that Channing is as +good as senior.” + +Mr. Huntley remembered the tenor of the private conversation the master +had held with him, and believed his son would find himself mistaken, and +that he, Harry, would be made senior. That it would be Gerald Yorke, Mr. +Huntley did not believe. “At any rate, Harry, take heed to what I say,” + he resumed. “Be very considerate and courteous towards your friend +Channing, if you should obtain it. Do not let me have to blush for my +son’s ill feeling.” + +There was a tone in Mr. Huntley’s voice which, to Harry’s ears, seemed +to intimate that he did not speak without reason. “Papa, it would not be +fair for me to go up over Channing,” he impulsively said. + +“No. Comparing your merits together, Channing is the better man of the +two.” + +Harry laughed. “He is not worse, at all events. Why are you saying this, +papa?” + +“Because I fancy that you are more likely to be successful than Tom +Channing. I wish I may be mistaken. I would rather he had it; for, +personally, he had done nothing to forfeit it.” + +“If Harry could accept the seniorship and displace Tom Channing, I would +not care to call him my brother again,” interrupted Ellen Huntley, with +a flashing eye. + +“It is not that, Ellen; you girls don’t understand things,” retorted +Harry. “If Pye displaces Tom from the scholarship, he does not do it to +exalt me; he does it because he won’t have him at any price. Were I to +turn round like a chivalrous Knight Templar and say I’d not take it, +out of regard to my friend Tom, where would be the good? Yorke would get +hoisted over me, and I should be laughed at for a duffer. But I’ll do as +you like, papa,” he added, turning to Mr. Huntley. “If you wish me not +to take the honour, I’ll resign it in favour of Yorke. I never expected +it to be mine, so it will be no disappointment; I always thought we +should have Channing.” + +“Your refusing it would do no good to Channing,” said Mr. Huntley. “And +I should have grumbled at you, Harry, had you suffered Yorke to slip +over your head. Every one in his own right. All I repeat to you, my boy, +is, behave as you ought to Tom Channing. Possibly I may pay the college +school a visit this morning.” + +Harry opened his eyes to their utmost width. + +“You, papa! Whatever for?” + +“That is my business,” laughed Mr. Huntley. “It wants only twenty +minutes to ten, Harry.” + +Harry, at the hint, bounded into the hall. He caught up his clean +surplice, placed there ready for him, and stuck his trencher on his +head, when he was detained by Ellen. + +“Harry, boy, it’s a crying wrong against Tom Channing. Hamish never did +it--” + +“_Hamish_” interrupted Harry, with a broad grin. “A sign who you are +thinking of, mademoiselle.” + +Mademoiselle turned scarlet. “You know I meant to say Arthur, stupid +boy! It’s a crying wrong, Harry, upon Tom Channing. Looking at it in the +worst light, _he_ has been guilty of nothing to forfeit his right. If +you can help him to the seniorship instead of supplanting him, be a +brave boy, and do it. God sees all things.” + +“I shall be late, as sure as a gun!” impatiently returned Harry. And +away he sped through the rain and mud, never slackening speed till he +was in the college schoolroom. + +He hung up his trencher, flung his surplice on to a bench, and went +straight up, with outstretched hand, to Tom Channing, who stood as +senior, unfolding the roll. “Good luck to you, old fellow!” cried he, in +a clear voice, that rang through the spacious room. “I hope, with all my +heart, that you’ll be in this post for many a day.” + +“Thank you, Huntley,” responded Tom. And he proceeded to call over the +roll, though his cheek burnt at sundry hisses that came, in subdued +tones, from various parts of the room. + +Every boy was present. Not a king’s scholar but answered to his name; +and Tom signed the roll for the first time. “Channing, acting senior.” + Not “Channing, senior,” yet. It was a whim of Mr. Pye’s that on Sundays +and saints’ day--that is, whenever the king’s scholars had to attend +service--the senior boy should sign the roll. + +They then put on their surplices; and rather damp surplices some of them +were. The boys most of them disdained bags; let the weather be what it +might, the surplices, like themselves, went openly through it. Ready in +their surplices and trenchers, Tom Channing gave the word of command, +and they were on the point of filing out, when a freak took Pierce +senior to leave his proper place in the ranks, and walk by the side of +Brittle. + +“Halt!” said Channing. “Pierce senior, take your place.” + +“I shan’t,” returned Pierce. “Who is to compel me?” he added with a +mocking laugh. “We are without a senior for once.” + +“I will,” thundered Tom, his face turning white at the implied sneer, +the incipient disobedience. “I stand here as the school’s senior now, +whatever I may do later, and I will be obeyed. Return to your proper +place.” + +There was that in Tom’s eye, in Tom’s tone, that somehow over-awed +Mr. Pierce; and he walked sheepishly to his own place. There was no +mistaking that Channing would make a firm senior. The boys proceeded, +two and two, decorously through the cloisters, snatching off their +trenchers as they entered the college gates. Tom and Huntley walked +last, Tom bearing the keys. The choir gained, the two branched off right +and left, Huntley placing himself at the head of the boys on the left, +or _cantori_ side; Tom, assuming his place as acting senior, on the +_decani_. When they should sit next in that cathedral would their posts +be reversed? + +The dean was present: also three canons--Dr. Burrows, who was subdean, +Dr. Gardner, and Mr. Mence. The head-master chanted, and in the stall +next to him sat Gaunt. Gaunt had discarded his surplice with his +schoolboy life; but curiosity with regard to the seniorship brought him +amongst them again that day. “I hope you’ll keep the place, Channing,” + he whispered to him, as he passed the boys to get to his stall. Arthur +Channing was at his place at the organ. + +Ere eleven o’clock struck, service was over, and the boys marched back +again. Not to the schoolroom--into the chapter-house. The examination, +which took place once in three years, was there held. It was conducted +quite in a formal manner; Mr. Galloway, as chapter clerk, being present, +to call over the roll. The dean, the three prebendaries who had been at +service, the head and other masters of the school, all stood together +in the chapter-house; and the king’s scholars wearing their surplices +still, were ranged in a circle before them. + +The dean took the examination. Dr. Burrows asked a question now and +then, but the dean chiefly took it. There is neither space nor time to +follow it in detail here: and no one would care to read it, if it were +given. As a whole, the school acquitted itself well, doing credit to its +masters. One of the chapter--it was Dr. Gardner, and the only word +he spoke throughout--remarked that the head boy was a sound scholar, +meaning Tom Channing. + +The business over, the dean’s words of commendation spoken, then the +head-master took a step forward and cleared his throat. He addressed +himself to the boys exclusively; for, what he had to say, had reference +to them and himself alone: it was supposed not to concern the clergy. +As to the boys, those who were of an excitable temperament, looked quite +pale with suspense, now the long-expected moment was come. Channing? +Huntley? Yorke?--which of the three would it be? + +“The praise bestowed upon you, gentlemen, by the Dean and Chapter has +been, if possible, more gratifying to myself than to you. It would be +superfluous in me to add a word to the admonition given you by the Very +Reverend the Dean, as to your future conduct and scholarly improvement. +I can only hope, with him, that they may continue to be such as to +afford satisfaction to myself, and to those gentlemen who are associated +with me as masters in the collegiate school.” + +A pause and a dead silence. The head-master cleared his throat again, +and went on. + +“The retirement of William Gaunt from the school, renders the seniorship +vacant. I am sorry that circumstances, to which I will not more +particularly allude, prevent my bestowing it upon the boy whose name +stands first upon the rolls, Thomas Ingram Channing. I regret this the +more, that it is not from any personal fault of Channing’s that he is +passed over; and this fact I beg may be most distinctly understood. Next +to Channing’s name stands that of Henry Huntley, and to him I award +the seniorship. Henry Huntley, you are appointed senior of Helstonleigh +Collegiate School. Take your place.” + +The dead silence was succeeded by a buzz, a murmur, suppressed almost +as soon as heard. Tom Channing’s face turned scarlet, then became deadly +white. It was a cruel blow. Huntley, with an impetuous step, advanced a +few paces, and spoke up bravely, addressing the master. + +“I thank you, sir, for the honour you have conferred upon me, but I have +no right to it, either by claim or merit. I feel that it is but usurping +the place of Channing. Can’t you give it to him, please sir, instead of +to me?” + +The speech, begun formally and grandly enough for a royal president at +a public dinner, and ending in its schoolboy fashion, drew a smile from +more than one present. “No,” was all the answer vouchsafed by Mr. Pye, +but it was spoken with unmistakable emphasis, and he pointed his finger +authoritatively to the place already vacated by Tom Channing. Huntley +bowed, and took it; and the next thing seen by the boys was Mr. Galloway +altering the roll. He transposed the names of Channing and Huntley. + +The boys, bowing to the clergy, filed out, and proceeded to the +schoolroom, the masters following them. Tom Channing was very silent. +Huntley was silent. Yorke, feeling mad with everyone, was silent. In +short, the whole school was silent. Channing delivered the keys of the +school to Huntley; and Mr. Pye, with his own hands, took out the roll +and made the alteration in the names. For, the roll belonging to the +chapter-house was not, as you may have thought, the every-day roll +of the schoolroom. “Take care what you are about, Huntley,” said the +master. “A careless senior never finds favour with me.” + +“Very well, sir,” replied Huntley. But he was perfectly conscious, as he +spoke, that his chief fault, as senior, would be that of carelessness. +And Gaunt, who was standing by, and knew it also, telegraphed a +significant look to Huntley. The other masters went up to Huntley, shook +hands, and congratulated him, for that was the custom of the school; +indeed, it was for that purpose only that the masters had gone into the +schoolroom, where they had, that day, no business. Gaunt followed suit +next, in shaking hands and congratulating, and the school afterwards; +Gerald Yorke doing his part with a bad grace. + +“Thank you all,” said Harry Huntley. “But it ought to have been Tom +Channing.” Poor Tom’s feelings, during all this, may be imagined. + +The king’s scholars were slinging their surplices on their arms to +depart, for they had full holiday for the remainder of the day, when +they were surprised by the entrance of Mr. Huntley. He went straight up +to the head-master, nodding pleasantly to the boys, right and left. + +“Well, and who is your important senior?” he gaily demanded of the +master. + +“Henry Huntley.” + +Mr. Huntley drew in his lips. “For another’s sake I am sorry to hear it. +But I can only express my hope that he will do his duty.” + +“I have just been telling him so,” observed the master. + +“What brings me here, is this, sir,” continued Mr. Huntley to the +master. “Knowing there was a doubt, as to which of the three senior boys +would be chosen, I wished, should it prove to be my son, to speak a word +about the Oxford exhibition, which, I believe, generally accompanies the +seniorship. It falls due next Easter.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Pye. + +“Then allow me to decline it for my son,” replied Mr. Huntley. “He will +not need it; and therefore should not stand in the light of any other +boy. I deemed it well, sir, to state this at once.” + +“Thank you,” warmly responded the head-master. He knew that it was an +unselfish, not to say generous, act. + +Mr. Huntley approached Tom Channing. He took his hand; he shook it +heartily, with every mark of affection and respect. “You must not allow +this exaltation of Harry to lessen the friendship you and he entertain +for each other,” he said, in tones that reached every pair of ears +present--and not one but was turned up to listen. “You are more +deserving of the place than he, and I am deeply sorry for the +circumstances which have caused him to supplant you. Never mind, Tom; +bear on bravely, lad, and you’ll outlive vexation. Continue to be worthy +of your noble father; continue to be my son’s friend; there is no boy +living whom I would so soon he took pattern by, as by you.” + +The hot tears rushed into Tom’s eyes, and his lip quivered. But that +he remembered where he was, he might have lost his self-control. “Thank +you, sir,” he answered, in a low tone. + +“Whew!” whistled Tod Yorke, as they were going out. “A fine friend he +is! A thief’s brother.” + +“A thief’s brother! A thief’s brother!” was the echo. + +“But he’s not our senior. Ha! ha! that would have been a good joke! He’s +not our senior!” + +And down the steps they clattered, and went splashing home, as they had +come, they and their surplices, through the wet streets and the rain. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. -- THE GHOST. + +The moon was high in the heavens. Lighting up the tower of the +cathedral, illuminating its pinnacles, glittering through the elm trees, +bringing forth into view even the dark old ivy on the prebendal houses. +A fair night--all too fair for the game that was going to be played in +it. + +When the Helstonleigh College boys resolved upon what they were pleased +to term a “lark”--and, to do them justice, they regarded this, their +prospective night’s work, in no graver light--they carried it out +artistically, with a completeness, a skill, worthy of a better cause. +Several days had they been hatching this, laying their plans, arranging +the details; it would be their own bungling fault if it miscarried. But +the college boys were not bunglers. + +Stripped of its details, the bare plot was to exhibit a “ghost” in the +cloisters, and to get Charley Channing to pass through them. The seniors +knew nothing of the project. Huntley--it was the day following his +promotion--would have stopped it at once, careless as he was. Tom +Channing would have stopped it. Gerald Yorke might or might not; but +Tod had taken care not to tell Gerald. And Griffin, who was burning +to exercise in any way his newly acquired power, would certainly have +stopped it. They had been too wise to allow it to come to the knowledge +of the seniors. The most difficult part of the business had been old +Ketch; but that was managed. + +The moonlight shone peacefully on the Boundaries, and the conspirators +were stealing up, by ones and twos, to their place of meeting, round the +dark trunks of the elm trees. Fine as it was overhead, it was less so +under-foot. The previous day, you may remember, had been a wet one, the +night had been wet, and also the morning of the present day. Schoolboys +are not particularly given to reticence, and a few more than the +original conspirators had been taken into the plot. They were winding up +now, in the weird moonlight, for the hour was approaching. + +Once more we must pay a visit to Mr. Ketch in his lodge, at his supper +hour. Mr. Ketch had changed his hour for that important meal. Growing +old with age or with lumbago, he found early rest congenial to his +bones, as he informed his friends: so he supped at seven, and retired +betimes. Since the trick played him in the summer, he had taken to have +his pint of ale brought to him; deeming it more prudent not to leave +his lodge and the keys, to fetch it. This was known to the boys, and it +rendered their plans a little more difficult. + +Mr. Ketch, I say, sat in his lodge, having locked up the cloisters about +an hour before, sneezing and wheezing, for he was suffering from a +cold, caught the previous day in the wet. He was spelling over a weekly +twopenny newspaper, borrowed from the public-house, by the help of a +flaring tallow candle, and a pair of spectacles, of which one glass was +out. Cynically severe was he over everything he read, as you know it was +in the nature of Mr. Ketch to be. As the three-quarters past six chimed +out from the cathedral clock, his door was suddenly opened, and a voice +called out, “Beer!” Mr. Ketch’s ale had arrived. + +But the arrival did not give that gentleman pleasure, and he started up +in what, but for the respect we bear him, we might call a fury. Dashing +his one-eyed glasses on the table, he attacked the man. + +“What d’ye mean with your ‘beer’ at this time o’ night? It wants a +quarter to seven! Haven’t you no ears? haven’t you no clock at your +place? D’ye think I shall take it in now?” + +“Well, it just comes to this,” said the man, who was the brewer at the +public-house, and made himself useful at odd jobs in his spare time: +“if you don’t like to take it in now, you can’t have it at all, of my +bringing. I’m going up to t’other end of the town, and shan’t be back +this side of ten.” + +Mr. Ketch, with much groaning and grumbling, took the ale and poured +it into a jug of his own--a handsome jug, that had been in the wars and +lost its spout and handle--giving back the other jug to the man. “You +serve me such a imperant trick again, as to bring my ale a quarter of a +hour aforehand, that’s all!” snarled he. + +The man received the jug, and went off whistling; he had the pleasure +of knowing Mr. Ketch and his temper well. That gentleman closed his door +with a bang, and proceeded to take out his customary bread and cheese. +Not that he had any great love for a bread-and-cheese supper as a matter +of fancy: he would very much have preferred something more dainty; only, +dainties and Mr. Ketch’s pocket did not agree. + +“They want to be took down a notch, that public--sending out a man’s +beer a quarter afore seven, when it ain’t ordered to come till seven +strikes. Much they care if it stops a waiting and flattening! Be I a +slave, that I should be forced to swallow my supper afore I want it, +just to please them? They have a sight too much custom, that’s what it +is.” + +He took a slight draught of the offending ale, and was critically +surveying the loaf, before applying to it that green-handled knife of +his, whose elegance you have heard of, when a second summons was heard +at the door--a very timid one this time. + +Mr. Ketch flung down the bread and the knife. “What’s the reason I can’t +get a meal in quiet? Who is it?” + +There was no response to this, beyond a second faint tapping. “Come in!” + roared out he. “Pull the string o’ the latch.” + +But nobody came in, in spite of this lucid direction; and the timid +tapping, which seemed to proceed from very small knuckles, was repeated +again. Mr. Ketch was fain to go and open it. + +A young damsel of eight or so, in a tattered tippet, and a large +bonnet--probably her mother’s--stood there, curtseying. “Please, sir, +Mr. Ketch is wanted.” + +Mr. Ketch was rather taken to at this strange address, and surveyed the +messenger in astonishment. “Who be you? and who wants him?” growled he. + +“Please, sir, it’s a gentleman as is waiting at the big green gates,” + was the reply. “Mr. Ketch is to go to him this minute; he told me to +come and say so, and if you didn’t make haste he should be gone.” + +“Can’t you speak plain?” snarled Ketch. “Who is the gentleman?” + +“Please, sir, I think it’s the bishop.” + +This put Ketch in a flutter. The “big green gates” could only have +reference to the private entrance to the bishop’s garden, which entrance +his lordship used when attending the cathedral. That the bishop was +in Helstonleigh, Ketch knew: he had arrived that day, after a short +absence: what on earth could he want with _him_? Never doubting, in his +hurry, the genuineness of the message, Ketch pulled his door to, and +stepped off, the young messenger having already decamped. The green +gates were not one minute’s walk from the lodge--though a projecting +buttress of the cathedral prevented the one from being in sight of the +other--and old Ketch gained them, and looked around. + +Where was the bishop? The iron gates, the garden, the white stones +at his feet, the towering cathedral, all lay cold and calm in the +moonlight, but of human sight or sound there was none. The gates +were locked when he came to try them, and he could not see the bishop +anywhere. + +He was not likely to see him. Stephen Bywater, who took upon himself +much of the plot’s performance--of which, to give him his due, he was +boldly capable--had been on the watch in the street, near the cathedral, +for a messenger that would suit his purpose. Seeing this young damsel +hurrying along with a jug in her hand, possibly to buy beer for _her_ +home supper, he waylaid her. + +“Little ninepins, would you like to get threepence?” asked he. “You +shall have it, if you’ll carry a message for me close by.” + +“Little ninepins” had probably never had a whole threepence to herself +in her young life. She caught at the tempting suggestion, and Bywater +drilled into her his instructions, finding her excessively stupid in the +process. Perhaps that was all the better. “Now you mind, you are _not_ +to say who wants Mr. Ketch, unless he asks,” repeated he for about the +fifth time, as she was departing to do the errand. “If he asks, say you +think it’s the bishop.” + +So she went, and delivered it. But had old Ketch’s temper allowed him to +go into a little more questioning, he might have discovered the trick. +Bywater stealthily followed the child near to the lodge, screening +himself from observation; and, as soon as old Ketch hobbled out of it, +he popped in, snatched the cloister keys from their nail, and deposited +a piece of paper, folded as a note, on Ketch’s table. Then he made off. + +Back came Ketch, after a while. He did not know quite what to make of +it, but rather inclined to the opinion that the bishop had not waited +for him. “He might have wanted me to take a errand round to the +deanery,” soliloquized he. And this thought had caused him to tarry +about the gates, so that he was absent from his lodge quite ten minutes. +The first thing he saw, on entering, was the bit of paper on his table. +He seized and opened it, grumbling aloud that folks used his house just +as they pleased, going in and out without reference to his presence or +his absence. The note, written in pencil, purported to be from Joseph +Jenkins. It ran as follows:-- + +My old father is coming up to our place to-night, to eat a bit of +supper, and he says he should like you to join him, which I and Mrs. +J. shall be happy if you will, at seven o’clock. It’s tripe and onions. +Yours, + +“J. JENKINS.” + +Now, if there was one delicacy, known to this world, more delicious to +old Ketch’s palate than another, it was tripe, seasoned with onions. +His mouth watered as he read. He was aware that it was--to use the +phraseology of Helstonleigh--“tripe night.” On two nights in the week, +tripe was sold in the town ready dressed. This was one of them, and +Ketch anticipated a glorious treat. In too great a hurry to cast so much +as a glance round his lodge (crafty Bywater had been deep), not stopping +even to put up the bread and cheese, away hobbled Ketch as fast as +his lumbago would allow him, locking safely his door, and not having +observed the absence of the keys. + +“He ain’t a bad sort, that Joe Jenkins,” allowed he, conciliated beyond +everything at the prospect the invitation held out, and talking to +himself as he limped away towards the street. “He don’t write a bad +hand, neither! It’s a plain un; not one o’ them new-fangled scrawls that +you can’t read. Him and his wife have held up their heads a cut above +me--oh yes, they have, though, for all Joe’s humbleness--but the grand +folks be a coming to. Old Jenkins has always said we’d have a supper +together some night, him and me; I suppose this is it. I wonder what +made him take and have it at Joe’s? If Joe don’t soon get better than he +have looked lately--” + +The first chime of the cathedral clock giving notice of the hour, seven! +Old Ketch broke out into a heat, and tried to hobble along more quickly. +Seven o’clock! What if, through being late, his share of supper should +be eaten! + +Peering out every now and then from the deep shade, cast by one of the +angles of the cathedral, and as swiftly and cautiously drawn back again, +was a trencher apparently watching Ketch. As soon as that functionary +was fairly launched on his way, the trencher came out completely, and +went flying at a swift pace round the college to the Boundaries. + +It was not worn by Bywater. Bywater, by the help of the stolen keys, was +safe in the cloisters, absorbed with his companions in preparations for +the grand event of the night. In point of fact, they were getting up +Pierce senior. Their precise mode of doing that need not be given. They +had requisites in abundance, having disputed among themselves which +should be at the honour of the contribution, and the result was an undue +prodigality of material. + +“There’s seven!” exclaimed Bywater in an agony, as the clock struck. +“Make haste, Pierce! the young one was to come out at a quarter past. If +you’re not ready, it will ruin all.” + +“I shall be ready and waiting, if you don’t bother,” was the response of +Pierce. “I wonder if old Ketch is safely off?” + +“What a stunning fright Ketch would be in, if he came in here and met +the ghost!” exclaimed Hurst. “He’d never think it was anything less than +the Old Gentleman come for him.” + +A chorus of laughter, which Hurst himself hushed. It would not do for +noise to be heard in the cloisters at that hour. + +There was nothing to which poor Charley Channing was more sensitive, +than to ridicule on the subject of his unhappy failing--his propensity +to fear; and there is no failing to which schoolboys are more +intolerant. Of moral courage--that is, of courage in the cause of +right--Charles had plenty; of physical courage, little. Apart from +the misfortune of having had supernatural terror implanted in him in +childhood, he would never have been physically brave. Schoolboys cannot +understand that this shrinking from danger (I speak of palpable danger), +which they call cowardice, nearly always emanates from a superior +intellect. Where the mental powers are of a high order, the imagination +unusually awakened, danger is sure to be keenly perceived, and +sensitively shrunk from. In proportion will be the shrinking dread of +ridicule. Charles Channing possessed this dread in a remarkable degree; +you may therefore judge how he felt, when he found it mockingly alluded +to by Bywater. + +On this very day that we are writing of, Bywater caught Charles, and +imparted to him in profound confidence an important secret; a choice few +of the boys were about to play old Ketch a trick, obtain the keys, and +have a game in the cloisters by moonlight. A place in the game, he said, +had been assigned to Charles. Charles hesitated. Not because it might +be wrong so to cheat Ketch--Ketch was the common enemy of the boys, of +Charley as of the rest--but because he had plenty of lessons to do. +This was Bywater’s opportunity; he chose to interpret the hesitation +differently. + +“So you are afraid, Miss Charley! Ho! ho! Do you think the cloisters +will be dark? that the moon won’t keep the ghosts away? I say, it +_can’t_ be true, what I heard the other day--that you dare not be in the +dark, lest ghosts should come and run away with you!” + +“Nonsense, Bywater!” returned Charley, changing colour like a conscious +girl. + +“Well, if you are not afraid, you’ll come and join us,” sarcastically +returned Bywater. “We shall have stunning good sport. There’ll be about +a dozen of us. Rubbish to your lessons! you need not be away from them +more than an hour. It won’t be _dark_, Miss Channing.” + +After this, fearing their ridicule, nothing would have kept Charley +away. He promised faithfully to be in the cloisters at a quarter past +seven. + +Accordingly, the instant tea was over, he got to his lessons; Tom at one +side of the table--who had more, in proportion, to do than Charles--he +at the other. Thus were they engaged when Hamish entered. + +“What sort of a night is it, Hamish?” asked Charles, thinking of the +projected play. + +“Fine,” replied Hamish. “Where are they all?” + +“Constance is in the drawing-room, giving Annabel her music lesson. +Arthur’s there too, I think, copying music.” + +Silence was resumed. Hamish stood over the fire in thought. Tom and +Charles went on with their studies. “Oh dear!” presently exclaimed the +latter, in a tone of subdued impatience. + +Hamish turned his eyes upon him. He thought the bright young face looked +unusually weary. “What is it, Charley, boy?” + +“It’s this Latin, Hamish. I can’t make it come right. And Tom has no +time to tell me.” + +“Bring the Latin here.” + +Charles carried his difficulties to Hamish. “It won’t come right,” + repeated he. + +“Like Mrs. Dora Copperfield’s figures, I expect, that wouldn’t add up,” + said Hamish, as he cast his eyes over the exercise-book. “Halloa, young +gentleman! what’s this! You have been cribbing.” He had seen in the past +leaves certain exercises so excellently well done as to leave no doubt +upon the point. + +Charles turned crimson. Cribs were particularly objectionable to +Mr. Channing, who had forbidden their use, so far as his sons were +concerned. “I could not help it, Hamish. I used the cribs for about a +week. The desk made me.” + +“Made you!” + +“Well,” confessed Charley, “there has been a row about the cribbing. The +rest had cribbed, and I had not, and somehow, through that, it came out +to the second master. He asked me a lot of questions, and I was obliged +to tell. It made the desk savage, and they said I must do as they did.” + +“Which you complied with! Nice young gentlemen, all of you!” + +“Only for five or six days, Hamish. You may see that, if you look. I am +doing my lessons on the square, now, as I did before.” + +“And don’t go off the square again, if you please, sir,” repeated +Hamish, “or you and I may quarrel. If Mr. Channing is not here, I am.” + +“You don’t know how tyrannical the college boys are.” + +“Don’t I!” said Hamish. “I was a college boy rather longer than you have +yet been, Master Charley.” + +He sat down to the table and so cleared Charley’s difficulties that the +boy soon went on swimmingly, and Hamish left him. “How do you get on, +Tom?” Hamish asked. + +“Better than I need,” was Tom’s answer, delivered somewhat roughly. +“After the injustice done me yesterday, it does not much matter how I +get on.” + +Hamish turned himself round to the fire, and said no more, neither +attempting to console nor remonstrate. Charles’s ears were listening for +the quarter past seven, and, the moment it chimed out, he left his work, +took his trencher from the hall, and departed, saying nothing to any +one. + +He went along whistling, past Dr. Gardner’s house, past the deanery; +they and the cathedral tower, rising above them, looked grey in the +moonlight. He picked up a stone and sent it right into one of the +elm trees; some of the birds, disturbed from their roost, flew out, +croaking, over his head. In the old days of superstition it might have +been looked upon as an evil omen, coupled with what was to follow. Ah, +Charley! if you could only foresee what is before you! If Mrs. Channing, +from her far-off sojourn, could but know what grievous ill is about to +overtake her boy! + +Poor Charley suspected nothing. He was whistling a merry tune, laughing, +boy-like, at the discomfiture of the rooks, and anticipating the stolen +game he and his friends were about to enjoy on forbidden ground. Not a +boy in the school loved play better than did Master Charles Channing. + +A door on the opposite side of the Boundaries was suddenly opened, to +give admittance to one who sprung out with a bound. It was Gerald Yorke: +and Charley congratulated himself that they were on opposite sides; for +he had been warned that this escapade was to be kept from the seniors. + +At that moment he saw a boy come forth from the cloisters, and softly +whistle to him, as if in token that he was being waited for. Charley +answered the whistle, and set off at a run. Which of the boys it was he +could not tell; the outline of the form and the college cap were visible +enough in the moonlight; but not the face. When he gained the cloister +entrance he could no longer see him, but supposed the boy had preceded +him into the cloisters. On went Charley, groping his way down the narrow +passage. “Where are you?” he called out. + +There was no answer. Once in the cloisters, a faint light came in from +the open windows overlooking the graveyard. A very faint light, indeed, +for the buildings all round it were so high, as almost to shut out any +view of the sky: you must go quite to the window-frame before you could +see it. + +“I--s-a-a-y!” roared Charley again, at the top of his voice, “where are +you all? Is nobody here?” + +There came neither response nor sign of it. One faint sound certainly +did seem to strike upon his ear from behind; it was like the click of +a lock being turned. Charley looked sharply round, but all seemed still +again. The low, dark, narrow passage was behind him; the dim cloisters +were before him; he was standing at the corner formed by the east and +south quadrangles, and the pale burial-ground in their midst, with its +damp grass and its gravestones, looked cold and lonely in the moonlight. + +The strange silence--it was not the silence of daylight--struck upon +Charles with dismay. “You fellows there!” he called out again, in +desperation. “What’s the good of playing up this nonsense?” + +The tones of his voice died away in the echoes of the cloisters, but of +other answer there was none. At that instant a rook, no doubt one of the +birds he had disturbed, came diving down, and flapped its wings across +the burial-ground. The sight of something, moving there, almost startled +Charles out of his senses, and the matter was not much mended when he +discovered it was only a bird. He turned, and flew down the passage to +the entrance quicker than he had come up it; but, instead of passing +out, he found the iron gate closed. What could have shut it? There +was no wind. And if there had been ever so boisterous a wind, it could +scarcely have moved that little low gate, for it opened inwards. + +Charles seized it to pull it open. It resisted his efforts. He tried to +shake it, but little came of that, for the gate was fastened firmly. Bit +by bit stole the conviction over his mind that he was locked in. + +Then terror seized him. He was locked in the ghostly cloisters, close to +the graves of the dead; on the very spot where, as idle tales, went, the +monks of bygone ages came out of those recording stones under his feet, +and showed themselves at midnight. Not a step could he take, round the +cloisters, but his foot must press those stones. To be locked in the +cloisters had been nothing (from this point of view) for brave, grown, +sensible men, such as the bishop, Jenkins, and Ketch--and they had been +three in company, besides--but for many a boy it would have been a great +deal; and for Charles Channing it was awful. + +That he was alone, he never doubted. He believed--as fully as belief, or +any other feeling could flash into his horrified mind--that Bywater had +decoyed him into the cloisters and left him there, in return for his +refusal to disclose what he knew of the suspicions bearing upon the +damaged surplice. All the dread terrors of his childhood rose up before +him. To say that he was mad in that moment might not be quite correct; +but it is certain that his mind was not perfectly sane. His whole body, +his face, his hair, grew damp in an instant, as of one in mortal agony, +and with a smothered cry, which was scarcely like that of a human being, +he turned and fled through the cloisters, in the vague hope of finding +the other gate open. + +It may be difficult for some of you to understand this excessive terror, +albeit the situation was not a particularly desirable one. A college +boy, in these enlightened days, laughs at supernatural tales as the +delusions of ignorance in past ages; but for those who have had the +misfortune to be imbued in infancy with superstition, as was Charles +Channing, the terror still exists, college boys though they may be. He +could not have told (had he been collected enough to tell anything) what +his precise dread was, as he flew through the cloisters. None can do so, +at these moments. A sort of vampire rises in the mind, and they shrink +from it, though they see not what its exact nature may be; but it is a +vampire that can neither be faced nor borne. + +Feeling as one about to die; feeling as if death, in that awful moment, +might be a boon, rather than the contrary, Charles sped down the east +quadrangle, and turned into the north. At the extremity of the north +side, forming the angle between it and the west, commenced the narrow +passage similar to the one he had just traversed, which led to the west +gate of entrance. A faint glimmering of the white flagged stones beyond +this gate, gave promise that it was open. A half-uttered sound of +thankfulness escaped him, and he sped on. + +Ah! but what was that? What was it that he came upon in the middle of +the north quadrangle, standing within the niches? A towering white +form, with a ghastly face, telling of the dead; a mysterious, +supernatural-looking blue flame lighting it up round about. It came out +of the niche, and advanced slowly upon him. An awful cry escaped from +his heart, and went ringing up to the roof of the cloisters. Oh! that +the good dean, sitting in his deanery close to the chapter-house, +could have heard that helpless cry of anguish!--that Dr. Burrows, still +nearer, could have heard it, and gone forth into the cloisters with the +succour of his presence! No, no; there could be no succour for a spot +supposed to be empty and closed. + +Back to the locked gate--with perhaps the apparition following him? or +forward _past_ IT to the open door? Which was it to be? In these moments +there can be no reason to guide the course; but there is instinct; and +instinct took that ill-fated child to the open door. + +How he flew past the sight, it is impossible to tell. Had it been right +in front of his path, he never would have passed it. But it had halted +just beyond the niche, not coming out very far. With his poor hands +stretched out, and his breath leaving him, Charles did get by, and made +for the door, the ghost bringing up the rear with a yell, while those +old cloister-niches, when he was fairly gone, grew living with moving +figures, which came out of their dark corners, and shrieked aloud with +laughter. + +Away, he knew not whither--away, as one who is being pursued by an +unearthly phantom--deep catchings of the breath, as will follow undue +bodily exertion, telling of something not right within; wild, low, +abrupt sounds breaking from him at intervals--thus he flew, turning to +the left, which led him towards the river. Anywhere from the dreaded +cloisters; anywhere from the old, grey, ghostly edifice; anywhere in his +dread and agony. He dashed past the boat-house, down the steps, turning +on to the river pathway, and-- + +Whether the light, hung at the boat-house, deceived his sight--whether +the slippery mud caused him to lose his footing--whether he was running +too quickly and could not stop himself in time--or whether, in his +irrepressible fear, he threw himself unconsciously in, to escape what +might be behind him, will never be known. Certain it is, that the +unhappy boy went plunge into the river, another and a last wild cry +escaping him as the waters closed over his head. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XL. -- MR. KETCH’S EVENING VISIT. + +It were surely a breach of politeness on our part not to attend Mr. +Ketch in his impromptu evening visit! He shuffled along at the very top +of his speed, his mouth watering, while the delicious odour of tripe +and onions appeared to be borne on the air to his olfactory nerves: so +strong is the force of fancy. Arrived at his destination, he found the +shop closed. It was Mrs. Jenkins’s custom to close at seven from October +to April; and the shutters had now just been put up. Mr. Ketch seized +the knocker on the shop-door--there was no other entrance to the +house--and brought it down with a force that shook the first-floor +sitting-room, and startled Mr. Harper, the lay clerk, almost out of his +armchair, as he sat before the fire. Mrs. Jenkins’s maid, a young person +of seventeen, very much given to blacking her face, opened it. + +“Be I in time?” demanded Ketch, his voice shaking. + +“In time for what?” responded the girl. + +“Why, for supper,” said Ketch, penetrating into the shop, which was +lighted by a candle that stood on the counter, the one the girl had +brought in her hand. “Is old Jenkins the bedesman come yet?” + +“Old Jenkins ain’t here,” said she. “You had better go into the parlour, +if you’re come to supper.” + +Ketch went down the shop, sniffing curiously. Sharp as fancy is, he +could not say that he was regaled with the scent of onions, but he +supposed the saucepan lid might be on. For, as was known to Mr. Ketch, +and to other of the initiated in tripe mysteries, it was generally +thought advisable, by good housewives, to give the tripe a boil up at +home, lest it should have become cold in its transit from the vendor’s. +The girl threw open the door of the small parlour, and told him he +might sit down if he liked; she did not overburden the gentleman with +civility. “Missis’ll be here soon,” said she. + +Ketch entered the parlour, and sat down. There was a fire in the +grate, but no light, and there were not, so far as Ketch could see, +any preparations yet for the entertainment. “They’re going to have it +downstairs in the kitchen,” soliloquized he. “And that’s a sight more +comfortabler. She’s gone out to fetch it, I shouldn’t wonder!” he +continued, alluding to Mrs. Jenkins, and sniffing again strongly, but +without result. “That’s right! she won’t let ‘em serve her with short +onions, she won’t; she has a tongue of her own. I wonder how much beer +there’ll be!” + +He sat on pretty patiently, for him, about half an hour, and then took +the liberty of replenishing the fire from a coal-box that stood there. +Another quarter of an hour was passed much more impatiently, when Ketch +began to grow uneasy and lose himself in all sorts of grave conjectures. +Could she have arrived too late, and found the tripe all sold, and so +had stopped out to supper herself somewhere? Such a thing as a run on +the delicacy had occurred more than once, to Ketch’s certain knowledge, +and tardy customers had been sent away disappointed, to wait in longing +anticipations for the next tripe night. He went into a cold perspiration +at the bare idea. And where was old Jenkins, all this time, that he had +not come in? And where was Joe? A pretty thing to invite a gentleman out +to an impromptu supper, and serve him in this way! What could they mean +by it? + +He groped his way round the corner of the shop to where lay the kitchen +stairs, whose position he pretty well knew, and called. “Here, Sally, +Betty--whatever your name is--ain’t there nobody at home?” + +The girl heard, and came forth, the same candle in hand. “Who be you +calling to, I’d like to know? My name’s Lidyar, if you please.” + +“Where’s your missis?” responded Ketch, suffering the name to drop into +abeyance. “Is she gone out for the tripe?” + +“Gone out for what tripe?” asked the girl. “What be you talking of?” + +“The tripe for supper,” said Ketch. + +“There ain’t no tripe for supper,” replied she. + +“There is tripe for supper,” persisted Ketch. “And me and old Jenkins +are going to have some of it. There’s tripe and onions.” + +The girl shook her head. “I dun know nothing about it. Missis is +upstairs, fixing the mustard.” + +Oh come! this gave a promise of something. Old Ketch thought mustard the +greatest condiment that tripe could be accompanied by, in conjunction +with onions. But she must have been a long time “fixing” the mustard; +whatever that might mean. His spirits dropped again, and he grew rather +exasperated. “Go up and ask your missis how long I be to wait?” he +growled. “I was told to come here at seven for supper, and now it’s +a’most eight.” + +The girl, possibly feeling a little curiosity herself, came up with her +candle. “Master ain’t so well to-night,” remarked she. “He’s gone to +bed, and missis is putting him a plaster on his chest.” + +The words fell as ice on old Ketch. “A mustard-plaster?” shrieked he. + +“What else but a mustard-plaster!” she retorted. “Did you think it was a +pitch? There’s a fire lighted in his room, and she’s making it there.” + +Nothing more certain. Poor Jenkins, who had coughed more than usual +the last two days, perhaps from the wet weather, and whose chest in +consequence was very painful, had been ordered to bed this night by his +wife when tea was over. She had gone up herself, as soon as her shop +was shut, to administer a mustard-plaster. Ketch was quite stunned with +uncertainty. A man in bed, with a plaster on his chest, was not likely +to invite company to supper. + +Before he had seen his way out of the shock, or the girl had done +staring at him, Mrs. Jenkins descended the stairs and joined them, +having been attracted by the conversation. She had slipped an old buff +dressing-gown over her clothes, in her capacity of nurse, and looked +rather en deshabille; certainly not like a lady who is about to give an +entertainment. + +“He says he’s come to supper: tripe and onions,” said the girl, +unceremoniously introducing Mr. Ketch and the subject to her wondering +mistress. + +Mrs. Jenkins, not much more famous for meekness in expressing her +opinions than was Ketch, turned her gaze upon that gentleman. “_What_ do +you say you have come for?” asked she. + +“Why, I have come for supper, that’s what I have come for,” shrieked +Ketch, trembling. “Jenkins invited me to supper; tripe and onions; and +I’d like to know what it all means, and where the supper is.” + +“You are going into your dotage,” said Mrs. Jenkins, with an amount +of scorn so great that it exasperated Ketch as much as the words +themselves. “You’ll be wanting a lunatic asylum next. Tripe and onions! +If Jenkins was to hint at such a thing as a plate of tripe coming inside +my house, I’d tripe him. There’s nothing I have such a hatred to as +tripe; and he knows it.” + +“Is this the way to treat a man?” foamed Ketch, disappointment and +hunger driving him almost into the state hinted at by Mrs. Jenkins. “Joe +Jenkins sends me down a note an hour ago, to come here to supper with +his old father, and it was to be tripe and onions! It _is_ tripe night!” + he continued, rather wandering from the point of argument, as tears +filled his eyes. “You can’t deny as it’s tripe night.” + +“Here, Lydia, open the door and let him out,” cried Mrs. Jenkins, waving +her hand imperatively towards it. “And what have you been at with your +face again?” continued she, as the candle held by that damsel reflected +its light. “One can’t see it for colly. If I do put you into that mask +I have threatened, you won’t like it, girl. Hold your tongue, old Ketch, +or I’ll call Mr. Harper down to you. Write a note! What else? He has +wrote no note; he has been too suffering the last few hours to think of +notes, or of you either. You _are_ a lunatic, it’s my belief.” + +“I shall be drove one,” sobbed Ketch. “I was promised a treat of--” + +“Is that door open, Lydia? There! Take yourself off. My goodness, me! +disturbing my house with such a crazy errand!” And, taking old Ketch +by the shoulders, who was rather feeble and tottering, from lumbago and +age, Mrs. Jenkins politely marshalled him outside, and closed the door +upon him. + +“Insolent old fellow!” she exclaimed to her husband, to whom she went +at once and related the occurrence. “I wonder what he’ll pretend he has +next from you? A note of invitation, indeed!” + +“My dear,” said Jenkins, revolving the news, and speaking as well as +his chest would allow him, “it must have been a trick played him by the +young college gentlemen. We should not be too hard upon the poor old +man. He’s not very agreeable or good-tempered, I’m afraid it must be +allowed; but--I’d not have sent him away without a bit of supper, my +dear.” + +“I dare say you’d not,” retorted Mrs. Jenkins. “All the world knows you +are soft enough for anything. I have sent him away with a flea in his +ear; that’s what I have done.” + +Mr. Ketch had at length come to the same conclusion: the invitation +must be the work of the college gentlemen. Only fancy the unhappy man, +standing outside Mrs. Jenkins’s inhospitable door! Deceived, betrayed, +fainting for supper, done out of the delicious tripe and onions, he +leaned against the shutters, and gave vent to a prolonged and piteous +howl. It might have drawn tears from a stone. + +In a frame of mind that was not enviable, he turned his steps homeward, +clasping his hands upon his empty stomach, and vowing the most intense +vengeance upon the college boys. The occurrence naturally caused him +to cast back his thoughts to that other trick--the locking him into the +cloisters, in which Jenkins had been a fellow-victim--and he doubled his +fists in impotent anger. “This comes of their not having been flogged +for that!” he groaned. + +Engaged in these reflections of gall and bitterness, old Ketch gained +his lodge, unlocked it, and entered. No wonder that he turned his eyes +upon the cloister keys, the reminiscence being so strong within him. + +But, to say he turned his eyes upon the cloister keys, is a mere figure +of speech. No keys were there. Ketch stood a statue transfixed, and +stared as hard as the flickering blaze from his dying fire would allow +him. Seizing a match-box, he struck a light and held it to the hook. The +keys were _not_ there. + +Ketch was no conjuror, and it never occurred to him to suspect that the +keys had been removed before his own departure. “How had them wicked +ones got in?” he foamed. “Had they forced his winder?--had they took a +skeleton key to his door?--had they come down the chimbley? They were +capable of all three exploits; and the more soot they collected about +‘em in the descent, the better they’d like it. He didn’t think they’d +mind a little fire. It was that insolent Bywater!--or that young +villain, Tod Yorke!--or that undaunted Tom Channing!--or perhaps all +three leagued together! Nothing wouldn’t tame _them_.” + +He examined the window; he examined the door; he cast a glance up the +chimney. Nothing, however, appeared to have been touched or disturbed, +and there was no soot on the floor. Cutting himself a piece of bread +and cheese, lamenting at its dryness, and eating it as he went along, he +proceeded out again, locking up his lodge as before. + +Of course he bent his steps to the cloisters, going to the west gate. +And there, perhaps to his surprise, perhaps not, he found the gate +locked, just as he might have left it himself that very evening, and +the keys hanging ingeniously, by means of the string, from one of the +studded nails, right over the keyhole. + +“There ain’t a boy in the school but what’ll come to be hung!” danced +old Ketch in his rage. + +He would have preferred not to find the keys; but to go to the +head-master with a story of their theft. It was possible, it was just +possible that, going, keys in hand, the master might refuse to believe +his tale. + +Away he hobbled, and arrived at the house of the head-master. Check the +first!--The master was not at home. He had gone to a dinner-party. The +other masters lived at a distance, and Ketch’s old legs were aching. +What was he to do? Make his complaint to some one, he was determined +upon. The new senior, Huntley, lived too far off for his lumbago; so he +turned his steps to the next senior’s, Tom Channing, and demanded to see +him. + +Tom heard the story, which was given him in detail. He told Ketch--and +with truth--that he knew nothing about it, but would make inquiries +in the morning. Ketch was fain to depart, and Tom returned to the +sitting-room, and threw himself into a chair in a burst of laughter. + +“What is the matter?” they asked. + +“The primest lark,” returned Tom. “Some of the fellows have been sending +Ketch an invitation to sup at Jenkins’s off tripe and onions, and when +he arrived there he found it was a hoax, and Mrs. Jenkins turned him out +again. That’s what Master Charley must have gone after.” + +Hamish turned round. “Where _is_ Charley, by the way?” + +“Gone after it, there’s no doubt,” replied Tom. “Here’s his exercise, +not finished yet, and his pen left inside the book. Oh yes; that’s where +he has gone!” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. -- THE SEARCH. + + “Tom, where is Charles?” + +“He is not in my pocket,” responded Tom Channing, who was buried in his +studies, as he had been for some hours. + +“Thomas, that is not the proper way to answer me,” resumed Constance, in +a tone of seriousness, for it was from her the question had proceeded. +“It is strange he should run out in the abrupt way you describe, and +remain out so long as this. It is half-past nine! I am waiting to read.” + +“The boys are up to some trick to-night with Mr. Calcraft, Constance, +and he is one of them,” said Tom. “He is sure to be in soon.” + +Constance remained silent; not satisfied. A nameless, undefined sort of +dread was creeping over her. Engaged with Annabel until eight o’clock, +when she returned to the general sitting-room, she found Charles absent, +much to her surprise. Expecting him to make his appearance every moment, +the time may have seemed to her long, and his absence all the more +unaccountable. It had now gone on to half-past nine, and still he was +not come in, and his lessons were not done. It was his hour for bed +time. + +Tom had more than usual to do that night, and it was nearly ten when he +rose from his books. Constance watched him put them aside, and stretch +himself. Then she spoke. + +“Tom, you must go and find Charles. I begin to feel uneasy. Something +must have happened, to keep him out like this.” + +The feeling “uneasy” rather amused Tom. Previsions of evil are not apt +to torment schoolboys. “I expect the worst that has happened may be a +battle royal with old Ketch,” said he. “However, the young monkey had no +business to cut short his lessons in the middle, and go off in this way, +so I’ll just run after him and march him home.” + +Tom took his trencher and flew towards the cathedral. He fully expected +the boys would be gathered somewhere round it, not a hundred miles from +old Ketch’s lodge. But he could not come upon them anywhere. The lodge +was closed, was dark and silent, showing every probability that its +master had retired for the night to sleep away his discomfiture. The +cloisters were closed, and the Boundaries lay calm in the moonlight, +undisturbed by a single footstep. There was no sign of Charles, or of +any other college boy. + +Tom halted in indecision. “Where can he have gone to, I wonder? I’m sure +I don’t know where to look for him! I’ll ask at Yorke’s! If there’s any +mischief up, Tod’s sure to know of it.” + +He crossed the Boundaries, and rang at Lady Augusta’s door. Tod himself +opened it. Probably he thought it might be one of his friends, the +conspirators; certainly he had not expected to find Tom Channing there, +and he looked inclined to run away again. + +“Tod Yorke, do you know anything of Charles?” + +“Law! how should I know anything of him?” returned Tod, taking courage, +and putting a bold face upon it. “Is he lost?” + +“He is not lost, I suppose; but he has disappeared somewhere. Were you +in the game with old Ketch, to-night?” + +“What game?” inquired Tod, innocently. + +But at this moment Gerald, hearing Tom’s voice, came out of the +sitting-room. Gerald Yorke had a little cooled down from his resentment +against Tom. Since the decision of the previous day, nearly all Gerald’s +wrath had been turned upon Mr. Pye, because that gentleman had not +exalted him to the seniorship. So great was it, that he had no room to +think of Tom. Besides, Tom was a fellow-sufferer, and had been passed +over equally with himself. + +“What’s the row?” asked Gerald. + +Tom explained, stating what he had heard from Ketch of the trick the +boys had played him; and Charley’s absence. Gerald, who really was not +cognizant of it in any way, listened eagerly, making his own comments, +and enjoying beyond everything the account of Ketch’s fast in the supper +department. Both he and Tom exploded with mirth; and Tod, who said +nothing, but listened with his hands in his pockets, dancing first on +one leg, then on the other, nearly laughed himself into fits. + +“What did they take out the cloister keys for?” demanded Gerald. + +“Who’s to know?” said Tom. “I thought Tod was sure to be in it.” + +“Don’t I wish I had been!” responded that gentleman, turning up the +whites of his eyes to give earnestness to the wish. + +Gerald looked round at Tod, a faint suspicion stealing over him that the +denial was less genuine than it appeared. In point of fact, Mr. Tod’s +had been the identical trencher, spoken of as having watched the effect +of the message upon old Ketch. “I say, Tod, you were off somewhere +to-night for about two hours,” said Gerald. “I’ll declare you were.” + +“I know I was,” said Tod readily. “I had an appointment with Mark +Galloway, and I went to keep it. If you skinned me alive, Channing, I +couldn’t tell you where Miss Charley is, or where he’s likely to be.” + +True enough in the abstract. Tom Channing stopped talking a short time +longer, and then ran home. “Is Charley in yet?” was his first question. + +No, Charley was not in; and the household now became seriously +concerned. It was past ten. By leaving his lessons half done, and his +pen inside his exercise-book--of which exercise he had not left many +words to complete; but he had other studies to do--it was evident to +them that he had not gone out intending to remain away. Indeed, if he +wanted to go out in an evening, he always asked leave, and mentioned +where he was going. + +“Haven’t you found him?” exclaimed Judith, coming forward as Tom +entered. “Where in the world can the child be?” + +“Oh, he’s safe somewhere,” said Tom. “Don’t worry your old head, Judy.” + +“It’s fit that somebody should worry their heads,” retorted Judith +sharply to Tom. “He never stopped out like this before--never! Pray +Heaven there’s no harm come nigh him!” + +“Well done, Judy!” was Tom’s answer. “Harm! What harm is likely to have +come to him? Helstonleigh has not been shaken by an earthquake to-night, +to swallow him up; and I don’t suppose any greedy kite has descended +from the skies and carried him off in her talons. You’ll make a +simpleton of that boy till he’s twenty!” + +Judith--who, truth to say, did look very much after Charley, loved him +and indulged him--wasted no more words on infidel Tom, but went straight +up to Hamish’s room, and knocked at the door. Hamish was in it, at his +writing-table as usual, and Judith heard a drawer opened and shut before +he came to her. + +“Mr. Hamish, it’s very queer about the child!” said Judith. “I don’t +half like it.” + +“What! Has he not come in?” + +“No, he’s not. And, just to look how he has left his books and his +lessons about, is enough to prove that something or other must have kept +him. I declare my heart’s all in a quake! Master Tom has been out, and +can find no traces of him--though it’s hard to tell whether he troubled +himself to look much. Boys are as careless one of another as so many +young animals.” + +“I will come down directly, Judith.” + +He shut the door, right in front of Judith’s inquisitive nose, which was +peering in to ascertain what there might be to see. Judith’s curiosity, +in reference to her young master’s night employment, had increased +rather than abated. Every night, night after night, as Hamish came home +with the account-books of the office under his arm, and carried them +straight to his bedroom, Judith watched him go up with jealous eyes. +Constance also watched him: watched him in a far more uneasy frame +of mind than could be Judith’s. Bringing home those books now, in Mr. +Channing’s absence, was only too plain a proof to Constance that his +night work must be connected with them: and a perfectly sick feeling +would rush over her. Surely there could be nothing wrong with the +accounts? + +Hamish closed the door, shutting out Judy. She heard him putting things +away: heard a lock turned, and the keys removed. Then he came forth, and +went down with Judith. + +The difficulty was, where to look for Charles. It was possible that +he might have gone to the houses of any one of the schoolboys, and be +staying there: if not very likely, still it was by no means impossible. +Tom was despatched to Mr. Pye’s, who had some half dozen of the king’s +scholars boarding in his house; and thence to other houses in the +neighbourhood. All with the same result; all denied knowledge of +Charles. The college bell struck eleven, the sound booming out in the +silence of the night on their listening ears; and with that sound, +Hamish grew alarmed. + +They went out different ways: Hamish, Arthur, Tom, and Judith. Sarah +was excessively anxious to make one of the searching party, but Judith +imperatively ordered her to stop at home and mind her own business. Judy +ran round and about the college, like any one wild; nothing extra on her +shoulders, and the border of her mob-cap flying. But the old red walls +were high, silent, and impenetrable; revealing nothing of Charles +Channing. She stopped at the low wall, extending from the side of the +boat-house to some of the prebendal residences, and glanced over at the +river. The water was flowing tranquilly between its banks, giving no +sign that a young child was drowning, or had been drowned there not many +hours before. “No,” said Judy to herself, rejecting the doubt, which had +come over her as improbable, “he can’t have got in there. We should have +heard of it.” + +She turned, and took a survey around. She did not know what to do, or +where to look. Still, cold, shadowy it all lay; the cathedral, the old +houses, the elm trees with their birds, at rest now. “Where _can_ he +have got to?” exclaimed Judith, with a touch of temper. + +One thing was certain: it was of no use to wait where she was, and +Judith went herself home again. Just beyond the house of Lady Augusta +Yorke she encountered the head-master, who was walking towards his home. +He said “Good night” to Judith, as he passed her; but she arrested him. + +“We are in a fine way, sir! We can’t find Master Charles.” + +“Not find Master Charles?” repeated Mr. Pye. “How do you mean?” + +“Why, it happened in this way, sir,” said Judith. “He was at his +lessons, as usual, with Master Tom, and he suddenly gets up and leaves +them, and goes out, without saying a word to nobody. That was at seven, +or a bit later; and he has never come in again.” + +“He must be staying somewhere,” remarked Mr. Pye. + +“So we all thought, sir, till it got late. He’s not likely to be staying +anywhere now. Who’d keep him till this hour, terrifying of us all into +fits? Ketch--” + +“Holloa, Judy! Any luck?” + +The interruption came from Tom Channing. He had discerned Judy’s cap +from the other side of the Boundaries, and now came running across, +unconscious that her companion was the head-master. Judy went on with +her communication. + +“Ketch, the porter, came to Master Tom an hour or two ago, complaining +that the college boys had been serving him a trick to-night. They had +pretended to invite him out somewhere to supper, and stole his cloister +keys while he was gone. Now, sir, I’d not like to say too much against +that surly-tempered brown bear,” went on Judy, “but if he has had +anything to do with keeping the child out, he ought to be punished.” + +Tom was up now, saw it was the master, and touched his trencher. + +“Have you found your brother?” asked the master. + +“No, sir. It is very strange where he can have got to.” + +“What tricks have the boys been playing Ketch, to-night?” resumed Mr. +Pye. “Your servant tells me that he has been round to you to complain of +them.” + +Tom went into a white heat. Judy ought to have kept her mouth shut. +It was not his place to inform against the school, privately, to the +master. “Y--es,” he hesitatingly said, for an untruth he would not tell. + +“What was the complaint?” continued Mr. Pye. “Could this disappearance +of your brother’s be connected with it?” + +“No, sir, I don’t see that it could,” replied Tom. + +“You ‘don’t see!’ Perhaps you’ll allow me to see, and judge. What had +the boys been doing, Channing?” firmly spoke the master, perceiving his +hesitation. “I _insist_ upon knowing.” + +Tom was at his wits’ ends. He might not defy the master, on the one +hand; on the other, he knew the school would send him to Coventry for +ever and a day, if he spoke; as he himself would have sent any other +boy, in it, doing the same thing. He heartily wished Judy had been in +Asia before she had spoken of it, and her tongue with her. + +“Were you in the affair yourself, pray?” asked the master. + +“No, sir, indeed I was not; and I do not know a single boy who was. I +have heard nothing of it, except from Ketch.” + +“Then what is your objection to tell me?” + +“Well, sir, you know the rules we hold amongst ourselves,” said Tom, +blurting out the truth, in his desperation. “I scarcely dare tell you.” + +“Yes, you dare, Channing, when I command you to do so,” was the +significant answer. + +Tom had no resource left; and, very unwillingly, Ketch’s details were +drawn from him, bit by bit. The sham invitation, the disappointment +touching the tripe and onions, the missing the cloister keys when he +reached home, and the finding them outside the west door. + +“Did he enter the cloisters and examine them?” said the master, speaking +hastily. A possibility had struck him, which had not struck any of the +Channings; and it was curious that it had not done so. + +“I think not, sir,” replied Tom. + +“Then, that’s where Charles is, locked up in the cloisters!” said the +master, the recollection of the former locking-up no doubt helping +him to the conclusion. “The fact of the keys having been left hanging +outside the cloister door might have been sufficient to direct your +suspicions.” + +Tom felt the force of the words, and was wondering how it was he had not +thought of it, when a cry burst from Judith. + +“If he is there, he will never come out alive! Oh, sir, what will become +of us?” + +The master was surprised. He knew it was not a desirable situation +for any young boy; but “never come out alive” were strong terms. Judy +explained them. She poured into the master’s ears the unhappy story of +Charles having been frightened in childhood; of his propensity still to +supernatural fears. + +“Make haste round! we must have the cloisters opened immediately!” + exclaimed the master, as all the full truth of the dread imparted by +Judith became clear to him. “Channing, you have light heels; run on, and +knock up Ketch.” + +Tom tore off; never a lighter pair of heels than his, to-night; and the +master and the old servant followed. The master’s sympathies, nay, his +lively fears, were strongly awakened, and he could not leave the affair +in this stage, late though the hour was. + +They arrived, to find Tom pummelling at Ketch’s door. But to pummel +was one thing, and to arouse Mr. Ketch was another. Mr. Ketch chose to +remain deaf. “I’ll try the window,” said Tom, “He must hear; his bed is +close at hand.” + +He knocked sharply; and it at length elicited an answer from the drowsy +gentleman, composed of growls and abuse. + +“Get up!” called out Tom. “The keys of the cloisters are wanted.” + +“Then they may be wanted!” responded old Ketch in a muffled tone, as if +he were speaking from under the bed-clothes. “I’ll see you all furder +before you get the keys from me.” + +“Ketch, produce the keys this instant!” interposed the master. “You know +my voice; Mr. Pye’s. How dare you?” + +“I’ll ‘dare’ you all, if you don’t go away!” raved old Ketch, mistaking, +or pretending to mistake, the disturbers for his enemies, the college +boys. “It’s a second edition of the trick you played me this evening, is +it? I’ll go to the dean with the first glimmer o’ daylight--” + +“Ketch, I am the head-master. I have come for the cloister keys. There’s +a boy locked in the cloisters!” + +“Is there? Praise be given up for that! I wouldn’t unlock him for a mint +o’ diaments. If you don’t be off, I’ll call the police.” + +“Fire! fire!” shouted Judy, in a shrill tone, putting her mouth to the +keyhole; for she despaired of gaining Ketch by any other means. “What an +idiot you are, old Ketch! Do you want to be burnt up alive?” + +“Fire!” shouted Tom, in stentorian tones. “Fire! fire!” And +Ketch, whether he was really alarmed, or whether he recognized the +head-master’s voice, and thought it imprudent to hold out any longer, +tumbled out of bed, opened the door, and appeared before them in attire +more airy than elegant. Another minute, and impetuous Tom would have +burst the window in. + +“Beg pardon,” said Ketch, ungraciously, to the master. “Them boys play +me up such tricks, that I’m always thinking of ‘em. Where’s the fire?” + +“I don’t think it’s anywhere,” said the master. “The cloister keys, +Ketch: and make haste. Which of the boys played you that trick +to-night?” + +Ketch gave a yell, for the point was a sore one. “I never set eyes on +one of ‘em! They’re too cunning for me.” + +“Was my brother Charles one?” asked Tom, while Mr. Pye hastened away +with the cloister keys. + +“I tell ye I never see’d one! Can’t you believe?” Tom did believe, and +went after the master and Judy. + +They entered the cloisters, and shouted for Charles. Nothing answered +them but the echoes. To _see_ whether he was there, was impossible. Judy +thought he might be lying somewhere, insensible from fright, and she ran +up and down feeling into niches, as one demented. Mr. Pye sent Tom back +to old Ketch’s for a light, which was not supplied without difficulty. + +He was turning away with it, when Hamish came up. Hamish had been with +all speed to Mr. Huntley’s, to question Harry, as senior of the school, +whether he knew what the trick of the night had been, and what boys were +in it. Harry, however, who was in bed, assured Hamish of his complete +ignorance. But for Mr. Huntley’s veto, he would have got up and gone out +to join in the search, and enjoyed it amazingly. + +They carried the candle to every nook and corner of the cloisters, no +result arising from it. Hamish and Tom climbed over and searched the +burial-ground. He was not there. No signs, for their keen eyes, or +for any others, remained of the night’s work: the college boys were +cautious. A couple of matches, half-burnt, lay on the ground in the +north quadrangle, but they told nothing. The boys were often lighting +matches, as the master knew. + +“I really think you must be mistaken in supposing Charles’s absence has +to do with this trick played upon old Ketch--whatever it may have +been,” he observed. “It does not appear that the boys have been in +the cloisters. Had any of them been locked in here, here they would be +still.” + +There was no denying it, and they left the cloisters and closed them. +The keys were conveyed to Ketch, who had to get out of bed again to +receive them, which he did with a great amount of wrath. Mr. Pye thought +it would be proved that Charles must be at the house of one of the boys, +carelessness or accident having detained him. And then he wished them +good night and went home. + +Completely at a loss were they. Hamish, ever hopeful, thought Charles +had perhaps returned home: and they bent their steps thither. No, no; +Constance, Arthur, and curious Sarah, were all outside, looking every +way. Constance was too agitated to remain indoors. Arthur had just +returned home. He had been to the houses of some of the college boys, +those with whom Charles was most intimate, but could obtain no tidings +of him. + +Constance burst into tears. She grew excessively alarmed, when Judy +mentioned the doubt lest he had been shut in the cloisters. “But that +fear is done away with,” said Hamish. “We have searched them thoroughly. +Do not distress yourself, Constance.” + +“There goes midnight!” exclaimed Judy. + +“Ugh!” shivered Sarah. “I feel just as if somebody was walking over my +grave, Judith.” + +“If they were walking over you, it mightn’t be amiss,” reprimanded +Judith. “Don’t talk such stuff as that, girl, in the young mistress’s +ears.” + +The words died away into silence, and they stood listening to the +strokes of the deep-toned cathedral bell. With the last, twelve, another +day had dawned upon the world. What would it bring forth for them? + +“I shall go to the police-station,” said Hamish. “Constance, my dear, +you had better not remain outside. Go indoors.” + +It was well to say “Go indoors,” but in the agitation and suspense at +that moment overwhelming Constance, “indoors” was not so easy to bear. +Hamish strode off, Tom following him. Arthur remained with his sister, +waiting and watching still. + +And so they waited and watched through the livelong night. Hamish was +at work; the police were at work; Tom was at work: but neither sign nor +trace could be found of Charles Channing. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. -- AN OFFICIAL CEREMONY INTERRUPTED. + +A grey dusky morning, enveloped in fog, succeeded to the fine night. +Before seven o’clock--so watchful and alert are boys when mischief is +afloat--most of those who had been in the conspiracy were assembled, and +waiting round the schoolroom doors. Generally, they could tear up at +the twelfth moment. They would not have missed the sight of Charles +Channing’s arrival for half-a-crown apiece, so curious were they to see +how he looked, after his fright. As it happened, it was not at any of +their homes that inquiries had been made the previous night; not one of +them was, to say, intimate with Charley: they were most of them older +than he. Consequently, they knew nothing of the search. Tod Yorke, who +did know of it, had not yet arrived. Of all the king’s scholars, none +were marked late more frequently than Master Tod. + +The senior boy had gone to the head-master’s for the keys as usual, and +now came down the cloisters, clanking them in his hand. + +“Has Charles Channing turned up?” he called out, before he was well +abreast of them. + +Pierce senior choked away his inclination to laughter, which the sound +of the name excited, and saucy Bywater answered. “Where should he turn +up from, Huntley? Has he been swallowed?” + +“Hamish Channing came to our house last night, ages after I was in bed, +saying they couldn’t find him,” replied Huntley. “What was in the wind +last night with old Calcraft?” + +The boys looked at him demurely; and Huntley, receiving no reply, +unlocked the schoolroom and entered it. They remained behind, winking at +each other, and waiting still for Charles. It wanted yet a few minutes +to seven. + +“I say, what d’ye think?” whispered Bywater. “After I had got our sheet +smuggled in, all right, and was putting it on the bed, I found two big +holes burnt in it. Won’t there be a commotion when my old aunt finds +it out! She’ll vow I have been reading in bed. That was you, Pierce +senior!” + +“I’m sure I never burnt it,” retorted Pierce. “It was the flame did it, +if anything.” + +“Here comes Bill Simms!” exclaimed Bywater, when their smothered laugh +was over. “What has he been doing to himself? He’s as white as the +ghost!” + +Mr. Bill Simms assuredly did look white. He had a pale face at the best +of times, and it was embellished with straw-coloured hair. But at the +present moment it had turned ghastly, and his frame seemed shaking as he +came along. + +“What on earth has taken you, Simms?” demanded Hurst. + +“Oh, goodness!” uttered Simms. “I wish I was well out of this! They are +saying there’s a college boy drowned!” + +“What?” cried the boys, gathering round him. + +“There was a crowd down by the boat-house as I came along,” responded +Simms, as well as he could speak for his chattering teeth. “I asked a +fellow what it was, and he said he didn’t rightly know, but he thought +one of the college boys had been found drowned in the water.” + +Some of the gentlemen-listeners’ faces turned as pale as Mr. Bill +Simms’s; as pale as each conscience. Bywater was the first to gather +courage. + +“It’s not obliged to be Charley Channing, if there is any one drowned.” + +“But it’s sure to be him,” chattered Simms, his teeth as crazy as his +grammar. “Griffin junior says Arthur Channing went to their house last +night at twelve, and said they couldn’t find Charley.” + +The consternation into which this news plunged the guilty ones is not +easily described. A conviction that it _was_ Charles Channing who was +drowned, overtook them all. Schoolboys are not quite without hearts, and +they would have given all they possessed, in that moment, to see Charles +come flying amongst them, as usual. Some of them began to wish they were +without necks; for if Charles had come to an untimely end through +their work, they might stand a chance of furnishing employment to the +veritable Mr. Calcraft, on their own score. Tod Yorke came leaping up in +delight. + +“Oh, wasn’t it good! The young one--” + +“Hold your noise, Tod! They are saying he’s dead.” + +“Who’s dead?” wondered Tod. + +“Charley Channing. A college boy was found in the river, drowned.” + +“Oh, that be hanged!” exclaimed Tod, half in mocking disbelief, half in +awful fear. “It can’t be, you know. Who says it?” + +“There’s seven! We must go in, or Huntley will be on to us. Mind!” added +Pierce senior, for he was the speaker, “we must all keep each other’s +counsel, and be in one tale--that we know nothing at all about it.” + +They slunk into school. But that the senior boy was occupied with his +new duty--the calling over of the roll--he might have observed that +something was wrong. To play up a bit of mischief is the legitimate +privilege of college boys; but to have led to a companion’s death is a +terror-striking affair; and their countenances betrayed that it was so. + +Before the roll was finished, the head-master was in school. Tom +Channing--it was late for him--entered afterwards. The master beckoned +to him. + +“Is Charles found?” + +“No, sir. We cannot learn any tidings of him at all. We have not been to +bed, any of us; and the police are searching also.” + +Had Tom Channing come from the other side of the Boundaries, near the +boat-house, perhaps he might have been able to give a different account. + +The master made no comment then. He motioned Tom to his desk, and gave +the word for prayers. As the boys were rising from their knees, Hamish +Channing entered the school, attended by Mr. Ketch. + +Hamish approached the master, who shook hands with him. Ketch remained +snarling and grinning defiance at the door, shaking his fist and his +old teeth covertly at the boys. If looks could have blown up a room, the +college school had certainly gone aloft then. + +“I hear you have not found the boy?” said the master to Hamish. “It is +very singular.” + +“We have not found him. Mr. Pye,” continued Hamish, gravely, “I come to +demand of your courtesy an immediate investigation into the doings of +the college boys last night. That the disappearance of Charles is in +some measure connected with it, we cannot do otherwise than believe. I +have brought Ketch with me that he may tell his own tale.” + +Ketch was marshalled forward and ordered to tell his tale, and the +business of the school was suspended. Ketch told it distinctly enough; +but he could not forbear enlarging upon his cruel disappointment over +the tripe and onions, and it sent the school into convulsions. In +the midst of it, Tom Channing breathed freely; Ketch’s preferring the +complaint, did away with the unpleasantness he had feared might arise, +through having been forced to disclose it to the master. + +“I should be sorry to have displeasure visited upon the boys,” resumed +Hamish. “Indeed, I should esteem it a favour, sir, if you will not +punish them for any disclosure that may arise through this step which I +have taken. I dare say,” he added, turning his laughing gaze upon them, +“that I should have been one of the ringleaders myself, in my school +days, therefore it would not be fair for me to bring punishment upon +them. I only wish to know which of the school were in it, that I may +make inquiries of them whether Charles was one of them or not; and, if +he was, what they know of his movements afterwards.” + +The address was fair and candid; so was Hamish’s face; and some of the +conspirators, in their good feeling, might have freely confessed, but +for the something just whispered to them by Simms. That closed their +lips. + +“Do you hear?” said the master, speaking sharply, for he had rather, +ten times over, that the school frankly avowed mischief, when brought to +book: he was never half so severe if they were so. “Why are you silent?” + +Bill Simms, who had the bump of conscientiousness largely developed, +with a wholesome dread of consequences, besides being grievously timid, +felt that he could not hold out long. “Oh, murder!” he groaned to Mark +Galloway, next to whom he sat: “let’s tell, and have done with it.” + +Mark turned cold with fear. “You’re a pretty fellow!” he uttered, giving +him a tremendous kick on the shins. “Would you like us all to be tried +for our lives?” A suggestion which made matters worse; and Bill Simms’s +hair began to stand on end. + +“Huntley, have you any cognizance of this?” demanded Mr. Pye. + +“None, sir.” And so said the three seniors under him. + +“Boys!” said the master, bringing his cane down upon the desk in a +manner he was accustomed to do when provoked: “I _will_ come to the +bottom of this business. That several of you were in it, I feel sure. Is +there not _one_ of you sufficiently honest to speak, when required so to +do?” + +Certain of the boys drooped their conscious faces and their eyelids. As +to Bill Simms, he felt ready to faint. + +“What have you done with Charles Channing?” thundered the master. “Where +have you put him? Where is he gone? I command you to speak! Let the +senior of those who were in it speak! or the consequences be upon your +own heads.” + +The threat sounded ominous in the ears of Bill Simms: he saw himself, in +prospective, exposed to all the horrors of a dungeon, and to something +worse. With a curious noise, something between a bark and a groan, he +flung himself with his face on the floor, and lay there howling. + +“Mr. Simms,” said the master, “what has taken you? Were you the chief +actor in this matter?” + +All considerations had disappeared from Mr. Simms’s mind except the +moment’s terror. He forgot what would be his own position in the school, +if he told, or--as they would have expressed it--turned sneak. Impelled +by fear, he was hardly conscious of his words; hardly responsible for +them. + +“It wasn’t me,” he howled. “They all know I didn’t want the trick played +upon him. I told them that it had killed a boy down by our farm, and it +might kill Channing. They know I told them.” + +The master paused. “Walk here, Simms.” + +Simms picked himself up from the ground and walked there. A miserable +object he looked; his eyes red, his teeth chattering, his face white, +and his straw-coloured hair standing on end. + +The master leaned his arms upon his desk, and brought his face almost +into contact with the frightened one. “What trick did you play upon +Charles Channing?” + +“‘Twasn’t me, sir,” sobbed Simms. “I didn’t want it done, I say, +O-o-o-o-o-o-h! I didn’t!” + +“What trick was played upon him?” + +“It was a ghost dressed up to frighten him, and he passed through the +cloisters and saw it. It wasn’t me! I’ll never speak another word, if it +was me!” + +“A ghost!” repeated the master in astonishment, while Ketch stretched +his old neck forward, and the most intense interest was displayed by the +school. + +“They did it with a sheet and a blue flame,” went on Simms; who, now +that the ice was broken, tried to make a clean breast of it, and grew +more alarmed every moment. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t want it done, and +I never lent a hand to the dressing up. If little Channing is dead, it +won’t be fair to hang me.” + +“Who was in the plot?” was the next question of the master. And Simms +enumerated them. The master, stern and grim, beckoned to the several +gentlemen to walk up, and to range themselves before him. “The lad has +run some distance in his terror,” observed the master aside to Hamish, +as he remembered what Judith had told him the previous night. “You will +see him home in the course of the day.” + +“I trust we may!” replied Hamish, with marked emphasis. + +Bit by bit, word by word, the master drew the whole truth from the +downcast lads. Pierce senior looked dogged and obstinate: he was +inwardly vowing unheard-of revenge against Mr. Simms. Probably most of +them were doing the same. + +“I knowed it was them! I knowed it couldn’t be nobody but them!” broke +forth old Ketch, summarily interrupting the proceedings. “You sees now, +sir, what incorrigible--” + +“Silence!” said the master, raising his hand. “I can deal with this +without your assistance, Ketch. Hurst, who concocted this infamous +plot?” + +Hurst--who was the senior of the conspirators, with regard to his +position in the school, though not so old as Pierce senior--could not +answer it definitively. It was concocted between them, he said; not by +one more than by another. + +“Did you not know that a trick, such as this, has deprived _men_ +of reason?” continued the master. “And you play it upon a young and +defenceless boy! I am at a loss how to express my sense of your conduct. +If any ill shall have happened to him through it, you will carry it on +your consciences for ever.” + +Remembering what they had just heard, the boys’ consciences had begun to +suffer already. + +“Who personated the ghost?” continued the master. + +“Pierce senior.” The answer came from Simms. The others would not have +given it. + +“I might have guessed that,” was the remark of the master, who had no +great love for the gentleman named. “I might have known that if there +was a boy in the college school who would delight to put himself forward +to trample on one younger and more sensitive than himself, it would be +Pierce senior. I’ll give you something to remember this work by, Mr. +Pierce. Yorke!” + +Gerald Yorke knew what he was called for. He was the tallest and +strongest of all. The school knew also; and a murmur of excitement went +round. Pierce senior was going to be hoisted. + +Only in very flagrant cases was the extreme punishment of flogging +resorted to by the present master. It had been more common with his +predecessor. Of course its rarity made it all the more impressive when +it did come. + +“Make ready,” said the master to Pierce senior, unlocking his desk, and +taking out a birch as big as a besom. + +Pierce turned green and white, without help from any blue flame, and +slowly began to obey. There might be no resistance. The school hushed +itself into suspense, and Mr. Ketch’s legs were on the point of taking +a dance of ecstasy. A minute or two, and the group formed the centre of +the upper part of the room. Yorke supported the great boy whose back was +bared, while the daunted faces and eager eyes were strained eagerly from +around. The head-master took his place, and his birch was raised in the +air to come down with a heavy stroke, when a commotion was heard at one +of the desks, and Stephen Bywater rushed forward. + +“Stop, sir!” he said to the master. “If you will let Pierce go, I will +take the punishment.” + +The master’s arm with its weapon dropped by his side, and he turned his +astonished gaze upon Bywater. + +“I had more to do with planning the trick than Pierce had, sir, so +it’s only just that I should be the scapegoat. We fixed upon Pierce to +personate the ghost because he was tall and lanky. And a flogging is not +much to my skin,” added honest, impudent Bywater. + +“So _you_ were the planner of it, were you, Mr. Bywater?” demanded the +angry master. + +“In a great measure I was, sir. If I do go in for mischief, it shall not +be said that I let others suffer for it. Little Channing had offended +me, and I wished to serve him out. But I never thought to do him harm.” + +In the perplexity of deciding what he ought to do, when official +proceedings were interrupted in this unprecedented way, the master +hesitated. What he would have done is uncertain--flogged Pierce first +and Bywater afterwards, perhaps--but at that moment there occurred +another interruption, and a more serious one. + +Diggs, the man who lived at the boat-house, had entered the school, and +was asking to speak to the head-master. Catching sight of the signs of +the ceremony about to be performed, he waited for no permission, but +went forward at once, a college cap in his hand, and his voice trembling +with excitement. Its excitement was not lessened when he recognized +Hamish Channing. + +“I am the bearer of bad news, gentlemen,” he said, addressing them +both. “I fear one of the young college lads was drowned last night by my +boat-house. We have picked up his cap this morning. It was poor little +Master Channing.” + +Hamish controlled his emotion better than did the Rev. Mr. Pye. +The latter turned his eyes on the horrified school, himself equally +horrified, and then signified to Pierce senior to dress himself--to +Bywater to retire to his place. “The affair has become serious,” he +observed, “and must be dealt with differently. Poor child! Poor little +Channing!” + +And the boys, in their emotion, broke into an echoing wail. “Poor little +Channing! poor little Channing!” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. -- DRAGGING THE RIVER. + +The echoes of lamentation were dying away in the high roof of the +college school. Hamish Channing, pale, but calm and self-controlled, +stood perfectly ready to investigate the account brought by the +boat-house keeper of the drowning of Charles. The feelings of those +who had had a hand in the work may be imagined, perhaps, but certainly +cannot be described. Bill Simms choked and sobbed, and pulled his lanky +straw-coloured hair, and kicked his legs about, and was altogether +beside himself. The under-masters looked on with stern countenances and +lowering brows; while old Ketch never had had such a disappointment in +all his life (the one grand disappointment of last night excepted) as he +was feeling now, at the deferred flogging. + +Diggs, the boat-house keeper, was a widower, with one child, a girl of +ten years old. His mother lived with him--an aged woman, confined to +her bed, of late, with rheumatic fever, from which she was slowly +recovering. On the previous night Diggs was out, and the girl had been +sent on an errand, Mrs. Diggs being left in the house alone. She was +lying quietly, still as was the air outside, when sudden sounds broke +that stillness, and smote upon her ear. Footsteps--young steps, they +seemed--were heard to come tearing down on the outside gravel, from +the direction of the cathedral, and descend the steps. Then there was a +startling cry and a plunge into the river. + +The old woman echoed the cry; but there were none to hear it, and she +was powerless to aid. That a human soul was struggling in the water was +certain; and she called and called, but called in vain. She was shut up +in the house, unable to move; and there were none outside to hear her. +In her grief and distress she at length pulled the bed-clothes over her +ears, that she might hear no more (if more was to be heard) of the death +agony. + +Twenty minutes or so, and then the girl came in. The old woman brought +her head from under the clothes, and stated what had occurred, and the +girl went and looked at the river. But it was flowing along peacefully, +showing no signs that anything of the sort had happened. Not a creature +was on the path on either side, so far as her eyes could see in the +moonlight; and she came to the conclusion that her grandmother must have +been mistaken. “She has odd fancies,” said the child to herself, “and +thinks she hears things that nobody else never hears.” + +At ten o’clock Diggs came home. Now, this man had a propensity for +yielding to an infirmity to which many others also yield--that of +drinking too freely. It is true that this did not often occur; but +when it did happen, it was usually at a time when his services were +especially required. It is very much the case in this world: we often do +things, whether good ones or bad ones, just at the wrong moment. Diggs +arrived at home, stupid. His old mother called him to her room, and told +him what she had heard; but she could make little impression upon him. +As his young daughter had done, he took a survey of the river, but only +from the windows of his house--the girl had gone on to the bank--and +then he tumbled into bed, and slept heavily until the morning. + +Up betimes, he remembered what had been told to him, and went out of +doors, half expecting possibly to see something floating on the surface. +“I was detained out last night on an errand,” explained he to some three +or four stragglers who had gathered round him, “and when I got in, my +old mother told me a cock-and-bull story of a cry and a splash, as if +somebody had fallen into the river. It don’t look much like it, though.” + +“A dead dog, maybe,” suggested one of the idlers. “They’re always +throwing rubbish into this river on the sly.” + +“Who is?” sharply asked Diggs. “They had better let me catch ‘em at it!” + +“Lots of folks,” was the response. “But if it was a dead dog, it +couldn’t well have cried out.” + +Diggs went indoors to his mother’s chamber. “What time was it, this tale +of yours?” asked he. + +“It was about half-past seven,” she answered. “The half-hour chimed out +from the college, just before or just after, I forget which.” And then +she related again what she knew he could not clearly comprehend over +night: the fact of the fleet-sounding footsteps, and that they appeared +to be young footsteps. “If I didn’t know the cloisters were shut at that +hour, I should have thought they come direct from the west door--” + +The words were interrupted by a call from below; and the man hastened +down. A boy’s cap--known, from its form, to belong to one of the +collegiate scholars--had just been found under the lower bank, lodged in +the mud. Then some one had been drowned! and it was a college boy. + +Where does a crowd collect from? I don’t believe any one can tell. Not +three minutes after that trencher was picked up, people were gathering +thick and threefold, retired though the spot was; and it was at this +time that Mr. Bill Simms had passed, and heard the tale which turned his +heart sick and his face white. + +Some time given to supposition, to comments, and to other gossip, +indigenous to an event of the sort, and then Mr. Diggs started for the +college school with the cap. Another messenger ran to the Channings’ +house, the name in the cap proving to whom it had belonged. Diggs +related the substance of this to the master, suppressing certain little +points bearing upon himself. + +Mr. Pye took the cap in his hand, and looked inside. The name, “C. +Channing,” was in Mrs. Channing’s writing; and, in the sprawling hand of +one of the schoolboys--it looked like Bywater’s--“Miss” had been added. +Charley had scratched the addition over with strokes from a pen, but the +word might still be read. + +“The river must be dragged, Diggs,” said Hamish Channing. + +“The drags are being got ready now, sir. They’ll be in, by the time I +get back.” + +Hamish strode to the door. Tom came up from his desk, showing some +agitation, and looked at the master. “You will allow me to go, sir? I +can do no good at my lessons in this suspense.” + +“Yes,” replied the master. He was going himself. + +The school rose with one accord. The under-masters rose. To think +of study, in this excitement, was futile; and, in defiance of all +precedent, the boys were allowed to leave the room, and troop down to +the river. It was a race which should get there first; masters and +boys ran together. The only one who walked pretty soberly was the +head-master, who had to uphold his dignity. + +The drags were already in the river, and the banks were lined; police, +friends, spectators, gentlemen, mob, and college boys, jostled each +other. Arthur Channing, pale and agitated, came running from his home. +The old vergers and bedesmen came; some of the clergy came; Judy came; +and the dean came. Hamish, outwardly self-possessed, and giving his +orders with quiet authority, was inwardly troubled as he had never been. +The boy had been left to his charge, and how should he answer for this +to his father and mother? + +He went in and saw the old woman; as did the renowned Mr. Butterby, +who had appeared with the rest. She related to them she had heard the +previous night. “I could have told, without having heard it now, that it +was the steps of a college boy,” she said. “I don’t listen so often to +‘em that I need mistake. He seemed to be coming from the west door o’ +the cloisters--only that the cloisters are shut at night; so he may +have come round by the front o’ the college. Desperate quick he ran, and +leapt down the steps; and, a minute after, there was a cry and a splash, +and the footsteps were heard no more. One might fancy that in turning +the corner to run along the towing-path he had turned too quick, and so +fell over the bank.” + +“Did you hear no noise afterwards?” questioned Hamish. + +“I didn’t. I called out, but nobody came nigh to answer it: and then I +hid my ears. I was afraid, ye see.” + +They left the old woman’s bedside, and returned to the crowd on the +bank. The dean quietly questioned Hamish about the facts, and shook his +head when put in possession of them. “I fear there is little hope,” he +said. + +“Very little. My father and mother’s absence makes it the more +distressing. I know not, Mr. Dean, how--” + +Who was this, pushing vehemently up, to the discomfiture of every one, +elbowing the dean with as little ceremony as he might have elbowed +Ketch, thrusting Hamish aside, and looking down on the river with +flashing eyes? Who should it be, but Roland Yorke? For that was his +usual way of pushing through a crowd; as you have heard before. + +“Is it true?” he gasped. “Is Charles Channing in the water!--sent there +through the tricks of the college boys--of Tod?” + +“There is little doubt of its truth, Roland,” was the answer of Hamish. + +Roland said no more. Off went his coat, off went his waistcoat, off went +other garments, leaving him nothing but his drawers and his shirt; +and in he leaped impetuously, before any one could stop him, and dived +below, searching after Charles, paying no heed to the shouts that the +drags would get hold of him. + +But neither drags nor Roland could find Charles. The drags were +continued, but without result. Very few had expected that there would be +any result, the probability being that the current had carried the +body down the stream. Hamish had been home to soothe the grief of his +sisters--or rather to attempt to soothe it--and then he came back again. + +Roland, his ardour cooled, had likewise been home to exchange his wet +things for dry ones. This done, he was flying out again, when he came +upon the Reverend William Yorke, who was hastening down to the scene, in +some agitation. + +“Is the boy found, Roland, do you know? How did it happen? Did he fall +in?” + +“Considering the light in which you regard the family, William Yorke, +I wonder you should waste your breath to ask about it,” was Roland’s +touchy answer, delivered with as much scorn as he could call up. + +Mr. Yorke said no more, but quickened his pace towards the river. Roland +kept up with him and continued talking. + +“It’s a good thing all the world’s not of your opinion, William Yorke! +You thought to put a slight upon Constance Channing, when you told her +she might go along, for you. It has turned out just the best luck that +could have happened to her.” + +“Be silent, sir,” said Mr. Yorke, his pale cheek flushing. “I have +already told you that I will not permit you to mention Miss Channing’s +name to me. You have nothing to do with her or with me.” + +“_You_ have nothing to do with her, at any rate,” cried aggravating +Roland. “She’ll soon belong to your betters, William Yorke.” + +Mr. Yorke turned his flashing eye upon him, plainly asking the +explanation that he would not condescend to ask in words. It gave Roland +an advantage, and he went on swimmingly with his mischief. + +“Lord Carrick has seen the merits of Constance, if you have not; and--I +don’t mind telling it you in confidence--has resolved to make her his +wife. He says she’s the prettiest girl he has seen for ages.” + +“It is not true,” said Mr. Yorke, haughtily. + +“Not true!” returned Roland. “You’ll see whether it’s true or not, when +she’s Countess of Carrick. Lady Augusta was present when he made her the +offer. He was half afraid to make it for some time, he told us, as he +was getting on in years, and had grey hair. Halloa! you are turning +pale, William Yorke. She can’t be anything to you! You threw her away, +you know.” + +William Yorke, vouchsafing no reply, broke away from his tormentor. He +probably did look pale; certainly he felt so. Roland indulged in a quiet +laugh. He had been waiting for this opportunity, ever since he became +cognizant of what had taken place between the earl and Constance. The +earl had made no secret of his intention and its defeat. “I’ll have some +fun over it with Mr. William,” had been Roland’s thought. + +A sudden noise! Cries and shouts on the banks of the river, and the +dense crowd swayed about with excitement. Mr. Yorke and Roland set off +at a run, each from his own point, and the cries took a distinct sound +as they neared them. + +“They have found the body!” + +It was being laid upon the bank. Those who could get near tried +to obtain a glimpse of it. The college boys, with white faces and +terror-stricken consciences, fought for a place; Roland Yorke fought for +it; the head-master fought for it: I am not sure that the bishop--who +had seen the commotion from his palace windows, and came up to know what +it meant--did not fight for it. + +A false alarm, so far as the present object was concerned. A little lad, +who had been drowned more than a week before, had turned up now. He had +incautiously climbed the parapet of the bridge, whence he fell into the +water, and their search for him had hitherto been fruitless. He was +not a pleasant sight to look upon, as he lay there; but the relief to +certain of the college boys, when they found it was not Charles, was +immeasurable. Bywater’s spirits went up to some of their old impudence. +“In looking for one thing you find another,” quoth he. + +Very true, Mr. Bywater! Sometimes we find more than we bargain for. The +drags were thrown in again, and the excited crowd jostled each other as +before, their faces hanging over the brink. Hush! Hark! Another prize! +What is it, coming up now? + +A rare prize, this time! The drags pulled and tugged, and the men +cried, “Heave-ho!” and a hundred and one voices echoed it: “Heave-ho! +heave-ho!” Hush! Hush--sh--sh! A breathless moment of suspense, and up +it comes. Amidst straw and tangled weeds and mud, and the odds and ends +that a river will collect, something hard and clanking was thrown upon +the bank, and wondering eyes and faces peered over it. + +Nothing but two keys. A pair of large rusty keys, tied together with +string. Bywater, and Hurst, and young Galloway, and one or two more, +cast significant glances together, and were nearly choking with fright +and suppressed laughter. One, standing there, conspicuous for his dress, +which amongst other items comprised an apron, turned a significant +glance on _them_. Bold Bywater met it, and looked a little less bold +than usual. But the prelate had kept counsel, and meant to keep it; and +he looked away again. + +Once more were the drags thrown into the water. Once more the mob, +gentle and simple, crowded its brink. When the college bell tolled out +for morning prayers, those, whose duty it was to attend the cathedral, +drew themselves away unwillingly. Arthur Channing was one of them. +Whatever might be his grief and suspense, engagements must be fulfilled. + +Later in the day, when the search was over--for it was thought useless +to continue it--and when hope was over, a council was held at Mr. +Channing’s house. Mr. and Mrs. Channing must be acquainted with this sad +business; but how was it to be done? By letter? by telegraph? or by a +special messenger? Constance had suggested writing, and silently hoped +that Hamish would take the task upon himself, for she felt unequal to +it, in her dire distress. Mr. Galloway, who had been in and out all +the morning, suggested the telegraph. Hamish approved of neither, but +proposed to despatch Arthur, to make the communication in person. + +“I cannot leave Helstonleigh myself,” he said; “therefore it must +devolve upon Arthur. Of course his journey will be an expense; but there +are times when expense must not be regarded. I consider this one of +them.” + +“A letter would go more quickly,” said Mr. Galloway. + +“Scarcely, in these days of travelling,” was Hamish’s reply. “But that +is not the question. A letter, let it be ever so explanatory, will +only leave them in suspense. As soon as they have read it, five hundred +questions will suggest themselves that they will wish to ask; and, +to wait to have them satisfied, will be intolerable, especially to my +mother. Arthur’s going will obviate this. He knows as much as we know, +and can impart his knowledge to them.” + +“There is a great deal in what you say,” mused Mr. Galloway. + +“I am sure there is,” spoke Constance through her tears, “though it did +not strike me before. In mamma’s anxiety and suspense, she might start +for home, to learn further details.” + +“And I think it is what she would do,” said Hamish: “if not my father +also. It will be better that Arthur should go. He can tell them all they +would learn if they returned; and so far as it is possible, that would +be satisfactory.” + +They were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Huntley and his daughter. +Ellen had begged her father, when she found he was going to the +Channings’, to allow her to accompany him, and see Constance in her +distress. Mr. Huntley readily acquiesced. The drowning of poor Charley +was a serious affliction, in contemplation of which he forgot the +inexpediency of her meeting Hamish. + +Hamish did not appear to perceive any inexpediency in the matter. He was +the first to take Ellen’s hand in his, and bend upon her his sweet smile +of welcome. Knowing what Ellen knew of Mr. Huntley’s sentiments, and +that he was looking on, it rendered her manner confused and her cheeks +crimson. She was glad to turn to Constance, and strive to say a few +words of sympathy. “Had Harry been one of those wicked, thoughtless +boys to join in this ghost trick, I could never have forgiven him!” she +impulsively exclaimed, hot tears running down her cheeks. + +The subject under consideration was referred to Mr. Huntley, and his +opinion requested: more as a form of courtesy than anything else, for +Hamish had made up his mind upon the point. A thoroughly affectionate +and dutiful son was Hamish Channing; and he believed that the tidings +could be rendered more bearable to his father and mother by a messenger, +than by any other mode of communication. The excuse that Constance and +Arthur had, throughout, found for Hamish in their hearts was, that +he had taken the bank-note out of latent affection to Mr. and Mrs. +Channing. + +“You are wrong, every one of you,” said Mr. Huntley, when he had +listened to what they had to say. “You must send neither letter nor +messenger. It will not do.” + +Hamish looked at him. “Then what can we send, sir? + +“Don’t send at all.” + +“Not send at all!” repeated Hamish. + +“Certainly not,” said Mr. Huntley. “You have no positive proof as yet +that the child is dead. It will be alarming them unnecessarily.” + +“Mr. Huntley!” said Constance. “Is it possible that you see any ground +for hope?” + +“Honestly, my dear, I do not see much ground for hope,” he replied. +“But, on the other hand, there are no positive grounds for despair. So +long as these grounds are not furnished, I say keep it from Mr. and +Mrs. Channing. Answer me one thing: What good end would it serve to tell +them?” + +“Is it not a duty?” + +“I do not see it,” said Mr. Huntley. “Were the poor boy’s fate known, +beyond uncertainty, it would be a different matter. If you send to them, +what would come of it? The very suspense, the doubt, would have a bad +effect upon Mr. Channing. It might bring him home; and the good already +effected might be destroyed--his time, purse, hopes, all that he has +given to the journey, wasted. On the other hand, allowing that he still +remained, the news might delay his cure. No: my strong advice to you +is: Suffer them for the present to remain in ignorance of what has +happened.” + +Hamish began to think Mr. Huntley might be right. + +“I know I am right,” said Mr. Huntley. “If putting them in possession +of the facts could produce any benefit to themselves, to you, or to +Charles, I would go off myself with Arthur this hour. But it could +effect nothing; and, to them, it might result in great evil. Until we +know something more certain ourselves, let us keep it from them.” + +“Yes, I see it,” said Hamish, warmly. “It will be best so.” + +Constance felt her arm touched, and coloured with emotion when she found +it was Mr. William Yorke. In this day of distress, people seemed to come +in and go out without ceremony. Mr. Yorke had entered with Tom Channing. +He completely accepted the new view of the matter, and strongly +advised that it should not be allowed to reach the ears of Mr. and Mrs. +Channing. + +Mr. Galloway, when he was departing, beckoned Constance into the hall. +It was only to give her a word of friendly sympathy, of advice--not to +be overwhelmed, but to cling to hope. She thanked him, but it was with +an aching heart, for Constance could not feel this hope. + +“Will you grant me the favour of a minute’s private interview?” asked +Mr. Yorke stiffly, meeting her in the hall. + +Constance hesitated a moment. He was asking what she felt he had no +right to ask. She coloured, bowed, and stepped towards the drawing-room. +Mr. Yorke threw open the door for her, and followed her in. + +Then he became agitated. Whatever his pride or his temper may have been, +whether the parting between them was his fault or Constance’s, it was +certain that he loved her with an enduring love. Until that morning he +had never contemplated losing Constance; he had surely looked forward to +some indefinite future when she should be his; and the words spoken by +Roland had almost driven him mad. Which was precisely what Mr. Roland +hoped they would do. + +“I would not speak to you to-day, when you are in distress, when you may +deem it an unfitting time for me to speak,” he began, “but I _cannot_ +live in this suspense. Let me confess that what brought me here was +to obtain this interview with you, quite as much as this other unhappy +business. You will forgive me?” + +“Mr. Yorke, I do not know what you can have to speak about,” she +answered, with dignity. “My distress is great, but I can hear what you +wish to say.” + +“I heard--I heard”--he spoke with emotion, and went plunging abruptly +into his subject--“I heard this morning that Lord Carrick was soliciting +you to become his wife.” + +Constance could have laughed, but for her own distress, agitated though +he was. “Well, sir?” she coldly said, in a little spirit of mischief. + +“Constance, you cannot do it,” he passionately retorted. “You cannot so +perjure yourself!” + +“Mr. Yorke! Have you the right to tell me I shall or shall not marry +Lord Carrick?” + +“You can’t do it, Constance!” he repeated, laying his hand upon her +shoulder, and speaking hoarsely. “You know that your whole affection +was given to me! It is mine still; I feel that it is. You have not +transferred it to another in this short time. You do not love and forget +so lightly.” + +“Is this all you have to say to me?” + +“No, it is not all,” he answered, with emotion. “I want you to be +_my_ wife, Constance, not his. I want you to forget this miserable +estrangement that has come between us, and come home to me at Hazledon.” + +“Listen, Mr. Yorke,” she said; but it was with the utmost difficulty she +retained her indifferent manner, and kept back her tears: she would have +liked to be taken then to his sheltering arms, never to have left them. +“The cause which led to our parting, was the suspicion that fell upon +Arthur, coupled with something that you were not pleased with in my own +manner relating to it. That suspicion is upon him still; and my course +of conduct would be precisely the same, were it to come over again. I am +sorry you should have reaped up this matter, for it can only end as it +did before.” + +“Will you not marry me?” he resumed. + +“No. So long as circumstances look darkly on my brother.” + +“Constance! that may be for ever!” + +“Yes,” she sadly answered, knowing what she did know; “they may never +be brighter than they are now. Were I tempted to become your wife, you +might reproach me afterwards for allying you to disgrace; and that, I +think, would kill me. I _beg_ you not to speak of this again.” + +“And you refuse me for Lord Carrick! You will go and marry him!” + exclaimed Mr. Yorke, struggling between reproach, affection, and temper. + +“You must allow me to repeat that you have no right to question me,” she +said, moving to the door. “When our engagement was forfeited, that right +was forfeited with it.” + +She opened the door to leave the room. Mr. Yorke might have wished +further to detain her, but Judy came bustling up. “Lady Augusta’s here, +Miss Constance.” + +Lady Augusta Yorke met Constance in the hall, and seized both her hands. +“I had a bad headache, and lay in bed, and never heard of it until an +hour ago!” she uttered with the same impulsive kindness that sometimes +actuated Roland. “Is it true that he is drowned? Is it true that Tod was +in it?--Gerald says he was. William, are _you_ here?” + +Constance took Lady Augusta into the general sitting-room, into the +presence of the other guests. Lady Augusta asked a hundred questions, at +the least; and they acquainted her with the different points, so far as +they were cognizant of them. She declared that Tod should be kept upon +bread and water for a week, and she would go to the school and request +Mr. Pye to flog him. She overwhelmed Constance with kindness, wishing +she and Annabel would come to her house and remain there for a few days. +Constance thanked her, and found some difficulty in being allowed to +refuse. + +“Here is his exercise-book,” observed Constance, tears filling her eyes; +“here is the very place in which he laid his pen. Every other moment I +think it cannot be true that he is gone--that it must be all a dream.” + +Lady Augusta took up the pen and kissed it: it was her impulsive way of +showing sympathy. Mr. Huntley smiled. “Where’s William gone to?” asked +Lady Augusta. + +The Reverend William Yorke had quitted the house, shaking the dust +from his shoes in anger, as he crossed the threshold. Anger as much at +himself, for having ever given her up, as at Constance Channing; and +still most at the Right Honourable the Earl of Carrick. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. -- MR. JENKINS IN A DILEMMA. + +I don’t know what you will say to me for introducing you into the +privacy of Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins’s bed-chamber, but it is really +necessary to do so. We cannot very well get on without it. + +A conjugal dispute had occurred that morning when Mrs. Jenkins got up. +She was an early riser; as was Jenkins also, in a general way; but since +his illness, he had barely contrived to come down in time for breakfast. +On this morning--which was not the one following the application +of mustard to his chest, but one about a week after that medicinal +operation--Mrs. Jenkins, on preparing to descend, peremptorily ordered +him to remain in bed. Nothing need be recorded of the past week, except +two facts: Charles Channing had not been discovered, either in life or +in death; and the Earl of Carrick had terminated his visit, and left +Helstonleigh. + +“I’ll bring up your breakfast,” said Mrs. Jenkins. + +“It is of no use to say that,” Jenkins ventured meekly to remonstrate. +“You know I must get up.” + +“I say you shall not get up. Here you are, growing weaker and worse +every day, and yet you won’t take care of yourself! Where’s the use of +your taking a bottle a-day of cough-mixture--where’s the use of your +making the market scarce of cod-liver oil--where’s the use of wasting +mustard, if it’s all to do you no good? _Does_ it do you any good?” + +“I am afraid it has not, as yet,” confessed Jenkins. + +“And never will, so long as you give your body and brains no rest. Out +you go by nine o’clock, in all weathers, ill or well, and there you +are at your business till evening; stooping yourself double over the +writing, dancing abroad on errands, wearing out your lungs with answers +to callers! There’s no sense in it.” + +“But, my dear, the office must be attended to,” said Jenkins, with much +deference. + +“There’s no ‘must’ in the case, as far as you are concerned. If I +say you shan’t go to it, why, you shan’t. What’s the office, pray, in +comparison with a man’s life?” + +“But I am not so ill as to remain away. I can still go and do my work.” + +“You’d be for going, if you were in your coffin!” was Mrs. Jenkins’s +wrathful answer. “Could you do any good then, pray?” + +“But I am not in my coffin,” mildly suggested Jenkins. + +“Don’t I say you’d go, if you were?” reiterated Mrs. Jenkins, who +sometimes, in her heat, lost sight of the precise point under dispute. +“You know you would! you know there’s nothing in the whole world that +you think of, but that office! Office--office--office, it is with you +from morning till night. When you _are_ in your coffin, through it, +you’ll be satisfied.” + +“But it is my duty to go as long as I can, my dear.” + +“It’s my duty to do a great many things that I don’t do!” was the +answer; “and one of my duties which I haven’t done yet, is to keep you +indoors for a bit, and nurse you up. I shall begin from to-day, and see +if I can’t get you well, that way.” + +“But--” + +“Hold your tongue, Jenkins. I never say a thing but you are sure to put +in a ‘but.’ You lie in bed this morning,--do you hear?--and I’ll bring +up your breakfast.” + +Mrs. Jenkins left the room with the last order, and that ended the +discussion. Had Jenkins been a free agent--free from work--he had been +only too glad to obey her. In his present state of health, the duties +of the office had become almost too much for him; it was with difficulty +that he went to it and performed them. Even the walk, short as it was, +in the early morning, was almost beyond his strength; even the early +rising was beginning to tell upon him. And though he had little hope +that nursing himself up indoors would prove of essential service, he +felt that the _rest_ it brought would be to him an inestimable boon. + +But Jenkins was one who thought of duty before he thought of himself; +and, therefore, to remain away from the office, if he _could_ drag +himself to it, appeared to him little less than a sin. He was paid for +his time and services--fairly paid--liberally paid, some might have +said--and they belonged to his master. But it was not so much from +this point of view that Jenkins regarded the necessity of +going--conscientious though he was--as at the thought of what the office +would do without him; for there was no one to replace him but Roland +Yorke. Jenkins knew what he was; and so do we. + +To lie in bed, or remain indoors, under these circumstances, Jenkins +felt to be impossible; and when his watch gave him warning that the +breakfast hour was approaching, up he got. Behold him sitting on the +side of the bed, trying to dress himself--_trying_ to do it. Never had +Jenkins felt weaker, or less able to battle with his increasing illness, +than on this morning; and when Mrs. Jenkins dashed in--for her quick +ears had caught the sounds of his stirring--he sat there still, +stockings in hand, unable to help himself. + +“So you were going to trick me, were you! Are you not ashamed of +yourself, Jenkins?” + +Jenkins gasped twice before he could reply. A giddiness seemed to be +stealing over him, as it had done that other evening, under the elm +trees. “My dear, it is of no use your talking; I must go to the office,” + he panted. + +“You shan’t go--if I lock you up! There!” + +Jenkins was spared the trouble of a reply. The giddiness had increased +to faintness, his sight left him, and he fell back on to the bed in +a state of unconsciousness. Mrs. Jenkins rather looked upon it as a +triumph. She put him into bed, and tucked him up. + +“This comes of your attempting to disobey me!” said she, when he had +come round again. “I wonder what would become of you poor, soft mortals +of men, if you were let have your own way! There’s no office for you to +day, Jenkins.” + +Very peremptorily spoke she. But, lest he should attempt the same again, +she determined to put it out of his power. Opening a closet, she thrust +every article of his clothing into it, not leaving him so much as a +waistcoat, turned the key, and put it into her pocket. Poor Jenkins +watched her with despairing eyes, not venturing to remonstrate. + +“There,” said she, speaking amiably in her glow of satisfaction: “you +can go to the office now--if you like. I’ll not stop you; but you’ll +have to march through the streets leaving your clothes in that closet.” + +Under these difficulties Jenkins did not quite see his way to get there. +Mrs. Jenkins went instead, catching Mr. Roland Yorke just upon his +arrival. + +“What’s up, that Jenkins is not here?” began Roland, before she could +speak. + +“Jenkins is not in a fit state to get out of his bed, and I have come to +tell Mr. Galloway so,” replied she. + +Roland Yorke’s face grew to twice its usual length at the news. “I +say, though, that will never do, Mrs. Jenkins. What’s to become of this +office?” + +“The office must do the best it can without him. _He’s_ not coming to +it.” + +“_I_ can’t manage it,” said Roland, in consternation. “I should go dead, +if I had to do Jenkins’s work, and my own as well.” + +“He’ll go dead, unless he takes some rest in time, and gets a little +good nursing. I should like to know how I am to nurse him, if he is down +here all day?” + +“That’s not the question,” returned Roland, feeling excessively blank. +“The question is, how the office, and I, and Galloway are to get on +without him? Couldn’t he come in a sedan?” + +“Yes, he can; if he likes to come without his clothes,” retorted Mrs. +Jenkins. “I have taken care to lock _them_ up.” + +“Locked his clothes up!” repeated Roland, in wonder. “What’s that for?” + +“Because, as long as he has a bit of life in him, he’ll use it to drag +himself down here,” answered Mrs. Jenkins, tartly. “That’s why. He +was getting up to come this morning, defying me and every word I said +against it, when he fell down on the bed in a fainting fit. I thought it +time to lock his things up then.” + +“Upon my word, I don’t know what’s to be done,” resumed Roland, growing +quite hot with dismay and perplexity, at the prospect of some extra work +for himself. “Look here!” exhibiting the parchments on Jenkins’s desk, +all so neatly left--“here’s an array! Jenkins did not intend to stay +away, when he left those last night, I know.” + +“_He_ intend to stay away! catch him thinking of it,” retorted Mrs. +Jenkins. “It is as I have just told him--that he’d come in his coffin. +And it’s my firm belief that if he knew a week’s holiday would save him +from his coffin, he’d not take it, unless I was at his back to make him. +It’s well he has somebody to look after him that’s not quite deficient +of common sense!” + +“Well, this is a plague!” grumbled Roland. + +“So it is--for me, I know, if for nobody else,” was Mrs. Jenkins’s +reply. “But there’s some plagues in the world that we must put up with, +and make the best of, whether we like ‘em or not; and this is one of +them. You’ll tell Mr. Galloway, please; it will save me waiting.” + +However, as Mrs. Jenkins was departing, she encountered Mr. Galloway, +and told him herself. He was both vexed and grieved to hear it; grieved +on Jenkins’s score, vexed on his own. That Jenkins was growing very ill, +he believed from his own observation, and it could not have happened at +a more untoward time. Involuntarily, Mr. Galloway’s thoughts turned to +Arthur Channing, and he wished he had him in the office still. + +“You must turn over a new leaf from this very hour, Roland Yorke,” + he observed to that gentleman, when he entered. “We must both of us +buckle-to, if we are to get through the work.” + +“It’s not possible, sir, that I can do Jenkins’s share and mine,” said +Roland. + +“If you only do Jenkins’s, I’ll do yours,” replied Mr. Galloway, +significantly. “Understand me, Roland: I shall expect you to show +yourself equal to this emergency. Put aside frivolity and idleness, and +apply yourself in earnest. Jenkins has been in the habit of taking part +of your work upon himself, as I believe no clerk living would have done; +and, in return, you must now take his. I hope in a few days he may be +with us again. Poor fellow, we shall feel his loss!” + +Mr. Galloway had to go out in the course of the morning, and Roland was +left alone to the cares and work of the office. It occurred to him that, +as a preliminary step, he could not do better than open the window, that +the sight of people passing (especially any of his acquaintances, with +whom he might exchange greetings) should cheer him on at his hard work. +Accordingly, he threw it up to its utmost extent, and went on with his +writing, giving alternately one look to his task, and two to the street. +Not many minutes had he been thus spurring on his industry, when he saw +Arthur Channing pass. + +“Hist--st--st!” called out Roland, by way of attracting his attention. +“Come in, old fellow, will you? Here’s such a game!” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. -- A NEW SUSPICION. + +Arthur Channing had been walking leisurely down Close Street. Time hung +heavily on his hands. In leaving the cathedral after morning service, +he had joined Mr. Harper, the lay clerk, and went with him, talking, +towards the town; partly because he had nothing to do elsewhere--partly +because out of doors appeared more desirable than home. In the uncertain +state of suspense they were kept in, respecting Charles, the minds of +all, from Hamish down to Annabel, were in a constant state of unrest. +When they rose in the morning the first thought was, “Shall we hear of +Charles to-day?” When they retired at bedtime, “What may not the river +give up this night?” It appeared to them that they were continually +expecting tidings of some sort or other; and, with this expectation, +hope would sometimes mingle itself. + +Hope; where could it spring from? The only faint suspicion of it, +indulged at first, that Charley had been rescued in some providential +manner, and conveyed to a house of shelter, had had time to die out. A +few houses there were, half-concealed near the river, as there are near +to most other rivers of traffic, which the police trusted just as far as +they could see, and whose inmates did not boast of shining reputations; +but the police had overhauled these thoroughly, and found no trace of +Charley. Nor was it likely that they would conceal a child. So long as +Charles’s positive fate remained a mystery, suspense could not cease; +and with this suspense there did mingle some faint glimmer of hope. +Suspense leads to exertion; inaction is intolerable to it. Hamish, +Arthur, Tom, all would rather be out of doors now, than in; there +might be something to be heard of, some information to be gathered, +and looking after it was better than staying at home to wait for it. +No wonder, then, that Arthur Channing’s steps would bend unconsciously +towards the town, when he left the cathedral, morning and afternoon. + +It was in passing Mr. Galloway’s office, the window of which stood wide +open, that Arthur had found himself called to by Roland Yorke. + +“What is it?” he asked, halting at the window. + +“You are the very chap I wanted to see,” cried Roland. “Come in! Don’t +be afraid of meeting Galloway: he’s off somewhere.” + +The prospect of meeting Mr. Galloway would not have prevented Arthur +from entering. He was conscious of no wrong, and he did not shrink as +though he had committed one. He went in, and Mr. Harper proceeded on his +way. + +“Here’s a go!” was Roland’s salutation. “Jenkins is laid up.” It +was nothing but what Arthur had expected. He, like Mr. Galloway, had +observed Jenkins growing ill and more ill. “How shall you manage without +him?” asked Arthur; Mr. Galloway’s dilemma being the first thing that +occurred to his mind. + +“Who’s to know?” answered Roland, who was in an explosive temper. “_I_ +don’t. If Galloway thinks to put it all on my back, it’s a scandalous +shame! I never could do it, or the half of it. Jenkins worked like a +horse when we were busy. He’d hang his head down over his desk, and +never lift it for two hours at a stretch!--you know he would not. Fancy +my doing that! I should get brain fever before a week was out.” + +Arthur smiled at this. “Is Jenkins much worse?” he inquired. + +“I don’t believe he’s worse at all,” returned Roland, tartly. “He’d +have come this morning, as usual, fast enough, only she locked up his +clothes.” + +“Who?” said Arthur, in surprise. + +“She. That agreeable lady who has the felicity of owning Jenkins. She +was here this morning as large as life, giving an account of her doings, +without a blush. She locked up his things, she says, to keep him in bed. +I’d be even with her, I know, were I Jenkins. I’d put on her flounces, +but what I’d come out, if I wanted to. Rather short they’d be for him, +though.” + +“I shall go, Roland. My being here only hinders you.” + +“As if that made any difference worth counting! Look here!--piles +and piles of parchments! I and Galloway could never get through them, +hindered or not hindered. _I_ am not going to work over hours! _I_ won’t +kill myself with hard labour. There’s Port Natal, thank goodness, if the +screw does get put upon me too much!” + +Arthur did not reply. It made little difference to Roland: whether +encouraged or not, talk he would. + +“I _have_ heard of folks being worked beyond their strength; and that +will be my case, if one may judge by present appearances. It’s too bad +of Jenkins!” + +Arthur spoke up: he did not like to hear blame, even from Roland Yorke, +cast upon patient, hard-working Jenkins. “You should not say it, Roland. +It is not Jenkins’s fault.” + +“It is his fault. What does he have such a wife for? She keeps Jenkins +under her thumb, just as Galloway keeps me. She locked up his clothes, +and then told him he might come here without them, if he liked: my +belief is, she’ll be sending him so, some day. Jenkins ought to put her +down. He’s big enough.” + +“He would be sure to come here, if he were equal to it,” said Arthur. + +“He! Of course he would!” angrily retorted Roland. “He’d crawl here on +all fours, but what he’d come; only she won’t let him. She knows it too. +She said this morning that he’d come when he was in his coffin! I should +like to see it arrive!” + +Arthur had been casting a glance at the papers. They were unusually +numerous, and he began to think with Roland that he and Mr. Galloway +would not be able to get through them unaided. Most certainly they would +not, at Roland’s present rate of work. “It is a pity you are not a quick +copyist,” he said. + +“I dare say it is!” sarcastically rejoined Roland, beginning to play at +ball with the wafer-box. “I never was made for work; and if--” + +“You will have to do it, though, sir,” thundered Mr. Galloway, who had +come up, and was enjoying a survey of affairs through the open window. +Mr. Roland, somewhat taken to, dropped his head and the wafer-box +together, and went on with his writing as meekly as poor Jenkins would +have done; and Mr. Galloway entered. + +“Good day,” said he to Arthur, shortly enough. + +“Good day, sir,” was the response. Mr. Galloway turned to his idle +clerk. + +“Roland Yorke, you must either work or say you will not. There is no +time for playing and fooling; no time, sir! do you hear? Who put that +window stark staring open?” + +“I did, sir,” said incorrigible Roland. “I thought the office might be +the better for a little air, when there was so much to do in it.” + +Mr. Galloway shut it with a bang. Arthur, who would not leave without +some attempt at a passing courtesy, let it be ever so slight, made a +remark to Mr. Galloway, that he was sorry to hear Jenkins was worse. + +“He is so much worse,” was the response of Mr. Galloway, spoken sharply, +for the edification of Roland Yorke, “that I doubt whether he will ever +enter this room again. Yes, sir, you may look; but it is the truth!” + +Roland did look, looked with considerable consternation. “How on earth +will the work get done, then?” he muttered. With all his grumbling, he +had not contemplated Jenkins being away more than a day or two. + +“I do not know how it will get done, considering that the clerk upon +whom I have to depend is Roland Yorke,” answered Mr. Galloway, with +severity. “One thing appears pretty evident, that Jenkins will not be +able to help to do it.” + +Mr. Galloway, more perplexed at the news brought by Mrs. Jenkins than +he had allowed to appear (for, although he chose to make a show of +depending upon Roland, he knew how much dependence there was in reality +to be placed upon him--none knew better), had deemed it advisable to +see Jenkins personally, and judge for himself of his state of health. +Accordingly, he proceeded thither, and arrived at an inopportune moment +for his hopes. Jenkins was just recovering from a second fainting fit, +and appeared altogether so ill, so debilitated, that Mr. Galloway was +struck with dismay. There would be no more work from Jenkins--as he +believed--for him. He mentioned this now in his own office, and Roland +received it with blank consternation. + +An impulse came to Arthur, and he spoke upon it. “If I can be of any use +to you, sir, in this emergency, you have only to command me.” + +“What sort of use?” asked Mr. Galloway. + +Arthur pointed to the parchments. “I could draw out these deeds, and +any others that may follow them. My time is my own, sir, except the two +hours devoted to the cathedral, and I am at a loss how to occupy it. I +have been idle ever since I left you.” + +“Why don’t you get into an office?” said Mr. Galloway. + +Arthur’s colour deepened. “Because, sir, no one will take me.” + +“Ah!” said Mr. Galloway, drily, “a good name is easier lost than won.” + +“Yes, it is,” freely replied Arthur. “However, sir, to return to the +question. I shall be glad to help you, if you have no one better at +hand. I could devote several hours a day to it, and you know that I am +thoroughly to be trusted with the work. I might take some home now.” + +“Home!” returned Mr. Galloway. “Did you mean that you could do it at +home?” + +“Certainly, sir; I did not think of doing it here,” was the pointed +reply of Arthur. “I can do it at home just as well as I could here; +perhaps better, for I should shut myself up alone, and there would be +nothing to interrupt me, or to draw off my attention.” + +It cannot be denied that this was a most welcome proposition to Mr. +Galloway; indeed, his thoughts had turned to Arthur from the first. +Arthur would be far better than a strange clerk, looked for and brought +in on the spur of the moment--one who might answer well or answer badly, +according to chance. Yet that such must have been his resource, Mr. +Galloway knew. + +“It will be an accommodation to me, your taking part of the work,” he +frankly said. “But you had better come to the office and do it.” + +“No, sir; I would rather--” + +“Do, Channing!” cried out Roland Yorke, springing up as if he were +electrified. “The office will be bearable if you come back again.” + +“I would prefer to do it at home, sir,” continued Arthur to Mr. +Galloway, while that gentleman pointed imperiously to Yorke, as a hint +to him to hold his tongue and mind his own business. + +“You _may_ come back here and do it,” said Mr. Galloway. + +“Thank you, I cannot come back,” was the reply of Arthur. + +“Of course you can’t!” said angry Roland, who cared less for Mr. +Galloway’s displeasure than he did for displaying his own feelings when +they were aroused. “You won’t, you mean! I’d not show myself such a +duffer as you, Channing, if I were paid for it in gold!” + +“You’ll get paid in something, presently, Roland Yorke, but it won’t be +in gold!” reproved Mr. Galloway. “You will do a full day’s work to-day, +sir, if you stop here till twelve o’clock at night.” + +“Oh, of course I expect to do that, sir,” retorted Roland, tartly. +“Considering what’s before me, on this desk and on Jenkins’s, there’s +little prospect of my getting home on this side four in the morning. +They needn’t sit up for me--I can go in with the milk. I wonder who +invented writing? I wish I had the fingering of him just now!” + +Arthur turned to the parchments. He was almost as much at home with them +as Jenkins. Mr. Galloway selected two that were most pressing, and gave +them to him, with the requisite materials for copying. “You will keep +them secure, you know,” he remarked. + +“Perfectly so, sir; I shall sit quite alone.” + +He carried them off with alacrity. Mr. Galloway’s face cleared as +he looked after him, and he made a remark aloud, expressive of his +satisfaction. “There’s some pleasure in giving out work when you know it +will be done. No play--no dilatoriness--finished to the minute that it’s +looked for! You should take a leaf out of his book, Yorke.” + +“Yes, sir,” freely answered Roland. “When you drove Arthur Channing out +of this office, you parted with the best clerk you ever had. Jenkins is +all very well for work, but he is nothing but a muff in other things. +Arthur’s a gentleman, and he’d have served you well. Jenkins himself +says so. He is honourable, he is honest, he--” + +“I know enough of your sentiments with respect to his honesty,” + interrupted Mr. Galloway. “We need not go over that tale again.” + +“I hope every one knows them,” rejoined Roland. “I have never concealed +my opinion that the accusation was infamous; that, of all of us in this +office, from its head down to Jenkins, none was less likely to finger +the note than Arthur Channing. But of course my opinion goes for +nothing.” + +“You are bold, young man.” + +“I fear it is my nature to be so,” cried Roland. “If it should ever turn +up how the note went, you’ll be sorry, no doubt, for having visited it +upon Arthur. Mr. Channing will be sorry; the precious magistrates will +be sorry; that blessed dean, who wanted to turn him from the college, +will be sorry. Not a soul of them but believes him guilty; and I hope +they’ll be brought to repentance for it, in sackcloth and ashes.” + +“Go on with your work,” said Mr. Galloway, angrily. + +Roland made a show of obeying. But his tongue was like a steam-engine: +once set going, it couldn’t readily be stopped, and he presently looked +up again. + +“I am not uncharitable: at least, to individuals. I always said the +post-office helped itself to the note, and I’d lay my last half-crown +upon it. But there _are_ people in the town who think it could only have +gone in another way. You’d go into a passion with me, sir, perhaps, if I +mentioned it.” + +Mr. Galloway--it has been before mentioned that he possessed an +unbounded amount of curiosity, and also a propensity to gossip--so far +forgot the force of good example as to ask Roland what he meant. Roland +wanted no further encouragement. + +“Well, sir, there are people who, weighing well all the probabilities of +the case, have come to the conclusion that the note could only have been +abstracted from the letter by the person to whom it was addressed. None +but he broke the seal of it.” + +“Do you allude to my cousin, Mr. Robert Galloway?” ejaculated Mr. +Galloway, as soon as indignation and breath allowed him to speak. + +“Others do,” said Roland. “I say it was the post-office.” + +“How dare you repeat so insolent a suspicion to my face, Roland Yorke?” + +“I said I should catch it!” cried Roland, speaking partly to himself. “I +am sure to get in for it, one way or another, do what I will. It’s not +my fault, sir, if I have heard it whispered in the town.” + +“Apply yourself to your work, sir, and hold your tongue. If you say +another word, Roland Yorke, I shall feel inclined also to turn you away, +as one idle and incorrigible, of whom nothing can be made.” + +“Wouldn’t it be a jolly excuse for Port Natal!” exclaimed Roland, but +not in the hearing of his master, who had gone into his own room in much +wrath. Roland laughed aloud; there was nothing he enjoyed so much as to +be in opposition to Mr. Galloway; it had been better for the advancement +of that gentleman’s work, had he habitually kept a tighter rein over his +pupil. It was perfectly true, however, that the new phase of suspicion, +regarding the loss of the note, had been spoken of in the town, and +Roland only repeated what he had heard. + +Apparently, Mr. Galloway did not like this gratuitous suggestion. +He presently came back again. A paper was in his hand, and he began +comparing it with one on Roland’s desk. “Where did you hear that +unjustifiable piece of scandal?” he inquired, as he was doing it. + +“The first person I heard speak of it was my mother, sir. She came home +one day from calling upon people, and said she had heard it somewhere. +And it was talked of at Knivett’s last night. He had a bachelors’ party, +and the subject was brought up. Some of us ridiculed the notion; others +thought it might have grounds.” + +“And pray, which did you favour?” sarcastically asked Mr. Galloway. + +“I? I said then, as I have said all along, that there was no one to +thank for it but the post-office. If you ask me, sir, who first set +the notion afloat in the town, I cannot satisfy you. All I know is, the +rumour is circulating.” + +“If I could discover the primary author of it, I would take legal +proceedings against him,” warmly concluded Mr. Galloway. + +“I’d help,” said undaunted Roland. “Some fun might arise out of that.” + +Mr. Galloway carried the probate of a will to his room, and sat down to +examine it. But his thoughts were elsewhere. This suspicion, mentioned +by Roland Yorke, had laid hold of his mind most unpleasantly, in spite +of his show of indignation before Roland. He had no reason to think his +cousin otherwise than honest; it was next to impossible to suppose he +could be guilty of playing him such a trick; but somehow Mr. Galloway +could not feel so sure upon the point as he would have wished. His +cousin was a needy man--one who had made ducks and drakes of his own +property, and was for ever appealing to Mr. Galloway for assistance. Mr. +Galloway did not shut his eyes to the fact that if this _should_ have +been the case, Robert Galloway had had forty pounds from him instead +of twenty--a great help to a man at his wits’ ends for money. He had +forwarded a second twenty-pound note, upon receiving information of the +loss of the first. What he most disliked, looking at it from this point +of view, was, not the feeling that he had been cleverly deceived and +laughed at, but that Arthur Channing should have suffered unjustly. If +the lad _was_ innocent, why, how cruel had been his own conduct towards +him! But with these doubts came back the remembrance of Arthur’s +unsatisfactory behaviour with respect to the loss; his non-denial; his +apparent guilt; his strange shrinking from investigation. Busy as +Mr. Galloway was, that day, he could not confine his thoughts to his +business. He would willingly have given another twenty-pound note out of +his pocket to know, beyond doubt, whether or not Arthur was guilty. + +Arthur, meanwhile, had commenced his task. He took possession of the +study, where he was secure from interruption, and applied himself +diligently to it. How still the house seemed! How still it had seemed +since the loss of Charles! Even Annabel and Tom were wont to hush their +voices; ever listening, as it were, for tidings to be brought of him. +Excepting the two servants, Arthur was alone in it. Hamish was abroad, +at his office; Constance and Annabel were at Lady Augusta’s; Tom was in +school; and Charles was not. Judith’s voice would be heard now and then, +wafted from the kitchen regions, directing or reproving Sarah; but there +was no other sound. Arthur thought of the old days when the sun had +shone; when he was free and upright in the sight of men; when Constance +was happy in her future prospects of wedded life; when Tom looked forth +certainly to the seniorship; when Charley’s sweet voice and sweeter face +might be seen and heard; when Hamish--oh, bitter thought, of all!--when +Hamish had not fallen from his pedestal. It had all changed--changed +to darkness and to gloom; and Arthur may be pardoned for feeling gloomy +with it. But in the very midst of this gloom, there arose suddenly, +without effort of his, certain words spoken by the sweet singer of +Israel; and Arthur _knew_ that he had but to trust to them:-- + +“For his wrath endureth but the twinkling of an eye, and in his pleasure +is life; heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the +morning.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. -- A LETTER FOR MR. GALLOWAY. + +Morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon was drawing towards its +close. Roland Yorke had contrived to struggle through it, and be still +living, in spite of the amount of work which was pressed upon him. +Mr. Galloway had put on his spectacles and copied out several pages +himself--a thing he rarely attempted. But he had gone out now, and had +carried with him some letters to post. + +“Yes!” grumbled Roland. “He can stretch _his_ legs, but he takes good +care I shall not stretch mine! Why couldn’t he send me with those +letters? It’s my place to post them: it’s not his. Write, write, write! +till my fingers are cramped, and my feet have no more feeling in them +than the stool has! Why, I wouldn’t stop by myself in this horrid, +musty, parchmented old place--Oh, it’s you, is it?” + +This was addressed to the postman, who came in with the afternoon +delivery of letters. Two. He handed them to Roland, and departed. + +Of course Roland immediately began to scrutinize them: turning them +over; critically guessing at the senders; playing with them at pitch +and toss--anything to while away the time, and afford him some cessation +from his own work. By these means he contrived to pass five minutes +rather agreeably (estimating things by comparison), when Mr. Galloway’s +servant entered. + +“Is my master in, Mr. Roland?” + +“Of course he’s not,” said Roland. “He’s gone gallivanting somewhere. He +has all the pleasure of it, and I have all the work.” + +“Will you please to give him this letter, then?” said the man. “The post +has just left it at our house, so I brought it round.” + +“What’s it brought round here for?” asked Roland. + +“Because he ordered it to be done. He said he expected a letter would +be delivered at the house by the afternoon post, and if it came I was to +bring it to him at once. Good afternoon, sir.” + +This little bit of information was quite enough for Roland. He seized +the letter, as he had done the others, and subjected it to the same +scrutiny. The address was written in a singular hand; in large, +print-looking letters. Roland satisfied his curiosity, so far as the +outside of the letter could do it, and then rose from his stool and laid +the three letters upon Mr. Galloway’s desk in his private room. + +A short time, and that gentleman entered. “Anything by the post?” was +his first question. + +“Two letters, sir,” replied Roland. “And John brought round one, which +was addressed to the house. He said you expected it.” + +Mr. Galloway went into his private room. He glanced casually at the +addresses on the letters, and then called Roland Yorke. “Where is the +letter John brought round?” he inquired, somewhat testily. + +Roland pointed it out. “That was it, sir.” + +“That!” Mr. Galloway bent on it a keener glance, which probably +satisfied him that it bore his private address. “Was this the only one +he brought?” added he; and from his manner and words Roland inferred +that it was not the letter he had expected. + +“That was all, sir.” + +Roland returned to his own room, and Mr. Galloway sat down and opened +his letters. The first two were short communications relative to +business; the last was the one brought by John. + +What did it contain? For one thing, It contained a bank-note for twenty +pounds. But the contents? Mr. Galloway gazed at it and rubbed his brow, +and gazed again. He took off his spectacles, and put them on; he looked +at the bank-note, and he read and re-read the letter; for it completely +upset the theory and set at nought the data he had been going upon; +especially the data of the last few hours. + +“The finder of that lost twenty-pound note sends it back to Mr. +Galloway. His motive in doing so is that the wrongly suspected may be +cleared. He who was publicly accused of the offence was innocent, as +were all others upon whom suspicion (though not acted upon) may have +fallen. The writer of this alone took the note, and now restores it.” + +Abrupt and signatureless, such was the letter. When Mr. Galloway had +sufficiently overcome his surprise to reason rationally, it struck him +as being a singular coincidence that this should come to him on the day +when the old affair had been renewed again. Since its bustle had died +out at the time of the occurrence, Mr. Galloway did not remember to have +voluntarily spoken of it, until that morning with Roland Yorke. + +He took up the bank-note. Was it the one actually taken--the same +note--kept possibly, in fear, and now returned? He had no means of +knowing. He thought it was not the same. His recollection of the lost +note had seemed to be that it was a dirty note, which must have passed +through many hands; but he had never been quite clear upon that point. +This note was clean and crisp. Who _had_ taken it? Who had sent it back? +It quite disposed of that disagreeable suspicion touching his cousin. +Had his cousin so far forgotten himself as to take the note, he would +not have been likely to return it: _he_ knew nothing of the proceedings +which had taken place in Helstonleigh, for Mr. Galloway had never +mentioned them to him. The writer of this letter was cognizant of them, +and had sent it that they might be removed. + +At the first glance, it of course appeared to be proof positive that +Arthur Channing was not guilty. But Mr. Galloway was not accustomed to +take only the superficial view of things: and it struck him, as it would +strike others, that this might be, after all, a refined bit of finessing +on Arthur’s own part to remove suspicion from himself. True, the cost +of doing so was twenty pounds: but what was that compared with the +restoration of his good name? + +The letter bore the London post-mark. There was not a doubt that it had +been there posted. That betrayed nothing. Arthur, or any one else, could +have a letter posted there, if wishing to do it. “Where there’s a +will, there’s a way,” thought Mr. Galloway. But again, where was Arthur +Channing to procure twenty pounds from? Mr. Galloway did not think that +he could procure this sum from anywhere, or that he possessed, himself, +a twentieth part of it. So far the probability was against Arthur’s +being the author. Mr. Galloway quite lost himself in conjectures. Why +should it have been addressed to his residence, and not to the office? +He had been expecting a letter from one, that afternoon, who always did +address to his residence: and that letter, it appeared, had not arrived. +However, that had nothing to do with this. Neither paper nor writing +afforded any clue to the sender, and the latter was palpably disguised. + +He called in Roland Yorke, for the purpose of putting to him a +few useless questions--as a great many of us do when we are +puzzled--questions, at any rate, that could throw no light upon the main +subject. + +“What did John say when he brought this letter?” + +“Only what I told you, sir. That you expected a letter addressed to the +house, and ordered him to bring it round.” + +“But _this_ is not the letter I expected,” tapping it with his finger, +and looking altogether so puzzled and astonished that Roland stared in +his turn. + +“It’s not my fault,” returned he. “Shall I run round, sir, and ask John +about it?” + +“No,” testily answered Mr. Galloway. “Don’t be so fond of running round. +This letter--There’s some one come into the office,” he broke off. +Roland turned with alacrity, but very speedily appeared again, on his +best behaviour, bowing as he showed in the Dean of Helstonleigh. + +Mr. Galloway rose, and remained standing. The dean entered upon the +business which had brought him there, a trifling matter connected with +the affairs of the chapter. This over, Mr. Galloway took up the letter +and showed it to him. The dean read it, and looked at the bank-note. + +“I cannot quite decide in what light I ought to take it, sir,” remarked +Mr. Galloway. “It either refutes the suspicion of Arthur Channing’s +guilt, or else it confirms it.” + +“In what way confirms it? I do not understand you,” said the dean. + +“It may have come from himself, Mr. Dean. A wheel within a wheel.” + +The dean paused to revolve the proposition, and then shook his head +negatively. “It appears to me to go a very great way towards proving his +innocence,” he observed. “The impression upon my own mind has been, that +it was not he who took it--as you may have inferred, Mr. Galloway, by my +allowing him to retain his post in the cathedral.” + +“But, sir, if he is innocent, who is guilty?” continued Mr. Galloway, in +a tone of remonstrance. + +“That is more than I can say,” replied the dean. “But for the +circumstances appearing to point so strongly to Arthur Channing, I never +could have suspected him at all. A son of Mr. Channing’s would have been +altogether above suspicion, in my mind: and, as I tell you, for some +time I have not believed him to be guilty.” + +“If he is not guilty--” Mr. Galloway paused; the full force of what he +was about to say, pressing strongly upon his mind. “If he is not guilty, +Mr. Dean, there has been a great deal of injustice done--not only to +himself--” + +“A great deal of injustice is committed every day, I fear,” quietly +remarked the dean. + +“Tom Channing will have lost the seniorship for nothing!” went on Mr. +Galloway, in a perturbed voice, not so much addressing the dean, as +giving vent to his thoughts aloud. + +“Yes,” was the answer, spoken calmly, and imparting no token of what +might be the dean’s private sentiments upon the point. “You will see to +that matter,” the dean continued, referring to his own business there, +as he rose from his chair. + +“I will not forget it, Mr. Dean,” said Mr. Galloway. And he escorted +the dean to the outer door, as was his custom when honoured by that +dignitary with a visit, and bowed him out. + +Roland just then looked a pattern of industry. He had resumed his seat, +after rising in salutation as the dean passed through the office, and +was writing away like a steam-engine. Mr. Galloway returned to his +own room, and set himself calmly to consider all the bearings of this +curious business. The great bar against his thinking Arthur innocent, +was the difficulty of fixing upon any one else as likely to have been +guilty. Likely! he might almost have said as _possible_ to have been +guilty. “I have a very great mind,” he growled to himself, “to send for +Butterby, and let him rake it all up again!” The uncertainty vexed him, +and it seemed as if the affair was never to have an end. “What, if I +show Arthur Channing the letter first, and study his countenance as he +looks at it? I may gather something from that. I don’t fancy he’d be an +over good actor, as some might be. If he has sent this money, I shall +see it in his face.” + +Acting upon the moment’s impulse, he suddenly opened the door of the +outer office, and there found that Mr. Roland’s industry had, for the +present, come to an end. He was standing before the window, making +pantomimic signs through the glass to a friend of his, Knivett. His +right thumb was pointed over his shoulder towards the door of Mr. +Galloway’s private room; no doubt, to indicate a warning that that +gentleman was within, and that the office, consequently, was not free +for promiscuous intruders. A few sharp words of reprimand to Mr. Roland +ensued, and then he was sent off with a message to Arthur Channing. + +It brought Arthur back with Roland. Mr. Galloway called Arthur into his +own room, closed the door, and put the letter into his hand in silence. + +He read it twice over before he could understand it; indeed, he did not +do so fully then. His surprise appeared to be perfectly genuine, and so +Mr. Galloway thought it. “Has this letter been sent to you, sir? Has any +money been sent to you?” + +“This has been sent to me,” replied Mr. Galloway, tossing the +twenty-pound note to him. “Is it the one that was taken, Channing?” + +“How can I tell, sir?” said Arthur, in much simplicity. And Mr. +Galloway’s long doubts of him began to melt away. + +“_You_ did not send the money--to clear yourself?” + +Arthur looked up in surprise. “Where should I get twenty pounds from?” + he asked. “I shall shortly have a quarter’s salary from Mr. Williams: +but it is not quite due yet. And it will not be twenty pounds, or +anything like that amount.” + +Mr. Galloway nodded. It was the thought which had struck himself. +Another thought, however, was now striking Arthur; a thought which +caused his cheek to flush and his brow to lower. With the word “salary” + had arisen to him the remembrance of another’s salary due about this +time; that of his brother Hamish. Had Hamish been making this use of +it--to remove the stigma from him? The idea received additional force +from Mr. Galloway’s next words: for they bore upon the point. + +“This letter is what it purports to be: a missive from the actual thief; +or else it comes from some well-wisher of yours, who sacrifices twenty +pounds to do you a service. Which is it?” + +Mr. Galloway fixed his eyes on Arthur’s face and could not help noting +the change which had come over it, over his bearing altogether. The +open candour was gone: and in its place reigned the covert look, the +hesitating manner, the confusion which had characterized him at the +period of the loss. “All I can say, sir, is, that I know nothing +of this,” he presently said. “It has surprised me as much as it can +surprise any one.” + +“Channing!” impulsively exclaimed Mr. Galloway, “your manner and your +words are opposed to each other, as they were at the time. The one gives +the lie to the other. But I begin to believe you did not take it.” + +“I did not,” returned Arthur. + +“And therefore--as I don’t like to be played with and made sport of, +like a cat tormenting a mouse--I think I shall give orders to Butterby +for a fresh investigation.” + +It startled Arthur. Mr. Galloway’s curiously significant tone, his +piercing gaze upon his face, also startled him. “It would bring no +satisfaction, sir,” he said. “Pray do not. I would far rather continue +to bear the blame.” + +A pause. A new idea came glimmering into the mind of Mr. Galloway. “Whom +are you screening?” he asked. But he received no answer. + +“Is it Roland Yorke?” + +“Roland Yorke!” repeated Arthur, half reproachfully. “No, indeed. I wish +every one had been as innocent of it as was Roland Yorke.” + +In good truth, Mr. Galloway had only mentioned Roland’s name as coming +uppermost in his mind. He knew that no suspicion attached to Roland. +Arthur resumed, in agitation: + +“Let the matter drop, sir. Indeed, it will be better. It appears, now, +that you have the money back again; and, for the rest, I am willing to +take the blame, as I have done.” + +“If I have the money back again, I have not other things back again,” + crossly repeated Mr. Galloway. “There’s the loss of time it has +occasioned, the worry, the uncertainty: who is to repay me all that?” + +“My portion in it has been worse than yours, sir,” said Arthur, in a +low, deep tone. “Think of _my_ loss of time; my worry and uncertainty; +my waste of character; my anxiety of mind: they can never be repaid to +me.” + +“And whose the fault? If you were truly innocent, you might have cleared +yourself with a word.” + +Arthur knew he might. But that word he had not dared to speak. At this +juncture, Roland Yorke appeared. “Here’s Jenner’s old clerk come in, +sir,” said he to his master. “He wants to see you, he says.” + +“He can come in,” replied Mr. Galloway. “Are you getting on with that +copying?” he added to Arthur, as the latter was going out. + +“Yes, sir.” + +The gentleman, whom Roland Yorke designated as “Jenner’s old clerk,” was +shut in with Mr. Galloway; and Roland, who appeared to be on the thorns +of curiosity, arrested Arthur. + +“I say, what is it that’s agate? He has been going into fits, pretty +near, over some letter that came, asking me five hundred questions about +it. What have you to do with it? What does he want with you?” + +“Some one has been sending him back the money, Roland. It came in a +letter.” + +Roland opened his eyes. “What money?” + +“The money that was lost. A twenty-pound note has come. He asked me +whether it was the veritable note that was taken.” + +“A twenty-pound note come!” repeated puzzled Roland. + +“It’s quite true, Roland. It purports to be sent by the stealer of the +money for the purpose of clearing me.” + +Roland stood for a few moments, profound surprise on his face, and then +began to execute a triumphant hornpipe amidst the desks and stools of +the office. “I said it would come right some time; over and over again I +said it! Give us your hand, old fellow! He’s not such a bad trump after +all, that thief!” + +“Hush, Roland! you’ll be heard. It may not do me much good. Galloway +seems to doubt me still.” + +“Doubt you still!” cried Roland, stopping short in his dance, and +speaking in a very explosive tone. “Doubt you _still_! Why, what would +he have?” + +“I don’t know;” sighed Arthur. “I have assured him I did not send it; +but he fancies I may have done it to clear myself. He talks of calling +in Butterby again.” + +“My opinion then, is, that he wants to be transported, if he is to turn +up such a heathen as that!” stamped Roland. “What would he have, I ask? +Another twenty, given him for interest? Arthur, dear old fellow, let’s +go off together to Port Natal, and leave him and his office to it! I’ll +find the means, if I rob his cash-box to get them!” + +But Arthur was already beyond hearing, having waved his adieu to Roland +Yorke and his impetuous but warm-hearted championship. Anxious to get on +with the task he had undertaken, he hastened home. Constance was in the +hall when he entered, having just returned from Lady Augusta Yorke’s. + +His confidant throughout, his gentle soother and supporter, his ever +ready adviser, Arthur drew her into one of the rooms, and acquainted +her with what had occurred. A look of terror rose to her face, as she +listened. + +“Hamish has done it!” she uttered, in a whisper. “This puts all doubt at +an end. There are times--there have been times”--she burst into tears +as she spoke--“when I have fondly tried to cheat myself that we were +suspecting him wrongfully. Arthur! others suspect him.” + +Arthur’s face reflected the look that was upon hers. “I trust not!” + +“But they do. Ellen Huntley dropped a word inadvertently, which +convinces me that he is in some way doubted there. She caught it up +again in evident alarm, ere it was well spoken; and I dared not pursue +the subject. It is Hamish who has sent this money.” + +“You speak confidently, Constance.” + +“Listen. I know that he has drawn money--papa’s salary and his own: +he mentioned it incidentally. A few days ago I asked him for money for +housekeeping purposes, and he handed me a twenty-pound note, in mistake +for a five-pound. He discovered the mistake before I did, and snatched +it back again in some confusion.” + +“‘I can’t give you that,’ he said in a laughing manner, when he +recovered himself. ‘That has a different destination.’ Arthur! that +note, rely upon it, was going to Mr. Galloway.” + +“When was this?” asked Arthur. + +“Last week. Three or four days ago.” + +Trifling as the incident was, it seemed to bear out their suspicions, +and Arthur could only come to the same conclusion as his sister: the +thought had already crossed him, you remember. + +“Do not let it pain you thus, Constance,” he said, for her tears were +falling fast. “He may not call in Butterby. Your grieving will do no +good.” + +“I cannot help it,” she exclaimed, with a burst of anguish. “How God is +trying us!” + +Ay! even as silver, which must be seven times purified, ere it be +sufficiently refined. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. -- DARK CLOUDS. + +Constance Channing sat, her forehead buried in her hands. _How God was +trying them!_ The sentence, wrung from her in the bitterness of her +heart, but expressed the echo of surrounding things. Her own future +blighted; Arthur’s character gone; Tom lost the seniorship; Charley not +heard of, dead or alive! There were moments, and this was one of them, +when Constance felt almost beyond the pale of hope. The college school, +meanwhile existed in a state of constant suspense, the sword of terror +ever hanging over its head. Punishment for the present was reserved; +and what the precise punishment would be when it came, none could tell. +Talkative Bywater was fond of saying that it did not matter whether Miss +Charley turned up or not, so far as their backs were concerned: _they_ +would be made to tingle, either way. + +Arthur, after communicating to Constance the strange fact of the return +of the money to Mr. Galloway, shut himself up in the study to pursue +his copying. Tea-time arrived, and Sarah brought in the tea-things. But +neither Hamish nor Tom had come in, and Constance sat alone, deep in +unpleasant thoughts. + +That it was Hamish who had now returned the money to Mr. Galloway, +Constance could not entertain the slightest doubt. It had a very +depressing effect upon her. It could not render worse what had +previously happened, indeed, it rather mended it, insomuch as that +it served to show some repentance, some good feeling; but it made the +suspicion against Hamish a certainty; and there had been times when +Constance had been beguiled into thinking it only a suspicion. And now +came this new fear of Mr. Butterby again! + +Hamish’s own footstep in the hall. Constance roused herself. He came in, +books under his arm, as usual, and his ever-gay face smiling. There were +times when Constance almost despised him for his perpetual sunshine. +The seriousness which had overspread Hamish at the time of Charley’s +disappearance had nearly worn away. In his sanguine temperament, he +argued that not finding the body was a proof that Charley was yet alive, +and would come forth in a mysterious manner one of these days. + +“Have I kept you waiting tea, Constance?” began he. “I came home by way +of Close Street, and was called into Galloway’s by Roland Yorke, and +then got detained further by Mr. Galloway. Where’s Arthur?” + +“He has undertaken some copying for Mr. Galloway, and is busy with it,” + replied Constance in a low tone. “Hamish!” raising her eyes to his face, +as she gathered resolution to speak of the affair: “have you heard what +has happened?” + +“That some good fairy has forwarded a bank-note to Galloway on the wings +of the telegraph? Roland Yorke would not allow me to remain in ignorance +of that. Mr. Galloway did me the honour to ask whether I had sent it.” + +“You!” uttered Constance, regarding the avowal only from her own point +of view. “He asked whether _you_ had sent it?” + +“He did.” + +She gazed at Hamish as if she would read his very soul. “And what +did--what did you answer?” + +“Told him I wished a few others would suspect me of the same, and count +imaginary payments for real ones.” + +“Hamish!” she exclaimed, the complaint wrung from her: “how can you be +so light, so cruel, when our hearts are breaking?” + +Hamish, in turn, was surprised at this. “I, cruel! In what manner, +Constance? My dear, I repeat to you that we shall have Charley back +again. I feel sure of it; and it has done away with my fear. Some inward +conviction, or presentiment--call it which you like--tells me that we +shall; and I implicitly trust to it. We need not mourn for him.” + +“It is not for Charley: I do not speak of Charley now,” she sadly +reiterated. “You are straying from the point. Hamish, have you _no_ love +left for Arthur?” + +“I have plenty of love for every one,” said Mr. Hamish. + +“Then _how_ can you behave like this? Arthur is not guilty; you know he +is not. And look what he has to bear! I believe you would laugh at +the greatest calamity! Sending back this money to Mr. Galloway +has--has--sadly distressed me.” + +Hamish turned his smiling eyes upon her, but his tone was grave. “Wait +until some great calamity occurs, Constance, and then see whether +I laugh. Did I laugh that dreadful night and day that succeeded to +Charley’s loss? Sending back the money to Mr. Galloway is not a cause +for sadness. It most certainly exonerates Arthur.” + +“And you are gay over it!” She would have given anything to speak more +plainly. + +“I am particularly gay this afternoon,” acknowledged Hamish, who could +not be put out of temper by any amount of reproach whatever. “I have had +great news by the post, Constance.” + +“From Germany?” she quickly cried. + +“Yes, from Germany,” he answered, taking a letter from his pocket, and +spreading it open before Constance. + +It contained the bravest news: great news, as Hamish expressed it. It +was from Mr. Channing himself, and it told them of his being so far +restored that there was no doubt now of his ability to resume his +own place at his office. They intended to be home the first week in +November. The weather at Borcette continued warm and charming, and they +would prolong their stay there to the full time contemplated. It had +been a fine autumn everywhere. There was a postscript added to the +letter, as if an afterthought had occurred to Mr. Channing. “When you +see Mr. Huntley, tell him how well I am progressing. I remember, by the +way, that he hinted at being able to introduce you to something, should +I no longer require you in Guild Street.” + +In the delight that the news brought, Constance partially lost sight +of her sadness. “It is not all gloom,” she whispered to herself. “If we +could only dwell on God’s mercies as we do on His chastisement; if we +could only feel more trust, we should see the bright side of the cloud +oftener than we do.” + +But it _was_ dark; dark in many ways, and Constance was soon to be +reminded again of it forcibly. She had taken her seat at the tea-table, +when Tom came in. He looked flushed--stern; and he flung his Gradus, +and one or two other books in a heap, on the side table, with more force +than was necessary; and himself into a chair, ditto. + +“Constance, I shall leave the school!” + +Constance, in her dismay, dropped the sugar-tongs into the sugar. “What, +Tom?” + +“I shall leave the school!” he repeated, his tone as fiery as his face. +“I wouldn’t stop in it another month, if I were bribed with gold. Things +are getting too bad there.” + +“Oh, Tom, Tom! Is this your endurance?” + +“Endurance!” he exclaimed. “That’s a nice word in theory, Constance; but +just you try it in practice! Who has endured, if I have not? I thought +I’d go on and endure it, as you say; at any rate, until papa came home. +But I can’t--I can’t!” + +“What has happened more than usual?” inquired Hamish. + +“It gets worse and worse,” said Tom, turning his blazing face upon his +brother. “I wouldn’t wish a dog to live the life that I live in the +college school. They call me a felon, and treat me as one; they send +me to Coventry; they won’t acknowledge me as one of their seniors. My +position is unbearable.” + +“Live it down, Tom,” said Hamish quietly. + +“Haven’t I been trying to live it down?” returned the boy, suppressing +his emotion. “It has lasted now these two months, and I have borne it +daily. At the time of Charley’s loss I was treated better for a day +or two, but that has worn away. It is of no use your looking at me +reproachfully, Constance; I must complain. What other boy in the world +has ever been put down as I? I was head of the school, next to Gaunt; +looking forward to be the head; and what am I now? The seniorship +taken from me in shame; Huntley exalted to my place; my chance of the +exhibition gone--” + +“Huntley does not take the exhibition,” interrupted Constance. + +“But Yorke will. _I_ shan’t be allowed to take it. Now I know it, +Constance, and the school knows it. Let a fellow once go down, and he’s +kept down: every dog has a fling at him. The seniorship’s gone, the +exhibition is going. I might bear that tamely, you may say; and of +course I might, for they are negative evils; but what I can’t and won’t +bear, are the insults of every-day life. Only this afternoon they--” + +Tom stopped, for his feelings were choking him; and the complaint he was +about to narrate was never spoken. Before he had recovered breath and +calmness, Arthur entered and took his seat at the tea-table. Poor Tom, +allowing one of his unfortunate explosions of temper to get the better +of him, sprang from his chair and burst forth with a passionate reproach +to Arthur, whom he regarded as the author of all the ill. + +“Why did you do it? Why did you bring this disgrace upon us? But for +you, I should not have lost caste in the school.” + +“Tom!” interposed Hamish, in a severe tone. + +Mr. Tom, brave college boy that he was--manly as he coveted to +be thought--actually burst into tears. Tears called forth, not by +contrition, I fear; but by remembered humiliation, by vexation, by +the moment’s passion. Never had Tom cast a reproach openly to Arthur; +whatever he may have felt he buried it within himself; but that his +opinion vacillated upon the point of Arthur’s guilt, was certain. +Constance went up to him and laid her hand gently and soothingly upon +his shoulder. + +“Tom, dear boy, your troubles are making you forget yourself. Do not be +unjust to Arthur. He is innocent as you.” + +“Then if he is innocent, why does he not speak out like a man, and +proclaim his innocence?” retorted Tom, sensibly enough, but with rather +too much heat. “That’s what the school cast in my teeth, more than +anything again. ‘Don’t preach up your brother’s innocence to us!’ +they cry; ‘if he did not take it, wouldn’t he say so?’ Look at Arthur +now”--and Tom pointed his finger at him--“he does not, even here, to me, +assert that he is innocent!” + +Arthur’s face burnt under the reproach. He turned it upon Hamish, with a +gesture almost as fiery, quite as hasty, as any that had been vouchsafed +them by Tom. Plainly as look could speak, it said, “Will _you_ suffer +this injustice to be heaped upon me?” Constance saw the look, and she +left Tom with a faint cry, and bent over Arthur, afraid of what truth he +might give utterance to. + +“Patience yet, Arthur!” she whispered. “Do not let a moment’s anger undo +the work of weeks. Remember how bravely you have borne.” + +“Ay! Heaven forgive my pride, Tom!” Arthur added, turning to him calmly. +“I would clear you--or rather clear myself--in the eyes of the school, +if I could: but it is impossible. However, you have less to blame me for +than you may think.” + +Hamish advanced. He caught Tom’s arm and drew him to a distant window. +“Now, lad,” he said, “let me hear all about this bugbear. I’ll see if it +can be in any way lightened for you.” + +Hamish’s tone was kindly, his manner frank and persuasive, and Tom was +won over to speak of his troubles. Hamish listened with an attentive +ear. “Will you abide by my advice?” he asked him, when the catalogue of +grievances had come to an end. + +“Perhaps I will,” replied Tom, who was growing cool after his heat. + +“Then, as I said to you before, so I say now--_Live it down_. It is the +best advice I can give you.” + +“Hamish, you don’t know what it is!” + +“Yes, I do. I can enter into your trials and annoyances as keenly as +if I had to encounter them. I do not affect to disparage them to you: I +know that they are real trials, real insults; but if you will only make +up your mind to bear them, they will lose half their sharpness. Your +interest lies in remaining in the college school; more than that, your +duty lies in it. Tom, don’t let it be said that a Channing shrunk from +his duty because it brought him difficulties to battle with.” + +“I don’t think I _can_ stop in it, Hamish. I’d rather stand in a +pillory, and have rotten eggs shied at me.” + +“Yes, you can. In fact, my boy, for the present you _must_. Disobedience +has never been a fault amongst us, and I am sure you will not be the one +to inaugurate it. Your father left me in charge, in his place, with full +control; and I cannot sanction any such measure as that of your leaving +the school. In less than a month’s time he will be home, and you can +then submit the case to him, and abide by his advice.” + +With all Tom’s faults, he was not rebellious, neither was he +unreasonable; and he made up his mind, not without some grumbling, to do +as Hamish desired him. He drew his chair with a jerk to the tea-table, +which of course was unnecessary. I told you that the young Channings, +admirably as they had been brought up, had their faults; as you have +yours, and I have mine. + +It was a silent meal. Annabel, who was wont to keep them alive, whatever +might be their troubles, had remained to take tea at Lady Augusta +Yorke’s, with Caroline and Fanny. Had Constance known that she was +in the habit of thoughtlessly chattering upon any subject that came +uppermost, including poor Charles’s propensity to be afraid of ghosts, +she had allowed her to remain with them more charily. Hamish took a +book and read. Arthur only made a show of taking anything, and soon +left them, to resume his work; Tom did not even make a show of it, but +unequivocally rejected all good things. “How could he be hungry?” he +asked, when Constance pressed him. An unsociable meal it was--almost +as unpleasant as were their inward thoughts. They felt for Tom, in +the midst of their graver griefs; but they were all at cross purposes +together, and they knew it; therefore they could only retain an +uncomfortable reticence one with another. Tom laid the blame to the +share of Arthur; Arthur and Constance to the share of Hamish. To whom +Hamish laid it, was only known to himself. + +He, Hamish, rose as the tea-things were carried away. He was preparing +for a visit to Mr. Huntley’s. His visits there, as already remarked, had +not been frequent of late. He had discovered that he was not welcome to +Mr. Huntley. And Hamish Channing was not one to thrust his company upon +any one: even the attraction of Ellen could not induce that. But it +is very probable that he was glad of the excuse Mr. Channing’s letter +afforded him to go there now. + +He found Miss Huntley alone; a tall, stiff lady, who always looked as +if she were cased in whalebone. She generally regarded Hamish with some +favour, which was saying a great deal for Miss Huntley. + +“You are quite a stranger here,” she remarked to him as he entered. + +“I think I am,” replied Hamish. “Mr. Huntley is still in the +dining-room, I hear?” + +“Mr. Huntley is,” said the lady, speaking as if the fact did not give +her pleasure, though Hamish could not conceive why. “My niece has chosen +to remain with him,” she added, in a tone which denoted dissatisfaction. +“I am quite _tired_ of talking to her! I tell her this is proper, and +the other is improper, and she goes and mixes up my advice in the most +extraordinary way; leaving undone what she ought to do, and doing what I +tell her she ought not! Only this very morning I read her a sermon upon +‘Propriety, and the fitness of things.’ It took me just an hour--an hour +by my watch, I assure you, Mr. Hamish Channing!--and what is the result? +I retired from the dinner-table precisely ten minutes after the removal +of the cloth, according to my invariable custom; and Ellen, in defiance +of my warning her that it is not lady-like, stays there behind me! ‘I +have not finished my grapes, aunt,’ she says to me. And there she stays, +just to talk with her father. And he encourages her! What will become of +Ellen, I cannot imagine; she will never be a lady!” + +“It’s very sad!” replied Hamish, coughing down a laugh, and putting on +the gravest face he could call up. + +“Sad!” repeated Miss Huntley, who sat perfectly upright, her hands, +cased in mittens, crossed upon her lap. “It is _grievous_, Mr. Hamish +Channing! She--what do you think she did only yesterday? One of our +maids was going to be married, and a dispute, or some unpleasantness +occurred between her and the intended husband. Would you believe that +Ellen actually wrote a letter for the girl (a poor ignorant thing, who +never learnt to read, let alone to write, but an excellent servant) to +this man, that things might be smoothed down between them? My niece, +Miss Ellen Huntley, lowering herself to write a--a--I can scarcely allow +my tongue to utter the word, Mr. Hamish--a love-letter!” + +Miss Huntley lifted her eyes, and her mittens. Hamish expressed himself +inexpressibly shocked, inwardly wishing he could persuade Miss Ellen +Huntley to write a few to him. + +“And I receive no sympathy from any one!” pursued Miss Huntley. “None! +I spoke to my brother, and he could not see that she had done anything +wrong in writing: or pretended that he could not. Oh dear! how things +have altered from what they were when I was a young girl! Then--” + +“My master says, will you please to walk into the dining-room, sir?” + interrupted a servant at this juncture. And Hamish rose and followed +him. + +Mr. Huntley was alone. Hamish threw his glance to the four corners of +the room, but Ellen was not in it. The meeting was not very cordial on +Mr. Huntley’s side. “What can I do for you?” he inquired, as he shook +hands. Which was sufficient to imply coldly, “You must have come to my +house for some particular purpose. What is it?” + +But Hamish could not lose his sunny temperament, his winning manner. “I +bring you great news, Mr. Huntley. We have heard from Borcette: and the +improvement in my father’s health is so great, that all doubts as to the +result are over.” + +“I said it would be so,” replied Mr. Huntley. + +They continued talking some little time, and then Hamish mentioned the +matter alluded to in the postscript of the letter. “Is it correct that +you will be able to help me to something,” he inquired, “when my father +shall resume his own place in Guild Street?” + +“It is correct that I told your father so,” answered Mr. Huntley. “I +thought then that I could.” + +“And is the post gone? I assume that it was a situation of some sort?” + +“It is not gone. The post will not be vacant until the beginning of the +year. Have you heard that there is to be a change in the joint-stock +bank?” + +“No,” replied Hamish, looking up with much interest. + +“Mr. Bartlett leaves. He is getting in years, his health is failing, and +he wishes to retire. As one of the largest shareholders in the bank, I +shall possess the largest voice in the appointment of a. successor, and +I had thought of you. Indeed, I have no objection to say that there +is not the slightest doubt you would have been appointed; otherwise, I +should not have spoken confidently to Mr. Channing.” + +It was an excellent post; there was no doubt of that. The bank was not +an extensive one; it was not the principal bank of Helstonleigh; but +it was a firmly established, thoroughly respectable concern; and +Mr. Bartlett, who had been its manager for many years, enjoyed many +privileges, and a handsome salary. A far larger salary than was Mr. +Channing’s. The house, a good one, attached to the bank, was used as his +residence, and would be, when he left, the residence of his successor. + +“I should like it of all things!” cried Hamish. + +“So would many a one, young sir, who is in a better position than you,” + drily answered Mr. Huntley. “I thought you might have filled it.” + +“Can I not, sir?” + +“No.” + +Hamish did not expect the answer. He looked inquiringly at Mr. Huntley. +“Why can I not?” + +“Because I cannot now recommend you to it,” was the reply. + +“But why not?” exclaimed Hamish. + +“When I spoke of you as becoming Mr. Bartlett’s successor, I believed +you would be found worthy to fulfil his duties.” + +“I can fulfil them,” said Hamish. + +“Possibly. But so much doubt has arisen upon that point in my own mind, +that I can no longer recommend you for it. In fact, I could not sanction +your appointment.” + +“What have I done?” inquired Hamish. + +“Ask your conscience. If that does not tell you plainly enough, I shall +not.” + +“My conscience accuses me of nothing that need render me unfit to fill +the post, and to perform my duties in it, Mr. Huntley.” + +“I think otherwise. But, to pursue the subject will be productive of +no benefit, so we will let it drop. I would have secured you the +appointment, could I have done so conscientiously, but I cannot; and the +matter is at an end.” + +“At least you can tell me why you will not?” said Hamish, speaking with +some sarcasm, in the midst of his respect. + +“I have already declined to do so. Ask your own conscience, Hamish.” + +“The worst criminal has a right to know his accusation, Mr. Huntley. +Otherwise he cannot defend himself.” + +“It will be time enough for you to defend yourself when you are publicly +accused. I shall say no more upon the point. I am sorry your father +mentioned the thing to you, necessitating this explanation, so far; +I have also been sorry for having ever mentioned it to him. My worst +explanation will be with your father, for I cannot enter into cause and +effect, any more than I can to you.” + +“I have for some little time been conscious of a change in your manner +towards me, Mr. Huntley.” + +“Ay--no doubt.” + +“Sir, you _ought_ to tell me what has caused it. I might explain away +any prejudice or wrong impression--” + +“There, that will do,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “It is neither prejudice +nor wrong impression that I have taken up. And now I have said the last +word upon the matter that I shall say.” + +“But, sir--” + +“No more, I say!” peremptorily interrupted Mr. Huntley. “The subject is +over. Let us talk of other things. I need not ask whether you have news +of poor Charley; you would have informed me of that at once. You see, I +was right in advising silence to be kept towards them. All this time of +suspense would have told badly on Mr. Channing.” + +Hamish rose to leave. He had done little good, it appeared, by his +visit; certainly, he could not wish to prolong it. “There was an +unsealed scrap of paper slipped inside my father’s letter,” he said. “It +was from my mother to Charley. This is it.” + +It appeared to have been written hastily--perhaps from a sudden thought +at the moment of Mr. Channing’s closing his letter. Mr. Huntley took it +in his hand. + +“MY DEAR LITTLE CHARLEY,” + + “How is it you do not write to mamma? Not a message from you now: not a letter! I am sure you are not forgetting me.” + +“Poor boy!” exclaimed Mr. Huntley, handing it back to Hamish. “Poor +mother!” + +“I did not show it to Constance,” observed Hamish. “It would only +distress her. Good night, sir. By the way,” added Hamish, turning as he +reached the door: “Mr. Galloway has received that money back again.” + +“What money?” cried Mr. Huntley. + +“That which was lost. A twenty-pound note came to him in a letter by +this afternoon’s post. The letter states that Arthur, and all others who +may have been accused, are innocent.” + +“Oh, indeed!” cried Mr. Huntley, with cutting sarcasm, as the conviction +flashed over him that Hamish, and no other, had been the sender. “The +thief has come to his senses at last, has he? So far as to render lame +justice to Arthur.” + +Hamish left the room. The hall had not yet been lighted, and Hamish +could hardly see the outline of a form, crossing it from the staircase +to the drawing-room. _He_ knew whose it was, and he caught it to him. + +“Ellen,” he whispered, “what has turned your father against me?” + +Of course she could not enlighten him; she could not say to Hamish +Channing, “He suspects you of being a thief.” Her whole spirit would +have revolted from that, as much as it did from the accusation. The +subject was a painful one; she was flurried at the sudden meeting--the +stealthy meeting, it may be said; and--she burst into tears. + +I am quite afraid to say what Mr. Hamish did, this being a sober story. +When he left the hall, Ellen Huntley’s cheeks were glowing, and certain +sweet words were ringing changes in her ears. + +“Ellen! they shall never take you from me!” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. -- MUFFINS FOR TEA. + +A week or two passed by, and November was rapidly approaching. Things +remained precisely as they were at the close of the last chapter: +nothing fresh had occurred; no change had taken place. Tom Channing’s +remark, though much cannot be said for its elegance, was indisputable in +point of truth--that when a fellow was down, he was kept down, and every +dog had a fling at him It was being exemplified in the case of Arthur. +The money, so mysteriously conveyed to Mr. Galloway, had proved of +little service towards clearing him; in fact, it had the contrary +effect; and people openly expressed their opinion that it had come from +himself or his friends. He was _down_; and it would take more than that +to lift him up again. + +Mr. Galloway kept his thoughts to himself, or had put them into his +cash-box with the note, for he said nothing. + +Roland Yorke did not imitate his example; he was almost as explosive +over the present matter as he had been over the loss. It would +have pleased him that Arthur should be declared innocent by public +proclamation. Roland was in a most explosive frame of mind on another +score, and that was the confinement to the office. In reality, he was +not overworked; for Arthur managed to get through a great amount of +it at home, which he took in regularly, morning after morning, to Mr. +Galloway. Roland, however, thought he was, and his dissatisfaction was +becoming unbearable. I do not think that Roland _could_ have done a hard +day’s work. To sit steadily to it for only a couple of hours appeared to +be an absolute impossibility to his restless temperament. He must look +off; he must talk; he must yawn; he must tilt his stool; he must take a +slight interlude at balancing the ruler on his nose, or at other similar +recreative and intellectual amusements; but, apply himself in earnest, +he could not. Therefore there was little fear of Mr. Roland’s being +overcome with the amount of work on hand. + +But what told upon Roland was the confinement--I don’t mean upon his +health, you know, but his temper. It had happened many a day since +Jenkins’s absence, that Roland had never stirred from the office, except +for his dinner. He must be there in good time in the morning--at the +frightfully early hour of nine--and he often was not released until six. +When he went to dinner at one, Mr. Galloway would say, “You must be back +in half an hour, Yorke; I may have to go out.” Once or twice he had not +gone to dinner until two or three o’clock, and then he was half dead +with hunger. All this chafed poor Roland nearly beyond endurance. + +Another cause was rendering Roland’s life not the most peaceful one. He +was beginning to be seriously dunned for money. Careless in that, as he +was in other things, improvident as was ever Lady Augusta, Roland +rarely paid until he was compelled to do so. A very good hand was he +at contracting debts, but a bad one at liquidating them. Roland did not +intend to be dishonest. Were all his creditors standing around him, and +a roll of bank-notes before him he would freely have paid them all; very +probably, in his openheartedness, have made each creditor a present, +over and above, for “his trouble.” But, failing the roll of notes, he +only staved off the difficulties in the best way he could, and grew +cross and ill-tempered on being applied to. His chief failing was his +impulsive thoughtlessness. Often, when he had teased or worried Lady +Augusta out of money, to satisfy a debt for which he was being pressed, +that very money would be spent in some passing folly, arising with the +impulse of the moment, before it had had time to reach the creditor. +There are too many in the world like Roland Yorke. + +Roland was late in the office one Monday evening, he and a lamp sharing +it between them. He was in a terrible temper, and sat kicking his feet +on the floor, as if the noise, for it might be heard in the street, +would while away the time. He had nothing to do; the writing he had been +about was positively finished; but he had to remain in, waiting for Mr. +Galloway, who was absent, but had not left the office for the evening. +He would have given the whole world to take his pipe out of his pocket +and begin to smoke; but that pastime was so firmly forbidden in the +office, that even Roland dared not disobey. + +“There goes six of ‘em!” he uttered, as the cathedral clock rang out the +hour, and his boots threatened to stave in the floor. “If I stand this +life much longer, I’ll be shot! It’s enough to take the spirit out of +a fellow; to wear the flesh off his bones; to afflict him with nervous +fever. What an idiot I was to let my lady mother put me here! Better +have stuck to those musty old lessons at school, and gone in for a +parson! Why can’t Jenkins get well, and come back? He’s shirking it, +that’s my belief. And why can’t Galloway have Arthur back? He might, if +he pressed it! Talk of solitary confinement driving prisoners mad, at +their precious model prisons, what else is this? I wish I could go mad +for a week, if old Galloway might be punished for it! It’s worse than +any prison, this office! At four o’clock he went out, and now it’s six, +and I have not had a blessed soul put his nose inside the door to say, +‘How are you getting on?’ I’m a regular prisoner, and nothing else. Why +doesn’t he--” + +The complaint was cut short by the entrance of Mr. Galloway. Unconscious +of the rebellious feelings of his clerk, he passed through the office +to his own room, Roland’s rat-tat-to having ceased at his appearance. To +find Roland drumming the floor with his feet was nothing unusual--rather +moderate for him; Mr. Galloway _had_ found him doing it with his head. +Two or three minutes elapsed, and Mr. Galloway came out again. + +“You can shut up, Roland. And then, take these letters to the post. Put +the desks straight first; what a mess you get them into. Is that will +engrossed?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Very well! Be here in time in the morning. Good night.” + +“Good night, sir,” responded Roland. “Yes! it’s all very fine,” he went +on, as he opened the desks, and shoved everything in with his hands, +indiscriminately, _en masse_, which was _his_ way of putting things +straight. “‘Be here in time!’ Of course! No matter what time I am let +off the previous evening. If I stand this long--” + +Roland finished his sentence by an emphatic turn of the key of the +office-door, which expressed quite as much as words could have done; for +he was already out of the room, his hat on his head, and the letters in +his hand. Calling out lustily for the housekeeper, he flung the key to +her, and bounded off in the direction of the post-office. + +His way lay past Mrs. Jenkins’s shop, which the maid had, for the +hour, been left to attend to. She was doing it from a leaf taken out of +Roland’s own book--standing outside the door, and gazing all ways. It +suddenly struck Roland that he could not do better than pay Jenkins +a visit, just to ascertain how long he meant to absent himself. In +he darted, with his usual absence of hesitation, and went on to the +parlour. There was no hurry for the letters; the post did not close +until nine. + +The little parlour, dark by day, looked very comfortable now. A bright +fire, a bright lamp, and a well-spread tea-table, at which Mrs. Jenkins +sat. More comfortable than Jenkins himself did, who lay back in his +easy-chair, white and wan, meekly enjoying a lecture from his wife. He +started from it at the appearance of Roland, bowing in his usual humble +fashion, and smiling a glad welcome. + +“I say, Jenkins, I have come to know how long you mean to leave us to +ourselves?” was Roland’s greeting. “It’s too bad, you know. How d’ye do, +Mrs. Jenkins? Don’t you look snug here? It’s a nasty cutting night, and +I have to tramp all the way to the post-office.” + +Free and easy Roland drew a chair forward on the opposite side of the +hearth to Jenkins, Mrs. Jenkins and her good things being in the middle, +and warmed his hands over the blaze. “Ugh!” he shivered, “I can’t bear +these keen, easterly winds. It’s fine to be you, Jenkins! basking by a +blazing fire, and junketing upon plates of buttered muffins!” + +“Would you please to condescend to take a cup of tea with us, sir?” was +Jenkins’s answer. “It is just ready.” + +“I don’t care if I do,” said Roland. “There’s nothing I like better than +buttered muffins. We get them sometimes at home; but there’s so many +to eat at our house, that before a plate is well in, a dozen hands are +snatching at it, and it’s emptied. Lady Augusta knows no more about +comfort than a cow does, and she _will_ have the whole tribe of young +ones in to meals.” + +“You’ll find these muffins different from what you get at home,” said +Mrs. Jenkins, in her curt, snappish, but really not inhospitable way, +as she handed the muffins to Roland. “I know what it is when things +are left to servants, as they are at your place; they turn out +uneatable--soddened things, with rancid butter, nine times out of ten, +instead of good, wholesome fresh. Servants’ cooking won’t do for Jenkins +now, and it never did for me.” + +“These are good, though!” exclaimed Roland, eating away with intense +satisfaction. “Have you got any more downstairs? Mrs. Jenkins, don’t I +wish you could always toast muffins for me! Is that some ham?” + +His eyes had caught a small dish of ham, in delicate slices, put there +to tempt poor Jenkins. But he was growing beyond such tempting now, +for his appetite wholly failed him. It was upon this point he had been +undergoing Mrs. Jenkins’s displeasure when Roland interrupted them. The +question led to an excellent opportunity for renewing the grievance, +and she was too persistent a diplomatist to let it slip. Catching up the +dish, and leaving her chair, she held it out before Roland’s eyes. + +“Young Mr. Yorke, do you see anything the matter with that ham? Please +to tell me.” + +“I see that it looks uncommonly good,” replied Roland. + +“Do you hear?” sharply ejaculated Mrs. Jenkins, turning short round upon +her husband. + +“My dear, I never said a word but what it was good; I never had any +other thought,” returned he, with deprecation. “I only said that I could +not eat it. I can’t--indeed, I can’t! My appetite is gone.” + +Mrs. Jenkins put the dish down upon the table with a jerk. “That’s how +he goes on,” said she to Roland. “It’s enough to wear a woman’s patience +out! I get him muffins, I get him ham, I get him fowls, I get him fish, +I get him puddings, I get him every conceivable nicety that I can think +of, and not a thing will he touch. All the satisfaction I can get from +him is, that ‘his stomach turns against food!’” + +“I wish I could eat,” interposed Jenkins, mildly. “I have tried to do it +till I can try no longer. I wish I could.” + +“Will you take some of this ham, young Mr. Yorke?” she asked. “_He_ +won’t. He wants to know what scarcity of food is!” + +“I’ll take it all, if you like,” said Roland. “If it’s going begging.” + +Mrs. Jenkins accommodated him with a plate and knife and fork, and with +some more muffins. Roland did ample justice to the whole, despatching it +down with about six cups of good tea, well sugared and creamed. Jenkins +looked on with satisfaction, and Mrs. Jenkins appeared to regard it +in the light of a personal compliment, as chief of the commissariat +department. + +“And now,” said Roland, turning back to the fire, “when are you coming +out again, Jenkins?” + +Jenkins coughed--more in hesitation for an answer, than of necessity. “I +am beginning to think, sir, that I shall not get out again at all,” he +presently said. + +“Holloa! I say, Jenkins, don’t go and talk that rubbish!” was Roland’s +reply. “You know what I told you once, about that dropsy. I heard of a +man that took it into his head to fancy himself dead. And he ordered a +coffin, and lay down in it, and stopped in it for six days, only getting +up at night to steal the bread and cheese! His folks couldn’t think, +at first, where the loaves went to. You’ll be fancying the same, if you +don’t mind!” + +“If I could only get a little stronger, sir, instead of weaker, I should +soon be at my duty again. I am anxious enough sir, as you may imagine, +for there’s my salary, sir, coming to me as usual, and I doing nothing +for it.” + +“It’s just this, Jenkins, that if you don’t come back speedily, I shall +take French leave, and be off some fine morning. I can’t stand it much +longer. I can’t tell you how many blessed hours at a stretch am I in +that office with no one to speak to. I _wish_ I was at Port Natal!” + +“Sir,” said Jenkins, thinking he would say a word of warning, in his +kindly spirit: “I have heard that there’s nothing more deceptive than +those foreign parts that people flock to when the rage arises for them. +Many a man only goes out to starve and die.” + +“Many a muff, you mean!” returned self-complaisant Roland. “I say, +Jenkins, isn’t it a shame about Arthur Channing? Galloway has his money +back from the very thief himself, as the letter said, and yet the old +grumbler won’t speak out like a man, and say, ‘Shake hands, old fellow,’ +and ‘I know you are innocent, and come back to the office again.’ Arthur +would return, if he said that. See if I don’t start for Port Natal!” + +“I wish Mr. Arthur was back again, sir. It would make me easier.” + +“He sits, and stews, and frets, and worries his brains about that +office, and how it gets on without him!” tartly interposed Mrs. Jenkins. +“A sick man can’t expect to grow better, if he is to fret himself into +fiddlestrings!” + +“I wish,” repeated poor Jenkins in a dreamy sort of mood, his eyes fixed +on the fire, and his thin hands clasped upon his knees: “I do wish Mr. +Arthur was back. In a little while he’d quite replace me, and I should +not be missed.” + +“Hear him!” uttered Mrs. Jenkins. “That’s how he goes on!” + +“Well,” concluded Roland, rising, and gathering up his letters, which +he had deposited upon a side table, “if this is not a nice part of the +world to live in, I don’t know what is! Arthur Channing kept down under +Galloway’s shameful injustice; Jenkins making out that things are all +over with him; and I driven off my head doing everybody’s work! Good +night, Jenkins. Good night, Mrs. J. That was a stunning tea! I’ll come +in again some night, when you have toasted muffins!” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. -- A CHÂTEAU EN ESPAGNE. + +A keen wind, blowing from the east, was booming through the streets of +Helstonleigh, striking pitilessly the eyes and cheeks of the wayfarers, +cutting thin forms nearly in two, and taking stout ones off their legs. + +Blinded by the sharp dust, giving hard words to the wind, to the cold, +to the post-office for not being nearer, to anything and everything, +Roland Yorke dashed along, suffering nothing and no one to impede his +progress. He flung the letters into the box at the post-office, when +he reached that establishment, and then set off at the same pace back +again. + +Roland was in a state of inward commotion. He thought himself the most +injured, the most hard-worked, the most-to-be-pitied fellow under the +sun. The confinement in the office, with the additional work he had to +get through there, was his chief grievance; and a grievance it really +was to one of Roland’s temperament. When he had Arthur Channing and +Jenkins for his companions in it, to whom he could talk as he pleased, +and who did all the work, allowing Roland to do all the play, it had +been tolerably bearable; but that state of things was changed, and +Roland was feeling that he could bear it no longer. + +Another thing that Roland would perhaps be allowed to bear no longer +was--immunity from his debts. _They_ had grown on him latterly, as much +as the work had. Careless Roland saw no way out of that difficulty, +any more than he did out of the other, except by an emigration to +that desired haven which had stereotyped itself on the retina of his +imagination in colours of the brightest phantasy--Port Natal. For its +own sake, Roland was hurrying to get to it, as well as that it might be +convenient to do so. + +“Look here,” said he to himself, as he tore along, “even if Carrick were +to set me all clear and straight--and I dare say he might, if I told him +the bother I am in--where would be the good? It would not forward me. I +wouldn’t stop at Galloway’s another month to be made into a royal duke. +If he’d take back Arthur with honours, and Jenkins came out of his cough +and his thinness and returned, I don’t know but I might do violence to +my inclination and remain. I can’t, as it is. I should go dead with the +worry and the work.” + +Roland paused, fighting for an instant with a puff of wind and dust. +Then he resumed: + +“I’d pay my debts if I could; but, if I can’t, what am I to do but leave +them unpaid? Much better get the money from Carrick to start me off to +Port Natal, and set me going there. Then, when I have made enough, I’ll +send the cash to Arthur, and get him to settle up for me. I don’t want +to cheat the poor wretches out of their money; I’d rather pay ‘em double +than do that. Some of them work hard enough to get it: almost as hard as +I do at Galloway’s; and they have a right to their own. In three months’ +time after landing, I shall be able to do the thing liberally. I’ll make +up my mind from to-night, and go: I know it will be all for the best. +Besides, there’s the other thing.” + +What the “other thing” might mean, Mr. Roland did not state more +explicitly. He came to another pause, and then went on again. + +“That’s settled. I’ll tell my lady to-night, and I’ll tell Galloway +in the morning; and I’ll fix on the time for starting, and be off to +London, and see what I can do with Carrick. Let’s see! I shall want to +take out lots of things. I can get them in London. When Bagshaw went, +he told me of about a thousand. I think I dotted them down somewhere: I +must look. Rum odds and ends they were: I know frying-pans were amongst +them, Carrick will go with me to buy them, if I ask him; and then he’ll +pay, if it’s only out of politeness. Nobody sticks out for politeness +more than Carrick. He--” + +Roland’s castles in the air were suddenly cut short. He was passing a +dark part near the cathedral, when a rough hand--rough in texture, not +in motion--was laid upon his shoulder, and a peculiar piece of paper +thrust upon him. The assailant was Hopper, the sheriff’s officer. + +Roland flew into one of his passions. He divined what it was, perfectly +well: nothing less than one of those little mandates from our Sovereign +Lady the Queen, which, a short time back, had imperilled Hamish +Channing. He repaid Hopper with a specimen of his tongue, and flung the +writ back at him. + +“Now, sir, where’s the good of your abusing me, as if it was my fault?” + returned the man, in a tone of remonstrance. “I have had it in my pocket +this three weeks, Mr. Yorke, and not a day but I could have served it +on you: but I’m loth to trouble young gentlemen such as you, as I’m sure +many of you in this town could say. I have got into displeasure with our +folk about the delay in this very paper, and--in short, sir, I have not +done it, till I was obliged.” + +“You old preacher!” foamed Roland. “I have not tipped you with +half-a-crown lately, and therefore you can see me!” + +“Mr. Yorke,” said the man, earnestly, “if you had filled my hands with +half-crowns yesterday, I must have done this to-day. I tell you, sir, +I have got into a row with our people over it; and it’s the truth. +Why don’t you, sir--if I may presume to give advice--tell your little +embarrassments to your mother, the Lady Augusta? She’d be sure to see +you through them.” + +“How dare you mention the Lady Augusta to me?” thundered haughty Roland. +“Is it fitting that the Lady Augusta’s name should be bandied in such +transactions as these? Do you think I don’t know what’s due to her +better than that? If I have got into embarrassment, I shall not drag my +mother into it.” + +“Well, sir, you know best. I did not mean to offend you, but the +contrary. Mind, Mr. Roland Yorke!” added Hopper, pointing to the writ, +which still lay where it had been flung: “you can leave it there if you +choose, sir, but I have served it upon you.” + +Hopper went his way. Roland caught up the paper, tore it to pieces with +his strong hands, and tossed them after the man. The wind took up the +quarrel, and scattered the pieces indiscriminately, right and left. +Roland strode on. + +“What a mercy that there’s a Port Natal to be off to!” was his comment. + +Things were not particularly promising at home, when Roland entered, +looking at them from a quiet, sociable point of view. Lady Augusta +was spending the evening at the deanery, and the children, from Gerald +downwards, were turning the general parlour into a bear-garden. Romping, +quarrelling, shouting and screaming, they were really as unrestrained as +so many young bears. It would often be no better when Lady Augusta was +at home. How Gerald and Tod contrived to do their lessons amidst it +was a marvel to every one. Roland administered a few cuffs, to enjoin +silence, and then went out again, he did not much care where. His feet +took him to the house of his friend, Knivett, with whom he spent a +pleasant evening, the topics of conversation turning chiefly upon the +glories of Port Natal, and Roland’s recent adventure with Hopper. Had +anything been wanted to put the finishing touch to Roland’s resolution, +that little adventure would have supplied it. + +It was past ten when he returned home. The noisy throng had dispersed +then, all except Gerald. Gerald had just accomplished his tasks, and was +now gracefully enjoying a little repose before the fire; his head on the +back of my lady’s low embroidered chair, and his feet extended on either +hob. + +“What’s for supper?” asked Roland, turning his eyes on the cloth, which +bore traces that a party, and not a scrupulously tidy one, had already +partaken of that meal. + +“Bones,” said Gerald. + +“Bones?” echoed Roland. + +“Bones,” rejoined Gerald. “They made a show of broiling some downstairs, +but they took good care to cut off the meat first. Where all the meat +goes to in this house, I can’t think. If a good half of the leg of +mutton didn’t go down from dinner to-day, I possessed no eyes.” + +“They are not going to put me off with bones,” said Roland, ringing +the bell. “When a man’s worked within an ace of his life, he must eat. +Martha,”--when the maid appeared--“I want some supper.” + +“There’s no meat in the house, sir. There were some broiled bo--” + +“You may eat the bones yourself,” interrupted Roland. “I never saw +such a house as this! Loads of provisions come into it, and yet there’s +rarely anything to be had when it’s wanted. You must go and order +me some oysters. Get four dozen. I am famished. If I hadn’t had a +substantial tea, supplied me out of charity, I should be fainting before +this! It’s a shame! I wonder my lady puts up with you two incapable +servants.” + +“There are no oysters to be had at this time, Mr. Roland,” returned +Martha, who was accustomed to these interludes touching the +housekeeping. “The shop shuts up at ten.” + +Roland beat on the floor with the heel of his boot. Then he turned round +fiercely to Martha. “Is there _nothing_ in the house that’s eatable?” + +“There’s an apple pie, sir.” + +“Bring that, then. And while I am going into it, the cook can do me some +eggs and ham.” + +Gerald had turned round at this, angry in his turn, “If there’s an apple +pie, Martha, why could you not have produced it for our supper? You know +we were obliged to put up with cheese and butter!” + +“Cook told me not to bring it up, Master Gerald. My lady gave no orders. +Cook says if she made ten pies a day they’d get eaten, once you young +gentlemen knew of their being in the house.” + +“Well?” said Gerald. “She doesn’t provide them out of her own pocket.” + +Roland paid his court to the apple pie, Gerald joining him. After it was +finished, they kept the cook employed some time with the eggs and ham. +Then Gerald, who had to be up betimes for morning school, went to bed; +and I only hope he did not suffer from nightmare. + +Roland took up his place before the fire, in the same chair and position +vacated by Gerald. Thus he waited for Lady Augusta. It was not long +before she came in. + +“Come and sit down a bit, good mother,” said Roland. “I want to talk to +you.” + +“My dear, I am not in a talking humour,” she answered. “My head aches, +and I shall be glad to get to bed. It was a stupid, humdrum evening.” + +She was walking to the side table to light her bed-candle, but Roland +interposed. He drew the couch close to the fire, settled his mother +in it, and took his seat with her. She asked him what he had to say so +particularly that night. + +“I am going to tell you what it is. But don’t you fly out at me, mother +dear,” he coaxingly added. “I find I can’t get along here at all, +mother, and I shall be off to Port Natal.” + +Lady Augusta did fly out--with a scream, and a start from her seat. +Roland pulled her into it again. + +“Now, mother, just listen to me quietly. I can’t bear my life at +Galloway’s. I can’t do the work. If I stopped at it, I’m not sure but +I should do something desperate. You wouldn’t like to see your son +turn jockey, and ride in a pink silk jacket and yellow breeches on the +race-course; and you wouldn’t like to see him enlist for a soldier, or +run away for a sailor! Well, worse than that might come, if I stopped at +Galloway’s. Taking it at the very best, I should only be worked into my +grave.” + +“I will not hear another word, Roland,” interrupted Lady Augusta. “How +can you be so wicked and ungrateful?” + +“What is there wicked in it?” asked Roland. “Besides, you don’t know +all. I can’t tell you what I don’t owe in Helstonleigh, and I’ve not +a sixpence to pay it with. You wouldn’t like to see me marched off to +prison, mother.” + +Lady Augusta gave another shriek. + +“And there’s a third reason why I wish to be away,” went on Roland, +drowning the noise. “But I’ll not go into that, because it concerns +myself alone.” + +Of course the announcement that it concerned himself alone, only made my +lady the more inquisitive to hear it. She peremptorily ordered Roland to +disclose it to her. + +But Roland could be as peremptory as she, and he declined, in positive +terms, to explain further. + +“It would not afford you any pleasure, mother,” he said, “and I should +not have mentioned it but as an additional reason why I must be off.” + +“You unhappy boy! You have been doing something dreadful!” + +“It’s not over-good,” acknowledged Roland. “Perhaps I’ll write you word +all about it from London. I’ve not smothered William Yorke, or set old +Galloway’s office on fire, and those respected gentlemen are my two +_bêtes noires_. So don’t look so scared, mother.” + +“Roland!” uttered Lady Augusta, as the fact struck her, “if you go off +in this manner, all the money that was paid with you to Mr. Galloway +will be lost! I might as well have sent it down the gutter.” + +“So I said at the time,” answered cool Roland. “Never mind that, mother. +What’s that paltry hundred or two, compared with the millions I shall +make? And as to these folks that I owe money to--” + +“They’ll be coming upon me,” interposed Lady Augusta. “Heaven knows, _I_ +have enough to pay.” + +“They will do nothing of the sort,” said Roland. “You have no legal +right to pay my debts. Not one of them but has been contracted since I +was of age. If they come to you, tell them so.” + +“Roland, Lord Carrick gave you money once or twice when he was here,” + resumed Lady Augusta, “I know he did. What have you done with it all?” + +“Money melts,” responded Roland. “Upon my word of honour, I do believe +it must melt at times; it vanishes so quickly.” + +My lady could not cavil at the assertion. She was only too much given to +the same belief herself. Roland continued: + +“In a little while--about three months, as I calculate--after my arrival +at Port Natal, I shall be in a position to send funds home to pay what +I owe; and be assured, I will faithfully send them. There is the finest +opening, mother, at Port Natal! Fortunes are being made there daily. +In a few years’ time I shall come home with my pockets lined, and shall +settle down by you for life.” + +“If I could only think the prospect was so good a one!” exclaimed Lady +Augusta. + +“It is good,” said Roland emphatically. “Why, mother, Port Natal is all +the rage: hundreds are going out. Were there no reasons to urge me away, +you would be doing the most unwise thing possible to stand in the light +of my going. If I were at something that I liked, that I was not worked +to death at; if I did not owe a shilling; if my prospects here, in +short, were first-rate, and my life a bower of rose-leaves, I should do +well to throw it all up for Port Natal.” + +“But in what manner are these great fortunes made?” wondered Lady +Augusta. + +“Of course, I shall acquire all that information. Stuck in this +know-nothing Helstonleigh, I can only state the fact that they _are_ +made. I dare say I can find an opening for one or two of the boys out +there.” + +Lady Augusta--persuadable as ever was a child--began to look upon the +plan with less prejudiced eyes--as Roland would have styled it. As to +Roland, so fully had he become imbued with the golden harvest to be +gathered at Port Natal, that had an angel descended to undeceive him, he +would have refused to listen. + +“There will be the losing you, Roland,” said Lady Augusta, hesitating +whether she should scold or cry. + +“Law, what’s that?” returned Roland, slightingly. “You’ll get over that +in a day, and return thanks that there’s one source of trouble less. +Look here! If I were in the luck of having a good commission given me in +some crack Indian regiment, would you not say, ‘Oh be joyful,’ and start +me off at once? What are you the worse for George’s being away? Mother!” + he added somewhat passionately, “_would_ you like to see me tied down +for life to an old proctor’s office?” + +“But, Roland, you cannot go out without money. There’ll be your outfit +and your passage; and you can’t land with empty pockets.” + +“As to an outfit,” said Roland, “you must not run your head upon such +a one as George had. A few new shirts, and a pair or two of waterproof +boots--that will be about all I shall want. I remember shirts and +waterproof boots were mentioned by Bagshaw. What I shall chiefly want +to buy will be tools, and household utensils: frying-pans, and items of +that sort.” + +“Frying-pans!” ejaculated Lady Augusta. + +“I am sure frying-pans were mentioned,” answered Roland. “Perhaps it was +only one, though, for private use. I’ll hunt up Bagshaw’s list, and look +it over.” + +“And where’s the money to come from?” repeated my lady. + +“I shall get it of Lord Carrick. I know he’ll give me what I want. I +often talked to him about Port Natal when he was here.” + +“I had a letter from him to-day,” said Lady Augusta. “He will be +returning to Ireland next week.” + +“Will he, though?” uttered Roland, aroused by the information. “I have +no time to lose, then.” + +“Well, Roland I must hear more about this to-morrow, and consider it +over,” said my lady, rising to retire. “I have not said yet you are to +go, mind.” + +“I shall go, whether you say it or not,” replied frank Roland. “And when +I come home with my pockets lined, a rich man for life, the first thing +I’ll buy shall be a case of diamonds for you.” + +“Stupid boy!” said she laughing. “I shall be too old to wear diamonds +then.” + +“Oh no, you won’t.” + +My lady gave him a hearty kiss, and went to bed and to sleep. Roland’s +visions were not without their effect upon her, and she had a most +delightful dream of driving about in a charming city, whose streets +were paved with malachite marble, brilliant to look upon. How many times +Roland had dreamt that Port Natal was paved with _gold_, he alone knew. + +Had Roland been troubled with over-sensitiveness in regard to other +people’s feelings, and felt himself at a loss how to broach the matter +to Mr. Galloway, he might have been pleased to find that the way was, in +a degree, paved to him. On the following morning Mr. Galloway was at the +office considerably before his usual hour; consequently, before Roland +Yorke. Upon looking over Roland’s work of the previous day, he found +that a deed--a deed that was in a hurry, too--had been imperfectly drawn +out, and would have to be done over again. The cause must have been +sheer carelessness, and Mr. Galloway naturally felt angered. When the +gentleman arrived, he told him what he thought of his conduct, winding +up the reproaches with a declaration that Roland did him no service at +all, and would be as well out of the office as in it. + +“I am glad of that, sir,” was Roland’s answer. “What I was about to tell +you will make no difference, then. I wish to leave, sir.” + +“Do you?” retorted Mr. Galloway. + +“I am going to leave, sir,” added Roland, rather improving upon the +assertion. “I am going to Port Natal.” + +Mr. Galloway was a little taken aback. “Going to where?” cried he. + +“To Port Natal.” + +“To Port Natal!” echoed Mr. Galloway in the most unbounded astonishment, +for not an inkling of Roland’s long-thought-of project had ever reached +him. “What on earth should you want there?” + +“To make my fortune,” replied Roland. + +“Oh!” said Mr. Galloway. “When do you start?” + +“It is quite true, sir,” continued Roland. “Of course I could not go +without informing you.” + +“Do you start to-day?” repeated Mr. Galloway, in the same mocking tone. + +“No, I don’t,” said Roland. “But I _shall_ start, sir, before long, and +I beg you to believe me. I have talked Lady Augusta over to the plan, +and I shall get the money for it from Lord Carrick. I might drum on here +all my life and never rise to be anything better than a proctor, besides +having my life worked out of me; whereas, if I can get to Port Natal, +my fortune’s made. Hundreds and thousands of enterprising spirits are +emigrating there, and they are all going to make their fortunes.” + +Had Mr. Galloway not been angry, he would have laughed out-right. +“Yorke,” said he, “did you ever hear of a sickness that fell suddenly +upon this kingdom, some years ago? It was called the gold fever. +Hundreds and thousands, as you phrase it, caught the mania, and flocked +out to the Australian gold-diggings, to ‘make their fortunes’ by picking +up gold. Boy!”--laying his hand on Roland’s shoulder--“how many of +those, think you, instead of making their fortunes, only went out TO +DIE?” + +“That was not Port Natal, sir.” + +“It was not. But, unless some of you wild young men come to your senses, +we shall have a second edition of the Australian madness at Port Natal. +Nothing can be more futile than these visionary schemes, Roland Yorke; +they are like the apples of Sodom--fair and promising to the eye, ashes +to the taste. Do not you be deceived by them.” + +“One _must_ get on at Port Natal, sir.” + +“If one does not get ‘off,’” returned Mr. Galloway, in a cynical +tone that chafed Roland’s ear. “The stream that flocked out to the +gold-diggings all thought they should get on--each individual was fully +persuaded that he should come home in a year or two with a plum in +each of his breeches pockets. Where one made his way, Roland--made +wealth--many starved; died; vanished, it was not known how; were never +heard of by their friends, or saw old England again. What good do you +suppose _you_ could do at Port Natal?” + +“I intend to do a great deal,” said Roland. + +“But suppose you found you could do none--suppose it, I say--what +would become of you out in a strange place, without money, and without +friends?” + +“Well,” returned Roland, who was never at a loss for an answer: “if such +an impossible thing as a failure were to turn up, I should come back to +my Uncle Carrick, and make him start me in something else.” + +“Ah!” mockingly observed Mr. Galloway, “a rolling stone gathers no moss. +Meanwhile, Mr. Roland Yorke, suppose you come down from the clouds +to your proper business. Draw out this deed again, and see if you can +accomplish it to a little better purpose than you did yesterday.” + +Roland, liking the tone less and less, sat down and grew sullen. “Don’t +say I did not give you notice, sir,” he observed. + +But Mr. Galloway vouchsafed no reply. Indeed, it may be questioned if +he heard the remark, for he went into his own room at the moment Roland +spoke, and shut the door after him. + +“Mocking old caterpillar!” grumbled angry Roland. “No fortunes at Port +Natal! I’d go off, if it was only to tantalize _him!_” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER L. -- REALLY GONE! + +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.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LI. -- AN ARRIVAL IN A FLY. + +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 better than nobody,” ejaculated Mr. +Galloway, rubbing up his flaxen curls. “He could keep office, if he +did not do much in it; he received and answered callers; he went out +on hasty messages; and, upon a pinch, he did accomplish an hour or so’s +copying. I am down on my beam-ends, and no mistake. What a simpleton the +fellow must be! Port Natal, indeed, for him! If Lord Carrick were not +own brother to my lady, he might have the sense to stop it. Why--” + +Arrival the first, and no one to answer it but Mr. Galloway! A fly had +driven up and stopped at the door. No one appeared to be getting out of +it, so Mr. Galloway, perforce, proceeded to see what it wanted. It might +contain one of the chapter, or the dean himself! + +But, by the time he reached the pavement, the inmates were descending. +A short lady, in a black bonnet and short black skirts, had let herself +out on the opposite side, and had come round to assist somebody out +on this. Was it a ghost, or was it a man? His cheeks were hollow and +hectic, his eyes were glistening as with fever, his chest heaved. He had +a fur boa wrapped round his neck, and his overcoat hung loosely on his +tall, attenuated form, which seemed too weak to support itself, or to +get down the fly steps without being lifted. + +“Now don’t you be in a hurry!” the lady was saying, in a cross tone. +“You’ll come pitch into the mud with your nose. Can’t you wait? It’s my +belief you are wanting to do it. Here, let me get firm hold of you; you +know you are as weak as ever was a rat!” + +You may recognize the voice as belonging to Mrs. Jenkins, and that poor +shadow could be no one but Jenkins himself, for there certainly was not +another like it in all Helstonleigh. Mr. Galloway stood in astonishment, +wondering what this new move could mean. The descent accomplished, +Jenkins was conducted by his wife through the passage to the office. He +went straight to his old place at his desk, and sat down on his stool, +his chest palpitating, his breath coming in great sighs. Laying his hat +beside him, he turned respectfully to Mr. Galloway, who had followed him +in, speaking with all his native humility: + +“I have come, sir, to do what I can for you in this emergency.” + +And there he stopped--coughing, panting, shaking; looking like a man +more fit to be lying on his death-bed than to be keeping office. Mr. +Galloway gazed at him with compassion. He said nothing. Jenkins at that +moment could neither have heard nor answered, and Mrs. Jenkins was out, +paying the driver. + +The paroxysm was not over when she came in. She approached Jenkins, +slightly shook him--her mode of easing the cough--dived in his pockets +for his silk handkerchief, with which she wiped his brow, took off the +fur from his neck, waited until he was quiet, and began: + +“I hope you are satisfied! If you are not, you ought to be. Who’s to +know whether you’ll get back alive? _I_ don’t.” + +“What did he come for?” asked Mr. Galloway. + +“Ah!” said Mrs. Jenkins, “that’s just what I want to know! As if he +could do any good in the state he is! Look at him, sir.” + +Poor Jenkins, who was indeed a sight to be looked at, turned his wan +face upon Mr. Galloway. + +“I cannot do much sir, I know; I wish I could: but I can sit in the +office--at least, I hope I can--just to take care of it while you are +out, sir, until you can find somebody to replace Mr. Roland.” + +“How did you know he was gone off?” demanded Mr. Galloway. + +“It was in this way,” interposed Mrs. Jenkins, ages before poor Jenkins +could gain breath to answer. “I was on my hands and knees, brushing the +fluff off my drawing-room carpet this morning, when I heard something +tearing up the stairs at the rate of a coach-and-six. Who should it be +but young Mr. Yorke, on his way to Jenkins in bed, without saying so +much as ‘With your leave,’ or ‘By your leave.’ A minute or two, and down +he came again, gave me a little touch of his impudence, and was gone +before I could answer. Well, sir, I kept on at my room, and when it was +done I went downstairs to see about the breakfast, never suspecting what +was going on with _him_”--pointing her finger at Jenkins. “I was pouring +out his tea when it was ready to take up to him, and putting a bit of +something on a plate, which I intended to make him eat, when I +heard somebody creeping down the stairs--stumbling, and panting, and +coughing--and out I rushed. There stood he--_he_, Mr. Galloway! dressed +and washed, as you see him now! he that has not got up lately till +evening, and me dressing him then! ‘Have you took leave of your senses?’ +said I to him. ‘No,’ said he, ‘my dear, but I must go to the office +to-day: I can’t help myself. Young Mr. Yorke’s gone away, and there’ll +be nobody.’ ‘And good luck go with him, for all the use he’s of here, +getting you out of your bed,’ said I. If Jenkins were as strong as he +used to be, Mr. Galloway, I should have felt tempted to treat him to a +shaking, and then, perhaps, he’d have remembered it!” + +“Mr. Roland told me he was going away, sir, and that you had nobody to +replace him; indeed, I gathered that you were ignorant of the step,” + struck in the quiet, meek voice of poor Jenkins. “I could not stay away, +sir, knowing the perplexity you would be put to.” + +“No, it’s my belief he could not,” tartly chimed in Jenkins’s lady. “He +would have tantalized himself into a fever. Why, Mr. Galloway, had I +marched him back to his bed and turned the key upon him, he’d have been +capable of letting himself down by a cord from his window, in the +face and eyes of all the street. Now, Jenkins, I’ll have none of your +contradiction! you know you would.” + +“My dear, I am not contradicting; I am not well enough to contradict,” + panted poor Jenkins. + +“He would have come off there and then, all by himself: he would, Mr. +Galloway, as I am a living sinner!” she hotly continued. “It’s unbeknown +how he’d have got here--holding on by the wall, like a snail, or +fastening himself on to the tail of a cart; but try at it, in some way, +he would! Be quiet, Jenkins! How dare you attempt to interrupt!” + +Poor Jenkins had not thought to interrupt; he was only making a movement +to pull off his great-coat. Mrs. Jenkins resumed: + +“‘No,’ said I to him; ‘if you must go, you shall be conveyed there, but +you don’t start without your breakfast.’ So I sat him down in his chair, +Mr. Galloway, and gave him his breakfast--such as it was! If there’s one +thing that Jenkins is obstinate in, above all others, it’s about eating. +Then I sent Lydia for a fly, and wrapped up his throat in my boa--and +that he wanted to fight against!--and here he is!” + +“I wished to get here, sir, before you did,” cried Jenkins, meekly. +“I knew the exertion would set me coughing at first, but, if I had sat +awhile before you saw me, I should not have seemed so incapable. I shall +be better presently, sir.” + +“What are you at with that coat?” tartly asked Mrs. Jenkins. “I declare +your hands are never at rest. Your coat’s not to come off, Jenkins. The +office is colder than our parlour, and you’ll keep it on.” + +Jenkins, humbly obeying, began to turn up the cuffs. “I can do a little +writing, sir,” he said to Mr. Galloway, “Is there anything that is in a +hurry?” + +“Jenkins,” said Mr. Galloway, “I could not suffer you to write; I could +not keep you here. Were I to allow you to stop, in the state you are, +just to serve me, I should lay a weight upon my conscience.” + +Mrs. Jenkins looked up in triumph. “You hear, Jenkins! What did I tell +you? I said I’d let you have your way for once--‘twas but the cost of +the fly; but that if Mr. Galloway kept you here, once he set eyes on +your poor creachy body, I’d eat him.” + +“Jenkins, my poor fellow!” said Mr. Galloway, gravely, “you must know +that you are not in a state to exert yourself. I shall not forget your +kindness; but you must go back at once. Why, the very draught from the +frequent opening of the door would do you an injury; the exertion of +speaking to answer callers would be too much for you.” + +“Didn’t I tell you so, Jenkins, just in them very words?” interrupted +the lady. + +“I am aware that I am not strong, sir,” acknowledged Jenkins to Mr. +Galloway, with a deprecatory glance towards his wife to be allowed to +speak. “But it is better I should be put to a trifle of inconvenience +than that you should, sir. I can sit here, sir, while you are obliged to +be out, or occupied in your private room. What could you do, sir, left +entirely alone?” + +“I don’t know what I can do,” returned Mr. Galloway, with an acidity of +tone equal to that displayed by Mrs. Jenkins, for the question recalled +all the perplexity of his position. “Sacrifice yourself to me, Jenkins, +you shall not. What absurd folly can have taken off Roland Yorke?” he +added. “Do you know?” + +“No, sir, I don’t. When Mr. Roland came in this morning, and said he +was really off, you might have knocked me down with a feather. He would +often get talking about Port Natal, but I never supposed it would come +to anything. Mr. Roland was one given to talk.” + +“He had some tea at our house the other night, and was talking about it +then,” struck in Mrs. Jenkins. “He said he was worked to death.” + +“Worked to death!” satirically repeated Mr. Galloway. + +“I’m afraid, sir, that, through my unfortunate absence, he has found the +work heavier, and he grew dissatisfied,” said Jenkins. “It has troubled +me very much.” + +“You spoilt him, Jenkins; that’s the fact,” observed Mr. Galloway. “You +did his work and your own. Idle young dog! He’ll get a sickener at Port +Natal.” + +“There’s one thing to be thankful for, sir,” said patient Jenkins, “that +he has his uncle, the earl, to fall back upon.” + +“Hark at him!” interrupted Mrs. Jenkins. “That’s just like him! He’d be +‘thankful’ to hear that his worst enemy had an uncle to fall back upon. +That’s Jenkins all over. But now, what is to be the next movement?” she +sharply demanded. “I must get back to my shop. Is he to come with me, or +to stop here--a spectacle for every one that comes in?” + +But at this moment, before the question could be decided--though you may +rest assured Mrs. Jenkins would only allow it to be decided in her own +way--hasty footsteps were heard in the passage, and the door was thrown +open by Arthur Channing. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LII. -- A RELIC FROM THE BURIAL-GROUND. + +When Hamish Channing joined the breakfast-table at home that morning +at nine o’clock, he mentioned his adventure at the station with Lady +Augusta Yorke. It was the first intimation they had received of +Roland’s departure; indeed, the first that some of them had heard of his +intention to depart. + +Arthur laid down his knife and fork. To him alone could the full +consequences of the step present themselves, as regarded Mr. Galloway. + +“Hamish! he cannot actually have gone?” + +“That he is actually off by the train to London, I can certify,” was +the reply of Hamish. “Whether he will be off to Port Natal, is another +thing. He desired me to tell you, Arthur, that he should write his adieu +to you from town.” + +“He might have come to see me,” observed Arthur, a shade of resentment +in his tone. “I never thought he would really go.” + +“I did,” said Hamish, “funds permitting him. If Lord Carrick will supply +those, he’ll be off by the first comfortable ship that sails. His mind +was so completely bent upon it.” + +“What can he think of doing at Port Natal?” inquired Constance, +wonderingly. + +“Making his fortune.” But Hamish laughed as he said it. “Wherever I +may have met him latterly, his whole talk has been of Port Natal. Lady +Augusta says he is going to take out frying-pans to begin with.” + +“Hamish!” + +“She said so, Constance. I have no doubt Roland said so to her. I should +like to see the sort of cargo he will lay in for the start.” + +“What does Mr. Galloway say to it, I wonder?” exclaimed Arthur, that +gentleman’s perplexities presenting themselves to his mind above +everything else. “I cannot think what he will do.” + +“I have an idea that Mr. Galloway is as yet unaware of it,” said Hamish. +“Roland assured me that no person whatever knew of his departure, except +Jenkins. He called upon him on his way to the station.” + +“Unaware of it!” Arthur fell into consternation great as Mr. Galloway’s, +as he repeated the words. Was it possible that Roland had stolen a march +on Mr. Galloway? He relapsed into silence and thought. + +“What makes you so sad?” Constance asked of Arthur later, when they were +dispersing to their several occupations. + +“I am not sad, Constance; only thoughtful. I have been carrying on an +inward battle,” he added, half laughingly. + +“With your conscience?” + +“With my spirit. It is a proud one yet, in spite of all I have had to +tame it; a great deal more rebellious than I like it to be.” + +“Why, what is the matter, Arthur?” + +“Constance, I think I ought to come forward and help Mr. Galloway out of +this strait. I think my duty lies in doing it.” + +“To return to his office, you mean?” + +“Yes; until he can see his way out of the wood. But it goes against the +grain.” + +“Arthur dear, I know you will do it,” she gently said. “Were our duty +always pleasant to us, where would be the merit in fulfilling it?” + +“I shall do it,” he answered. “To that I have made up my mind. The +difficulty is, Constance, to do it with a good grace.” + +She looked at him with a loving smile. “Only try. A firm will, Arthur, +will conquer even a rebellious spirit.” + +Arthur knew it. He knew how to set about it. And a little later, he was +on his way to Close Street, with the best grace in the world. Not only +in appearance, mind you, but inwardly. It is a GREAT thing, reader, to +conquer the risings of a proud spirit! To bring it from its haughty, +rebellious pedestal, down to cordiality and love. Have you learnt the +way? + +Some parchments under his arm, for he had stayed to collect them +together, Arthur bounded in to Mr. Galloway’s. The first object his eyes +fell on was that shadowy form, coughing and panting. “Oh, Jenkins!” he +involuntarily uttered, “what do you do out of your house?” + +“Anxiety for me has brought him out,” said Mr. Galloway. “How can I +scold him?” + +“I could not rest, sir, knowing my master was alone in his need,” cried +Jenkins to Arthur. “What is to become of the office, sir, with no one in +it?” + +“But he is not alone,” said Arthur; and, if he had wanted a reward for +coming forward, that moment would have supplied it, in satisfying poor +Jenkins. “If you will allow me, sir,” Arthur added, turning frankly to +Mr. Galloway, “I will take my place here, until you shall be suited.” + +“Thank you,” emphatically replied Mr. Galloway. “It will relieve me from +a serious embarrassment.” + +Arthur went to his old desk, and sat down on his old stool, and began +settling the papers and other things on it, just as though he had not +been absent an hour. “I must still attend the cathedral as usual, +sir,” he observed to Mr. Galloway; “but I can give you the whole of my +remaining time. I shall be better for you than no one.” + +“I would rather have you here than any one else, Channing; he”--laying +his hand on Jenkins’s shoulder--“excepted. I offered that you should +return before.” + +“I know you did, sir,” replied Arthur, in a brief tone--one that seemed +to intimate he would prefer not to pursue the subject. + +“And now are you satisfied?” struck in Mrs. Jenkins to her husband. + +“I am more than satisfied,” answered Jenkins, clasping his hands. “With +Mr. Arthur in the office, I shall have no fear of its missing me, and I +can go home in peace, to die.” + +“Please just to hold your tongue about dying,” reprimanded Mrs. Jenkins. +“Your business is to get well, if you can. And now I am going to see +after a fly. A pretty dance I should have had here, if he had persisted +in stopping, bringing him messes and cordials every half-hour! Which +would have worn out first, I wonder--the pavement or my shoes?” + +“Channing,” said Mr. Galloway, “let us understand each other. Have you +come here to do anything there may be to do--out of doors as well as in? +In short, to be my clerk as heretofore?” + +“Of course I have, sir; until”--Arthur spoke very distinctly--“you shall +be able to suit yourself; not longer.” + +“Then take this paper round to Deering’s office, and get it signed. You +will have time to do it before college.” + +Arthur’s answer was to put on his hat, and vault away with the paper. +Jenkins turned to Mr. Galloway as soon as they were alone. “Oh, sir, +keep him in your office!” he earnestly said. “He will soon be of more +value to you than I have ever been!” + +“That he will not, Jenkins. Nor any one else.” + +“Yes, he will, sir! He will be able to replace you in the chapter house +upon any emergency, and I never could do that, you know, sir, not being +a gentleman. When you have him to yourself alone, sir, you will see his +value; and I shall not be missed. He is steady and thoughtful beyond his +years, sir, and every day will make him older.” + +“You forget the charge against him, Jenkins. Until he shall be cleared +of that--if he can be cleared of it--he will not be of great value to +any one; certainly not to me.” + +“Sir,” said Jenkins, raising his wan face, its hectic deepening, find +his eye lighting, while his voice sunk to a whisper, so deep as to +savour of solemnity, “that time will come! He never did it, and he will +as surely be cleared, as that I am now saying it! Sir, I have thought +much about this accusation; it has troubled me in sleep; but I know that +God will bring the right to light for those who trust in Him. If any one +ever trusted in God, it is Mr. Arthur Channing. I lie and think of all +this, sir. I seem to be so near God, now,” Jenkins went on dreamily, +“that I know the right must come to light; that it will come in God’s +own good time. And I believe I shall live to see it!” + +“You have certainly firm faith in his innocence, Jenkins. How then do +you account for his very suspicious manner?” + +“It does not weigh with me, sir. I could as soon believe a good +wholesome apple-tree would bring forth poison, as that Mr. Arthur would +be guilty of a deliberately bad action. Sometimes I have thought, sir, +when puzzling over it, that he may be screening another. There’s no +telling how it was. I hear, sir, that the money has been returned to +you.” + +“Yes. Was it he who told you?” + +“It was Mr. Roland Yorke who told me, sir. Mr. Roland is another, sir, +who has had firm faith in his innocence from the first.” + +“Much his faith goes for!” ejaculated Mr. Galloway, as he came back +from his private room with a letter, which he handed to Jenkins, who was +skilled in caligraphy. “What do you make of it?” he asked. “It is the +letter which came with the returned money.” + +“It is a disguised hand, sir--there’s no doubt of that,” replied +Jenkins, when he had surveyed it critically. “I do not remember to have +seen any person write like it.” + +Mr. Galloway took it back to his room, and presently a fly drove up with +Mrs. Jenkins inside it. Jenkins stood at the office door, hat in hand, +his face turned upon the room. Mrs. Jenkins came up and seized his arm, +to marshal him to the fly. + +“I was but taking a farewell of things, sir,” he observed to Mr. +Galloway. “I shall never see the old spot again.” + +Arthur arrived just as Jenkins was safely in. He put his hand over the +door. “Make yourself easy, Jenkins; it will all go on smoothly here. +Good-bye, old fellow! I’ll come and see you very soon.” + +“How he breaks, does he not, sir?” exclaimed Arthur to Mr. Galloway. + +“Ay! he’s not long for this world!” + +The fly proceeded on its way; Mrs. Jenkins, with her snappish manner, +though really not unkind heart, lecturing Jenkins on his various +shortcomings until it drew up at their own door. As Jenkins was being +helped down from it, one of the college boys passed at a great speed; +a railroad was nothing to it. It was Stephen Bywater. Something, +legitimate or illegitimate, had detained him, and now the college bell +was going. + +He caught sight of Jenkins, and, hurried as he was, much of punishment +as he was bargaining for, it had such an effect upon him, that he pulled +up short. Was it Jenkins, or his ghost? Bywater had never been so struck +with any sight before. + +The most appropriate way in which it occurred to him to give vent to his +surprise, was to prop his back against the shop door, and indulge in a +soft, prolonged whistle. He could not take his eyes from Jenkins’s face. +“Is it you, or your shadow, Jenkins?” he asked, making room for the +invalid to pass. + +“It’s myself, sir, thank you. I hope you are well, sir.” + +“Oh, I’m always jolly,” replied Bywater, and then he began to whistle +again. + +He followed Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins into the shop with his eyes; that is, +they followed Jenkins. Bywater had heard, as a matter of necessity, of +Jenkins’s illness, and had given as much thought to it as he would have +done if told Jenkins had a headache; but to fancy him like _this_ had +never occurred to Bywater. + +Now somewhere beneath Bywater’s waistcoat, there really was a little bit +of heart; and, as he thus looked, a great fear began to thump against +it. He followed Jenkins into the parlour. Mrs. Jenkins, after divesting +Jenkins of his coat, and her boa, planted him right before the fire in +his easy-chair, with a pillow at his back, and was now whisking down +into the kitchen, regardless of certain customers waiting in the shop to +be served. + +Bywater, unasked, sat himself in a chair near to poor Jenkins and his +panting breath, and indulged in another long stare. “I say, Jenkins,” + said he, “what’s the matter with you?” + +Jenkins took the question literally. “I believe it may be called a sort +of decline, sir. I don’t know any other name for it.” + +“Shan’t you get well?” + +“Oh no, sir! I don’t look for that, now.” + +The fear thumped at Bywater’s heart worse than before. A past vision of +locking up old Ketch in the cloisters, through which pastime Jenkins had +come to a certain fall, was uncomfortably present to Bywater just then. +He had been the ringleader. + +“What brought it on?” asked he. + +“Well, sir, I suppose it was to come,” meekly replied Jenkins. “I +have had a bad cough, spring and autumn, for a long while now, Master +Bywater. My brother went off just the same, sir, and so did my mother.” + +Bywater pushed his honest, red face, forward; but it did not look quite +so impudent as usual. “Jenkins,” said he, plunging headlong into the +fear, “DID--THAT--FALL--DO--IT?” + +“Fall, sir! What fall?” + +“That fall down from the organ loft. Because that was my fault. I had +the most to do with locking up the cloisters, that night.” + +“Oh, bless you, sir, no! Never think that. Master Bywater”--lowering his +voice till it was as grave as Bywater’s--“that fall did me good--good, +sir, instead of harm.” + +“How do you make out that?” asked Bywater, drawing his breath a little +easier. + +“Because, sir, in the few days’ quiet that I had in bed, my thoughts +seemed in an unaccountable manner to be drawn to thinking of heaven. I +can’t rightly describe, sir, how or why it could have been. I remember +his lordship, the bishop, talked to me a little bit in his pleasant, +affable way, about the necessity of always, being prepared; and my +wife’s Bible lay on the drawers by my bed’s head, and I used to pick up +that. But I don’t think it was either of those causes much; I believe, +sir, that it was God Himself working in my heart. I believe He sent the +fall in His mercy. After I got up, I seemed to know that I should soon +go to Him; and--I hope it is not wrong to say it--I seemed to wish to +go.” + +Bywater felt somewhat puzzled. “I am not speaking about your heart and +religion, and all that, Jenkins. I want to know if the fall helped to +bring on this illness?” + +“No, sir; it had nothing to do with it. The fall hurt my head a +little--nothing more; and I got well from it directly. This illness, +which has been taking me off, must have been born with me.” + +“Hoo--” Bywater’s shout, as he tossed up his trencher, was broken in +upon by Mrs. Jenkins. She had been beating up an egg with sugar and +wine, and now brought it in in a tumbler. + +“My dear,” said Jenkins, “I don’t feel to want it.” + +“Not want it!” said Mrs. Jenkins resolutely. And in two seconds she had +taken hold of him, and it was down his throat. “I can’t stop parleying +here all day, with my shop full of customers.” Bywater laughed, and she +retreated. + +“If I could eat gold, sir, she’d get it for me,” said Jenkins; “but my +appetite fails. She’s a good wife, Master Bywater.” + +“Stunning,” acquiesced Bywater. “I wouldn’t mind a wife myself, if she’d +feed me up with eggs and wine.” + +“But for her care, sir, I should not have lasted so long. She has had +great experience with the sick.” + +Bywater did not answer. Rising to go, his eyes had fixed themselves upon +some object on the mantelpiece as pertinaciously as they had previously +been fixed upon Jenkins’s face. “I say, Jenkins, where did you get +this?” he exclaimed. + +“That, sir? Oh, I remember. My old father brought it in yesterday. +He had cut his hand with it. Where now did he say he found it? In the +college burial-ground, I think, Master Bywater.” + +It was part of a small broken phial, of a peculiar shape, which had once +apparently contained ink; an elegant shape, it may be said, not unlike +a vase. Bywater began turning it about in his fingers; he was literally +feasting his eyes upon it. + +“Do you want to keep it, Jenkins?” + +“Not at all, sir. I wonder my wife did not throw it away before this.” + +“I’ll take it, then,” said Bywater, slipping it into his pocket. “And +now I’m off. Hope you’ll get better, Jenkins.” + +“Thank you, sir. Let me put the broken bottle in paper, Master Bywater. +You will cut your fingers if you carry it loose in your pocket.” + +“Oh, that be bothered!” answered Bywater. “Who cares for cut fingers?” + +He pushed himself through Mrs. Jenkins’s customers, with as little +ceremony as Roland Yorke might have used, and went flying towards the +cathedral. The bell ceased as he entered. The organ pealed forth; and +the dean and chapter, preceded by some of the bedesmen, were entering +from the opposite door. Bywater ensconced himself behind a pillar, until +they should have traversed the body, crossed the nave, and were safe +in the choir. Then he came out, and made his way to old Jenkins the +bedesman. + +The old man, in his black gown, stood near the bell ropes, for he had +been one of the ringers that day. Bywater noticed that his left hand was +partially tied up in a handkerchief. + +“Holloa, old Jenkins,” said he, _sotte voce_, “what have you done with +your hand?” + +“I gave it a nasty cut yesterday, sir, just in the ball of the thumb. I +wrapped my handkerchief round it just now, for fear of opening it again, +while I was ringing the bell. See,” said he, taking off the handkerchief +and showing the cut to Bywater. + +“What an old muff you must be, to cut yourself like that!” + +“But I didn’t do it on purpose,” returned the old man. “We was ordered +into the burial-ground to put it a bit to rights, and I fell down with +my hand on a broken phial. I ain’t as active as I was. I say, though, +sir, do you know that service has begun?” + +“Let it begin,” returned careless Bywater. “This was the bottle you fell +over, was it not? I found it on Joe’s mantelpiece, just now.” + +“Ay, that was it. It must have laid there some time. A good three +months, I know.” + +Bywater nodded his head. He returned the bottle to his pocket, and went +to the vestry for his surplice. Then he slid into college under the +severe eyes of the Reverend Mr. Pye, which were bent upon him from the +chanting-desk, and ascended, his stall just in time to take his part in +the _Venite, exultemus Domino_. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. -- THE RETURN HOME. + +It almost seemed, to Mr. Channing’s grateful heart, as if the weather +had prolonged its genial warmth on purpose for him. A more charming +autumn had never been known at Borcette, and up to the very hour of +Mr. Channing’s departure, there were no signs of winter. Taking it as a +whole, it had been the same at Helstonleigh. Two or three occasional wet +days, two or three cold and windy ones; but they soon passed over and +people remarked to each other how this fine weather would shorten the +winter. + +Never did November turn out a more lovely day than the one that was to +witness Mr. Channing’s return. The sun shone brightly; the blue sky was +without a cloud. All Nature seemed to have put on a smiling face to give +him welcome. And yet--to what was he returning? + +For once in his life, Hamish Channing shrank from meeting his father and +mother. How should he break the news to them? They were arriving full of +joy, of thankfulness at the restoration to health of Mr. Channing: how +could Hamish mar it with the news regarding Charles? Told it must be; +and he must be the one to do it. In good truth, Hamish was staggered at +the task. His own hopeful belief that Charley would some day “turn +up,” was beginning to die out; for every hour that dragged by, without +bringing him, certainly gave less and less chance of it. And even if +Hamish had retained hope himself, it was not likely he could impart it +to Mr. or Mrs. Channing. + +“I shall get leave from school this afternoon,” Tom suddenly exclaimed +that morning at breakfast. + +“For what purpose?” inquired Hamish. + +“To go up to the station and meet them.” + +“No, Tom. You must not go to the station.” + +“Who says so?” sharply cried Tom. + +“I do,” replied Hamish. + +“I dare say! that’s good!” returned Tom, speaking in his hasty spirit. +“You know you are going yourself, Hamish, and yet you would like to +deprive me of the same pleasure. Why, I wouldn’t miss being there for +anything! Don’t say, Hamish, that you are never selfish.” + +Hamish turned upon him with a smile, but his tone changed to sadness. +“I wish with all my heart, Tom, that you or some one else, could go and +meet them, instead of myself, and undertake what I shall have to do. +I can tell you I never had a task imposed upon me that I found so +uncongenial as the one I must go through this day.” + +Tom’s voice dropped a little of its fierce shade. “But, Hamish, there’s +no reason why I should not meet them at the station. That will not make +it the better or the worse for you.” + +“I will tell you why I think you should not,” replied Hamish; “why +it will be better that you should not. It is most desirable that they +should be home, here, in this house, before the tidings are broken to +them. I should not like them to hear of it in the streets, or at the +station; especially my mother.” + +“Of course not,” assented Tom. + +“And, were you at the station,” quietly went on Hamish to him, “the +first question would be, ‘Where’s Charley?’ If Tom Channing can get +leave of absence from school, Charley can.” + +“I could say--” + +“Well?” said Hamish, for Tom had stopped. + +“I don’t know what I could say,” acknowledged Tom. + +“Nor I. My boy, I have thought it over, and the conclusion I come to, if +you appear at the station, is this: either that the tidings must be told +to them, then and there, or else an evasion, bordering upon an untruth. +If they do not see you there, they will not inquire particularly after +Charles; they will suppose you are both in school.” + +“I declare I never set my mind upon a thing but something starts in to +frustrate it!” cried Tom, in vexation. But he relinquished his intention +from that moment. + +Chattering Annabel threw up her head. “As soon as papa and mamma come +home, we shall put on mourning, shall we not? Constance was talking +about it with Lady Augusta.” + +“Do not talk of mourning, child,” returned Hamish. “_I_ can’t give him +up, if you do.” + +Afternoon came, and Hamish proceeded alone to the station. Tom, +listening to the inward voice of reason, was in school, and Arthur +was occupied in the cathedral; the expected hour of their arrival was +towards the close of afternoon service. Hamish had boasted that he +should _walk_ his father through Helstonleigh for the benefit of +beholders, if happily he came home capable of walking; but, like poor +Tom and _his_ plan, that had to be relinquished. In the first half-dozen +paces they would meet half a dozen gossipers, and the first remark from +each, after congratulations, would be, “What a sad thing this is about +your little Charles!” Hamish lived in doubt whether it might not, by +some untoward luck, come out at the station, in spite of his precaution +in keeping away Tom. + +But, so far, all went well. The train came in to its time, and Hamish, +his face lighted with excitement, saw his father once more in possession +of his strength, descending without assistance from the carriage, +walking alone on the platform. Not in the full strength and power of +old; that might never be again. He stooped slightly, and moved slowly, +as if his limbs were yet stiff, limping a little. But that he was now +in a sound state of health was evident; his face betrayed it. Hamish did +not know whose hands to clasp first; his, or his mother’s. + +“Can you believe that it is myself, Hamish?” asked Mr. Channing, when +the first few words of thankful greeting had passed. + +“I should hide my head for ever as a false prophet if it could be any +one else,” was the reply of Hamish. “You know I always said you would so +return. I am only in doubt whether it is my mother.” + +“What is the matter with me, Hamish?” asked Mrs. Channing. “Because you +would make about two of the thin, pale, careworn Mrs. Channing who went +away,” cried he, turning his mother round to look at her, deep love +shining out from his gay blue eyes. “I hope you have not taken to rouge +your cheeks, ma’am, but I am bound to confess they look uncommonly like +it.” + +Mrs. Channing laughed merrily. “It has done me untold good, Hamish, as +well as papa; it seems to have set me up for years to come. Seeing +him grow better day by day would have effected it, without any other +change.” + +Mr. Channing had actually gone himself to see after the luggage. How +strange it seemed! Hamish caught him up. “If you can give yourself +trouble now, sir, there’s no reason that you should do so, while you +have your great lazy son at your elbow.” + +“Hamish, boy, I am proud of doing it.” + +It was soon collected. Hamish hastily, if not carelessly, told a porter +to look to it, took Mr. Channing’s arm, and marched him to the fly, +which Mrs. Channing had already found. Hamish was in lively dread of +some officious friend or other coming up, who might drop a hint of the +state of affairs. + +“Shall I help you in, father!” + +“I can help myself now, Hamish. I remember you promised me I should have +no fly on my return. You have thought better of it.” + +“Yes, sir, wishing to get you home before bed-time, which might not be +the case if you were to show yourself in the town, and stop at all the +interruptions.” + +Mr. Channing stepped into the fly. Hamish followed, first giving the +driver a nod. “The luggage! The luggage!” exclaimed Mrs. Channing, as +they moved off. + +“The porter will bring it, mother. He would have been a month putting it +on to the fly.” + +How could they suppose anything was the matter? Not a suspicion of it +ever crossed them. Never had Hamish appeared more light-hearted. In +fact, in his self-consciousness, Hamish a little overdid it. Let him get +them home before the worst came! + +“We find you all well, I conclude!” said Mrs. Channing. “None of them +came up with you! Arthur is in college, I suppose, and Tom and Charles +are in school.” + +“It was Arthur’s hour for college,” remarked Hamish, ignoring the rest +of the sentence. “But he ought to be out now. Arthur is at Galloway’s +again,” he added. “He did not write you word, I believe, as you were so +shortly expected home.” + +Mr. Channing turned a glance on his son, quick as lightning. “Cleared, +Hamish?” + +“In my opinion, yes. In the opinion of others, I fear not much more than +he was before.” + +“And himself?” asked Mr. Channing. “What does he say now?” + +“He does not speak of it to me.” + +Hamish put his head out at the window, nodding to some one who was +passing. A question of Mr. Channing’s called it in again. + +“Why has he gone back to Galloway’s?” + +Hamish laughed. “Roland Yorke took an impromptu departure one fine +morning, for Port Natal, leaving the office and Mr. Galloway to do +the best they could with each other. Arthur buried his grievances and +offered himself to Mr. Galloway in the emergency. I am not quite sure +that I should have been so forgiving.” + +“Hamish! He has nothing to forgive Mr. Galloway. It is on the other +side.” + +“I am uncharitable, I suppose,” remarked Hamish. “I cannot like Mr. +Galloway’s treatment of Arthur.” + +“But what is it you say about Roland Yorke and Port Natal?” interposed +Mrs. Channing. “I do not understand.” + +“Roland is really gone, mother. He has been in London these ten days, +and it is expected that every post will bring news that he has sailed. +Roland has picked up a notion somewhere that Port Natal is an enchanted +land, converting poor men into rich ones; and he is going to try what it +will do for him, Lord Carrick fitting him out. Poor Jenkins is sinking +fast.” + +“Changes! changes!” remarked Mr. Channing. “Go away only for two or +three months, and you must find them on return. Some gone; some dying; +some--” + +“Some restored, who were looked upon as incurable,” interrupted Hamish. +“My dear father, I will not have you dwell on dark things the very +moment of your arrival; the time for that will come soon enough.” + +Judy nearly betrayed all; and Constance’s aspect might have betrayed it, +had the travellers been suspicious. She, Constance, came forward in the +hall, white and trembling. When Mrs. Channing shook hands with Judy, +she put an unfortunate question--“Have you taken good care of your boy?” + Judy knew it could only allude to Charles, and for answer there went +up a sound, between a cry and a sob, that might have been heard in the +far-off college schoolroom. Hamish took Judy by the shoulders, bidding +her go out and see whether any rattletraps were left in the fly, and so +turned it off. + +They were all together in the sitting-room--Mr. and Mrs. Channing, +Hamish, Constance, Arthur, and Annabel; united, happy, as friends are +and must be when meeting after a separation; talking of this and of +that, giving notes of what had occurred on either side. Hamish showed +himself as busy as the rest; but Hamish felt all the while upon a bed of +thorns, for the hands of the timepiece were veering on for five, and +he must get the communication over before Tom came in. At length +Mrs. Channing went up to her room, accompanied by Constance; Annabel +followed. And now came Hamish’s opportunity. Arthur had gone back to +Mr. Galloway’s, and he was alone with his father. He plunged into it at +once; indeed, there was no time for delay. + +“Father!” he exclaimed, with deep feeling, his careless manner changing +as by magic: “I have very grievous news to impart to you. I would not +enter upon it before my mother: though she must be told of it also, and +at once.” + +Mr. Channing was surprised; more surprised than alarmed. He never +remembered to have seen Hamish betray so much emotion. A thought crossed +his mind that Arthur’s guilt might have been brought clearly to light. + +“Not that,” said Hamish. “It concerns--Father, I do not like to enter +upon it! I shrink from my task. It is very bad news indeed.” + +“You, my children, are all well,” cried Mr. Channing, hastily speaking +the words as a fact, not as a question. “What other ‘very bad’ news can +be in store for me?” + +“You have not seen us all,” was Hamish’s answer. And Mr. Channing, +alarmed, now looked inquiringly at him. “It concerns Charles. An--an +accident has happened to him.” + +Mr. Channing sat down and shaded his eyes. He was a moment or two before +he spoke. “One word, Hamish; is he dead?” + +Hamish stood before his father and laid his hand affectionately upon his +shoulder. “Father, I _wish_ I could have prepared you better for it!” he +exclaimed, with emotion. “We do not know whether he is dead or alive.” + +Then he explained--explained more in summary than in detail--touching +lightly upon the worst features of the case, enlarging upon his own +hopeful view of it. Bad enough it was, at the best, and Mr. Channing +found it so. _He_ could feel no hope. In the revulsion of grief, he +turned almost with resentment upon Hamish. + +“My son, I did not expect this treatment from you.” + +“I have taken enough blame to myself; I know he was left in my charge,” + sadly replied Hamish; “but, indeed, I do not see how I could have helped +it. Although I was in the room when he ran out of it, I was buried in my +own thoughts, and never observed his going. I had no suspicion anything +was astir that night with the college boys. Father, I would have saved +his life with my own!” + +“I am not blaming you for the fact, Hamish; blame is not due to you. Had +I been at home myself, I might no more have stopped his going out than +you did. But you ought to have informed me of this instantly. A whole +month, and I to be left in ignorance!” + +“We did it for the best. Father, I assure you that not a stone has been +left unturned to find him; alive, or--or dead. You could not have done +more had you hastened home; and it has been so much suspense and grief +spared to you.” + +Mr. Channing relapsed into silence. Hamish glanced uneasily to that +ever-advancing clock. Presently he spoke. + +“My mother must be told before Tom comes home. It will be better that +you take the task upon yourself, father. Shall I send her in?” + +Mr. Channing looked at Hamish, as if he scarcely understood the meaning +of the words. From Hamish he looked to the clock. “Ay; go and send her.” + +Hamish went to his mother’s room, and returned with her. But he did not +enter. He merely opened the door, and shut her in. Constance, with a +face more frightened than ever, came and stood in the hall. Annabel +stood there also. Judy, wringing her hands, and sending off short +ejaculations in an undertone, came to join them, and Sarah stood peeping +out from the kitchen door. They remained gazing at the parlour door, +dreading the effect of the communication that was going on inside. + +“If it had been that great big Tom, it wouldn’t matter so much,” wailed +Judith, in a tone of resentment. “The missis would know that _he’d_ be +safe to turn up, some time or other; a strong fellow like him!” + +A sharp cry within the room. The door was flung open, and Mrs. Channing +came forth, her face pale, her hands lifted. “It cannot be true! It +cannot be! Hamish! Judith! Where is he?” + +Hamish folded her hands in his, and gently drew her in again. They all +followed. No reason why they should not, now that the communication was +made. Almost at the same moment, Mr. Huntley arrived. + +Of course, the first thought that had occurred to the minds of Mr. and +Mrs. Channing was, that had _they_ been at home to direct affairs in +the search, Charley would have been found. It is the thought that would +occur to us all: we never give others credit for doing as much as we +should have done. “This might have been tried, and the other might have +been tried.” It makes little difference when told that they _have_ been +tried; for then we fall back upon some other suggestion. Mrs. Channing +reproached Hamish with keeping it from them. + +“My dear lady, you must blame me, not him,” interposed Mr. Huntley. +“Left to himself, Hamish would have started Arthur off to you, post +haste. It was I who suggested the desirability of keeping you in +ignorance; it was I who brought Hamish to see it: and I know that, when +the brunt of your grief shall have passed, you will acknowledge that it +was the best, the wisest, and the kindest course.” + +“But there are so many things that we could have suggested; that perhaps +none but a father or mother would think of!” urged Mrs. Channing, +lifting her yearning face. They wished they could see her weep. + +“You could have suggested nothing that has not been done,” returned +Mr. Huntley. “Believe me, dear Mrs. Channing! We have had many good +counsellors. Butterby has conducted the search.” + +Mr. Channing turned to them. He was standing at the far window. “I +should like to see Butterby.” + +“He will be here in an hour’s time,” said Hamish. “I knew you would wish +to see him, and I requested him to come.” + +“The worst feature of the whole,” put in Judith, with as much acrimony +as ever was displayed by Mr. Ketch, “is that them boys should not have +got their deserts. They have not as much as had a birching; and I say +that the college masters ought to be hooted. I’d ‘ghost’ ‘em!” + +“The punishment lies in abeyance for the present,” explained Hamish. +“A different punishment from any the head-master could inflict will be +required, should--should--” Hamish stopped. He did not like to say, in +the presence of his mother, “should the body be found.” “Some of them +are suffering pretty well, as it is,” he continued, after a brief pause. +“Master Bill Simms lay in bed for a week with fright, and they were +obliged to have Mr. Hurst to him. Report goes, that Hurst soundly +flogged his son, by way of commencing his share.” + +A pushing open of the outer door, a bang, and hasty footsteps in the +hall. Tom had arrived. Tom, with his sparkling eyes, his glowing face. +They sparkled for his father only in that first moment; his father, who +turned and _walked_ to meet him. + +“Oh, papa! What baths those must be!” cried honest Tom. “If ever I get +rich, I’ll go over there and make them a present of a thousand pounds. +To think that nothing else should have cured you!” + +“I think something else must have had a hand in curing me, Tom.” + +Tom looked up inquiringly. “Ah, papa! You mean God.” + +“Yes, my boy. God has cured me. The baths were only instruments in His +hands.” + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. -- “THE SHIP’S DROWNED.” + +Rejecting all offers of refreshment--the meal which Constance had +planned, and Judith prepared, both with so much loving care--Mr. +Channing resolved to seek out Butterby at once. In his state of +suspense, he could neither wait, nor eat, nor remain still; it would be +a satisfaction only to see Butterby, and hear his opinion. + +Mr. Huntley accompanied him; scarcely less proud than Hamish would have +been, to walk once more arm in arm with Mr. Channing. But, as there is +not the least necessity for our going to the police-station, for Mr. +Butterby could tell us no more than we already know; we will pay a short +visit to Mr. Stephen Bywater. + +That gentleman stood in the cloisters, into which he had seduced old +Jenkins, the bedesman, having waited for the twilight hour, that he +might make sure no one else would be there. Ever since the last day you +saw old Jenkins in the cathedral, he had been laid up in his house, with +a touch of what he called his “rheumatiz.” Decrepit old fellows were all +the bedesmen, monopolizing enough “rheumatiz” between them for half the +city. If one was not laid up, another would be, especially in winter. +However, old Jenkins had come out again to-day, to the gratification of +Mr. Bywater, who had been wanting him. The cloisters were all but dark, +and Mr. Ketch must undoubtedly be most agreeably engaged, or he would +have shut up before. + +“Now then, old Jenkins!” Bywater was saying. “You show me the exact +spot, and I’ll give you sixpence for smoke.” + +Old Jenkins hobbled to one of the mullioned windows near to the college +entrance, and looked over into the dim graveyard. “‘Twas about four or +five yards off here,” said he. + +“But I want to know the precise spot,” returned Bywater. “Get over, and +show me!” + +The words made old Jenkins laugh. “Law, sir! me get over there! You +might as well ask me to get over the college. How am I to do it?” + +“I’ll hoist you up,” said Bywater. + +“No, no,” answered the man. “My old bones be past hoisting now. I should +never get back alive, once I were propelled over into that graveyard.” + +Bywater felt considerably discomfited. “What a weak rat you must be, old +Jenkins! Why, it’s nothing!” + +“I know it ain’t--for you college gents. ‘Twouldn’t have been much for +me when I was your age. Skin and clothes weren’t of much account to me, +then.” + +“Oh, it’s that, is it?” returned Bywater, contemptuously. “Look here, +old Jenkins! if your things come to grief, I’ll get my uncle to look you +out some of his old ones. I’ll give you sixpence for baccy, I say!” + +The old bedesman shook his head. “If you give me a waggin load of baccy, +I couldn’t get over there. You might just as good put a babby in arms on +the ground, and tell it to walk!” + +“Here! get out of the way for an old muff!” was Bywater’s rejoinder; +and in a second he had mounted the window-frame, and dropped into the +burial-ground. “Now then, old Jenkins, I’ll go about and you call out +when I come to the right spot.” + +By these means, Bywater arrived at a solution of the question, where the +broken phial was found; old Jenkins pointing out the spot, to the best +of his ability. Bywater then vaulted back again, and alighted safe and +sound in the cloisters. Old Jenkins asked for his sixpence. + +“Why, you did not earn it!” said Bywater. “You wouldn’t get over!” + +“A sixpence is always useful to me,” said the old man; “and some of you +gents has ‘em in plenty. I ain’t paid much; and Joe, he don’t give me +much. ‘Tain’t him; he’d give away his head, and always would--it’s her. +Precious close she is with the money, though she earns a sight of it, +I know, at that shop of her’n, and keeps Joe like a king. Wine, and all +the rest of it, she’s got for him, since he was ill. ‘There’s a knife +and fork for ye, whenever ye like to come,’ she says to me, in her tart +way. But deuce a bit of money will she give. If it weren’t for one and +another friend giving me an odd sixpence now and then, Master Bywater, I +should never hardly get any baccy!” + +“There; don’t bother!” said Bywater, dropping the coin into his hand. + +“Why, bless my heart, who’s this, a prowling in the cloisters at this +hour?” exclaimed a well-known cracked voice, advancing upon them with +shuffling footsteps. “What do you do here, pray?” + +“You would like to know, wouldn’t you, Mr. Calcraft?” said Bywater. +“Studying architecture. There!” + +Old Ketch gave a yell of impotent rage, and Bywater decamped, as fast as +his legs would carry him, through the west door. + +Arrived at his home, or rather his uncle’s, where he lived--for +Bywater’s paternal home was in a far-away place, over the sea--he went +straight up to his own room, where he struck a match, and lighted a +candle. Then he unlocked a sort of bureau, and took from it the phial +found by old Jenkins, and a smaller piece which exactly fitted into the +part broken. He had fitted them in ten times before, but it appeared to +afford him satisfaction, and he now sat down and fitted them again. + +“Yes,” soliloquized he, as he nursed one of his legs--his favourite +attitude--“it’s as sure as eggs. And I’d have had it out before, if that +helpless old muff of a Jenkins had been forthcoming. I knew it was safe +to be somewhere near the college gates; but it was as well to ask.” + +He turned the phial over and over between his eye and the candle, and +resumed; + +“And now I’ll give Mr. Ger a last chance. I told him the other day that +if he’d only speak up like a man to me, and say it was an accident, I’d +drop it for good. But he won’t. And find it out, I will. I have said I +would from the first, just for my own satisfaction: and if I break my +word, may they tar and feather me! Ger will only have himself to thank; +if he won’t satisfy me in private, I’ll bring it against him in public. +I suspected Mr. Ger before; not but that I suspected another; but since +Charley Channing----Oh! bother, though! I don’t want to get thinking of +_him_!” + +Bywater locked up his treasures, and descended to his tea. That over, +he had enough lessons to occupy him for a few hours, and keep him out of +mischief. + +Meanwhile Mr. Channing’s interview with the renowned Mr. Butterby had +brought forth nothing, and he was walking back home with Mr. Huntley. +Mr. Huntley strove to lead his friend’s thoughts into a different +channel: it seemed quite a mockery to endeavour to whisper hope for +Charley. + +“You will resume your own place in Guild Street at once?” he observed. + +“To-morrow, please God.” + +They walked a few steps further in silence; and then Mr. Channing +entered upon the very subject which Mr. Huntley was hoping he would not +enter upon. “I remember, you spoke, at Borcette, of having something in +view for Hamish, should I be able to attend to business again. What is +it?” + +“I did,” said Mr. Huntley; “and I am sorry that I did. I spoke +prematurely.” + +“I suppose it is gone?” + +“Well--no; it is not gone,” replied Mr. Huntley, who was above +equivocation. “I do not think Hamish would suit the place.” + +Mr. Channing felt a little surprised. There were few places that Hamish +might not suit, if he chose to exercise his talents. “You thought he +would suit then?” he remarked. + +“But circumstances have since induced me to alter my opinion,” said Mr. +Huntley. “My friend,” he more warmly added to Mr. Channing, “you will +oblige me by allowing the subject to drop. I candidly confess to you +that I am not so pleased with Hamish as I once was, and I would rather +not interfere in placing him elsewhere.” + +“How has he offended you? What has he done?” + +“Nay, that is all I will say. I could not help giving you a hint, to +account for what you might have thought caprice. Hamish has not pleased +me, and I cannot take him by the hand. There, let it rest.” + +Mr. Channing was content to let it rest. In his inmost heart he +entertained no doubt that the cause of offence was in some way connected +with Mr. Huntley’s daughter. Hamish was poor: Ellen would be rich; +therefore it was only natural that Mr. Huntley should consider him an +ineligible _parti_ for her. Mr. Channing did not quite see what that had +to do with the present question; but he could not, in delicacy, urge it +further. + +They found quite a levee when they entered: the Reverend Mr. Pye, Mr. +Galloway--who had called in with Arthur upon leaving the office for the +night--and William Yorke. All were anxious to welcome and congratulate +Mr. Channing; and all were willing to tender a word of sympathy +respecting Charles. Possibly Mr. Yorke had also another motive: if so, +we shall come to it in due time. + +Mr. Pye stayed only a few minutes. He did not say a word about the +seniorship, neither did Mr. Channing to him. What, indeed, could either +of them say? The subject was unpleasant on both sides; therefore it was +best avoided. Tom, however, thought differently. + +“Papa!” he exclaimed, plunging into it the moment Mr. Pye’s back was +turned, “you might have taken the opportunity to tell him that I shall +leave the school. It is not often he comes here.” + +“But you are not going to leave the school,” said Mr. Channing. + +“Yes, I am,” replied Tom, speaking with unmistakable firmness. “Hamish +made me stay on, until you came home; and I don’t know how I have done +it. It is of no use, papa! I cannot put up with the treatment--the +insults I receive. It was bad enough to lose the seniorship, but that is +as nothing to the other. And to what end should I stop, when my chance +of the exhibition is gone?” + +“It is not gone, Tom. Mr. Huntley--as word was written to me at +Borcette--has declined it for his son.” + +“It is not the less gone for me, papa. Let me merit it as I will, I +shall not be allowed to receive it, any more than I did the seniorship. +I am out of favour, both with master and boys; and you know what that +means, in a public school. If you witnessed the way I am served by the +boys, you would be the first to say I must leave.” + +“What do they do?” asked Mr. Channing. + +“They do enough to provoke my life out of me,” said Tom, falling into a +little of his favourite heat. “Were it myself only that they attacked, +I might perhaps stop and brave it out; but it is not so. They go on +against Arthur in a way that would make a saint mad.” + +“Pooh, pooh!” interposed Mr. Galloway, who was standing by. “If I am +content to accept Arthur’s innocence, surely the college school may be.” + +Mr. Channing turned to the proctor. “Do you now believe him innocent?” + +“I say I am content to accept his innocence,” was the reply of Mr. +Galloway; and Arthur, who was within hearing, could only do as he had +had to do so many times before--school his spirit to patience. “Content +to accept,” and open exculpation, were essentially different things. + +“Let me speak with you a minute, Galloway,” said Mr. Channing, taking +the proctor’s arm and leading him across the hall to the drawing-room. +“Tom,” he added, looking back, “you shall tell me of these grievances +another time.” + +The drawing-room door closed upon them, and Mr. Channing spoke with +eagerness. “Is it possible that you still suspect Arthur to have been +guilty?” + +“Channing, I am fairly puzzled,” returned Mr. Galloway, “His own manner, +relating to it, has not changed, and that manner is not compatible with +innocence, You made the same remark yourself, at the time.” + +“But you have had the money returned to you, I understand.” + +“I know I have.” + +“Well, that surely is a proof that the thief could not have been +Arthur.” + +“Pardon me,” replied Mr. Galloway, “It may be a proof as much against +him as for him: it may have come from himself.” + +“Nay, where was Arthur to find twenty pounds to send to you?” + +“There are two ways in which he might find it. But”--Mr. Galloway broke +off abruptly--“I do not like to urge these things on you; they can only +inflict pain.” + +“Not greater pain than I have already undergone,” was Mr. Channing’s +answer. “Tell me, I pray you, all your thoughts--all you suspect: just +as though you were speaking to any indifferent friend. It is right that +I should know it. Yes, come in, Huntley,” Mr. Channing added, for Mr. +Huntley at that moment opened the door, unconscious that any private +conference was going forward. “I have no secrets from you. Come in. We +are talking of Arthur.” + +“I was observing that there are two means by which the money could have +come from Arthur,” resumed Mr. Galloway, when Mr. Huntley had entered. +“The one, by his never having used the note originally taken; the other, +by getting a friend to return it for him. Now, my opinion is, that he +did not pursue the first plan, I believe that, if he took the note, +he used it. I questioned him on the evening of its arrival, and at the +first moment his manner almost convinced me that he was innocent. He +appeared to be genuinely surprised at the return of the money, and +ingenuously confessed that he had not possessed any to send. But his +manner veered again--suddenly, strangely--veered round to all its old +unsatisfactory suspiciousness; and when I hinted that I should recall +Butterby to my counsels, he became agitated, as he had done formerly. My +firm belief,” Mr. Galloway added, laying his hand impressively upon Mr. +Channing--“my firm belief is, that Arthur did get the money sent back to +me through a friend.” + +“But what friend would be likely to do such a thing for him?” debated +Mr. Channing, not in the least falling in with the argument. “I know of +none.” + +“I think”--and Mr. Galloway dropped his voice--“that it came from +Hamish.” + +“From Hamish!” was Mr. Channing’s echo, in a strong accent of dissent. +“That is nonsense. Hamish would never screen guilt. Hamish has not +twenty pounds to spare.” + +“He might spare it in the cause of a brother; and for a brother’s sake +he might even screen guilt,” pursued Mr. Galloway. “Honourable and open +as Hamish is, I must still express my belief that the twenty pounds came +from him.” + +“Honourable and open as Hamish is!” the words grated on Mr. Huntley, and +a cynical expression rose to his face. Mr. Channing observed it. “What +do you think of it?” he involuntarily asked. + +“I have never had any other opinion but that the money did come from +Hamish,” drily remarked Mr. Huntley. And Mr. Channing, in his utter +astonishment, could not answer. + +“Hamish happened to call in at my office the afternoon that the money +was received,” resumed Mr. Galloway. “It was after I had spoken to +Arthur. I had been thinking it over, and came to the conclusion that +if it had come from Arthur, Hamish must have done it for him. In the +impulse of the moment, I put the question to him--Had he done it to +screen Arthur? And Hamish’s answer was a mocking one.” + +“A mocking one!” repeated Mr. Channing. “A mocking, careless answer; one +that vexed me, I know, at the time. The next day I told Arthur, point +blank, that I believed the money came from Hamish. I wish you could have +seen his flush of confusion! and, deny it, he did not. Altogether, my +impression against Arthur was rather confirmed, than the contrary, by +the receipt of the money; though I am truly grieved to have to say it.” + +“And _you_ think the same!” Mr. Channing exclaimed to Mr. Huntley. + +“Never mind what I think,” was the answer. “Beyond the one opinion I +expressed, I will not be drawn into the discussion. I did not intend to +say so much: it was a slip of the tongue.” + +Mr. Huntley was about to leave the room as he spoke, perhaps lest he +should make other “slips;” but Mr. Channing interposed and drew him +back. “Stay, Huntley,” he said, “we cannot rest in this uncertainty. +Oblige me by remaining one instant, while I call Hamish.” + +Hamish entered in obedience. He appeared somewhat surprised to see them +assembled in conclave, looking so solemn; but he supposed it related to +Charles. Mr. Channing undeceived him. + +“Hamish, we are speaking of Arthur. Both these gentlemen have expressed +a belief--” + +“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “I said that I should be +obliged if you would leave me out of the discussion.” + +“What does it signify?” returned Mr. Channing, his tone one of haste. +“Hamish, Mr. Galloway has expressed to me a belief that you have so far +taken part with Arthur in that unhappy affair, as to send back the money +to him.” + +“Oh, indeed!” said Hamish; and his manner was precisely what Mr. +Galloway had described it to have been at the time; light, mocking, +careless. “Mr. Galloway did me the honour to express something of the +same belief, I remember.” + +“Did you send it, Hamish?” asked his father, a severe look crossing his +face. + +“No, sir, I did not,” emphatically replied Hamish. And Mr. Huntley +turned and bent his keen eye upon him. In his heart of hearts he +believed it to be a deliberate falsehood. + +“I did not send the money, and I do not know who did send it,” went on +Hamish. “But, as we are upon the subject, perhaps I may be allowed to +express my opinion that, if there were as much labour taken to establish +Arthur’s innocence, as it seems to me there is to prove him guilty, he +might have been cleared long ago.” + +That the remark was aimed at Mr. Galloway, there was no doubt. Mr. +Huntley answered it; and, had they been suspicious, they might have +detected a covert meaning in his tone. + +“You, at any rate, must hold firm faith in his innocence.” + +“Firm and entire faith,” distinctly assented Hamish. “Father,” he added, +impulsively turning to Mr. Channing, “put all notion of Arthur’s guilt +from you, at once and for ever. I would answer for him with my life.” + +“Then he must be screening some one,” cried Mr. Galloway. “It is one +thing or the other. Hamish, it strikes me you know. Who is it?” + +A red flush mounted to Hamish’s brow, but he lapsed into his former +mocking tone. “Nay,” said he, “I can tell nothing about that.” + +He left the room as he spoke, and the conference broke up. It appeared +that no satisfactory solution could be come to, if they kept it on till +midnight. Mr. Galloway took leave, and hastened home to dinner. + +“I must be going also,” remarked Mr. Huntley. Nevertheless, he returned +with Mr. Channing to the other room. + +“You told me at Borcette that you were fully persuaded of Arthur’s +innocence; you were ready to ridicule me for casting a doubt upon it,” + Mr. Channing remarked to him in a low tone, as they crossed the hall. + +“I have never been otherwise than persuaded of it,” said Mr. Huntley. +“He is innocent as you, or as I.” + +“And yet you join Mr. Galloway in assuming that he and Hamish sent back +the money! The one assertion is incompatible with the other.” + +Mr. Huntley laid his hand upon Mr. Channing’s shoulder. “My dear friend, +all that you and I can do, is to let the matter rest. We should only +plunge into shoals and quicksands, and lose our way in them, were we to +pursue it.” + +They had halted at the parlour door to speak. Judith came bustling up at +that moment from the kitchen, a letter in her hand, looking as if in her +hurry she might have knocked them over, had they not made way for her to +enter. + +“Bad luck to my memory, then! It’s getting not worth a button. Here, +Master Arthur. The postman gave it me at the door, just as I had caught +sight of the fly turning the corner with the master and missis. I +slipped it into my pocket, and never thought of it till this minute.” + +“So! it has come at last, has it?” cried Arthur, recognising Roland +Yorke’s handwriting. + +“Is he really off?” inquired Tom. + +“Yes, he is really off,” replied Arthur, opening the letter and +beginning to glance over the contents. “He has sailed in the ship +_Africa_. Don’t talk to me, Tom. What a long letter!” + +They left him to read it in peace. Talking together--Mr. and Mrs. +Channing, Mr. Huntley, William Yorke, Hamish, Constance--all were in a +group round the fire, paying no attention to him. No attention, until an +exclamation caused them to turn. + +An exclamation half of distress, half of fear. Arthur had risen from +his chair, and stood, the picture of excitement, his face and lips +blanching. + +“What is the matter?” they exclaimed. + +“Roland--the ship--Roland”--and there Arthur stopped, apparently unable +to say more. + +“Oh, it’s drowned! it’s drowned!” cried quick Annabel. “The ship’s +drowned, and Roland with it!” And Arthur sank back in his chair again, +and covered his face with his hands. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LV. -- NEWS FROM ROLAND. + +You will like to look over Arthur’s shoulder, as he reads the letter +just received from Roland Yorke. + +“DEAR OLD CHUM,” + + “By the time you get this letter, I shall be ploughing the waves of the briny deep, in the ship _Africa_. You will get the letter on Wednesday night. That is, you ought to get it; for I have desired Carrick to post it accordingly, and I’m sure he’ll do it if he does not forget. And old Galloway will get a letter at the same time, and Lady Augusta will get one. _I_ shall have been off more than twenty-four hours, for we leave Gravesend on Tuesday at noon. Carrick has behaved like a trump. He has bought me all the things I asked him, and paid my passage-money, and given me fifty pounds in my pocket to land with; so I am safe to get on. The only thing he stood out about was the frying-pans. He couldn’t see of what use they’d be, he said. So we made a compromise, and I am taking out only four-and-twenty, instead of the forty dozen that I had thought of. I could not find Bagshaw’s list, and the frying-pans are about all I am taking, in the shape of utensils, except a large tool-chest, which they palmed off upon Carrick, for it was as dear as fire’s hot.” + +“I dare say you have been vowing vengeance upon me, for not coming round +to see you before I started; but I stopped away on purpose, for I might +have let out something that I did not care to let out then; and that’s +what I am writing for.” + +“Old fellow, I have been fit to kill myself. All that bother that they +laid upon you about the bank-note ought to have fallen upon me, for it +was I who took it. There! the confession’s made. And now explode at me +for ten minutes, with all your energy and wrath, before you read on. It +will be a relief to your feelings and to mine. Perhaps if you’d go out +of the way to swear a bit, it mightn’t be amiss.” + +It was at this juncture that Arthur had started up so wildly, causing +Annabel to exclaim that the “ship was drowned.” In his access of +bewilderment, the first shadowy thought that overpowered him was a +dreadful feeling of grief, for Roland’s sake. He had liked Roland; with +all his faults, he had liked him much; and it was as if some cherished +statue had fallen, and been dashed to pieces. Wild, joyful beatings +of relief, that Hamish was innocent, were mingling with it, thumping +against his heart, soon to exclude all else and fill it to bursting. But +as yet this was indistinct; and the first clear idea that came to him +was--Was Roland telling truth, or was he only playing a joke upon him? +Arthur read on. + +“I was awfully hard up for money. I was worse than Hamish, and he was +pretty hard up then; though he seems to have staved off the fellows +since--he best knows how. I told him one day I should like to borrow +the receipt, and he laughed and said he’d give it to me with all the +pleasure in life if it were transferable. Ask him if he remembers saying +it. When Galloway was sending the money that day to the cousin Galloway, +I thought what a shame it was, as I watched him slip the bank-note into +the letter. That cousin Galloway was always having money sent him, and +I wished Galloway would give it me instead. Then came that row with Mad +Nance; and as you and Galloway turned to see what was up, I just pulled +open the envelope, that instant wet and stuck down, took out the money, +pressed the gum down again, and came and stood at your back, at the +window, leaning out. It did not take me half a minute; and the money +was in my pocket, and the letter was empty! But now, look here!--I never +meant to steal the note. I am not a Newgate thief, yet. I was in an +uncommon fix just then, over a certain affair; and if I could not stop +the fellow’s mouth, there’d have been the dickens to pay. So I took the +money for _that_ stop-gap, never intending to do otherwise than replace +it in Galloway’s desk as soon as I could get it. I knew I should be +having some from Lord Carrick. It was all Lady Augusta’s fault. She had +turned crusty, and would not help me. I stopped out all that afternoon +with Knivett, if you remember, and that placed me beyond suspicion when +the stir came, though it was not for that reason I stayed, for I never +had a thought that the row would fall upon us in the office. I supposed +the loss would be set down to the letter-carriers--as of course it ought +to have been. I stayed out, the bank-note burning a hole all the while +in my waistcoat pocket, and sundry qualms coming over me whether I +should not put it back again. I began to wonder how I could get rid of +it safely, not knowing but that Galloway might have the number, and I +think I should have put it back, what with that doubt and my twitchings +of conscience, but for a thing that happened. After I parted with +Knivett, I ran home for something I wanted, and Lady Augusta heard me +and called me into her bedroom. ‘Roland,’ said she, ‘I want you to get +me a twenty-pound note from the bank; I have occasion to send one to +Ireland.’ Now, Arthur, I ask you, was ever such encouragement given to +a fellow in wrong-doing? Of course, my note, that is, Galloway’s note, +went to Ireland, and a joyful riddance it seemed; as thoroughly _gone_ +as if I had despatched it to the North Pole. Lady Augusta handed me +twenty sovereigns, and I made believe to go to the bank and exchange +them for a note. She put it into a letter, and I took it to the +post-office at once. No wonder you grumbled at my being away so long!” + +“Next came the row. And when I found that suspicion fell upon _you_, I +was nearly mad. If I had not parted with the money, I should have gone +straight to Galloway and said, ‘Here it is; I took it.’ Not a soul stood +up for you as they ought! Even Mr. Channing fell into the suspicion, +and Hamish seemed indifferent and cool as a cucumber. I have never liked +Galloway since; and I long, to this day, to give Butterby a ducking. +How I kept my tongue from blurting out the truth, I don’t know: but +a gentleman born does not like to own himself a thief. It was the +publicity given to it that kept me silent; and I hope old Galloway and +Butterby will have horrid dreams for a week to come, now they know the +truth! I was boiling over always. I don’t know how I managed to live +through it; and that soft calf of a Jenkins was always defending +Galloway when I flew out about him. Nobody could do more than I did to +throw the blame upon the post-office--and it was the most likely thing +in the world for the post-office to have done?--but the more I talked, +the more old Galloway brought up that rubbish about his ‘seals!’ I hope +he’ll have horrid dreams for a month to come! I’d have prosecuted the +post-office if I had had the cash to do it with, and that might have +turned him.” + +“Well, old chap, it went on and on--you lying under the cloud, and I +mad with every one. I could do nothing to clear you (unless I had +confessed), except sending back the money to Galloway’s, with a letter +to say you did not do it. It was upon my mind night and day. I was +always planning how to accomplish it; but for some time I could not find +the money. When Carrick came to Helstonleigh he was short himself, and +I had to wait. I told him I was in an awful mess for the want of twenty +pounds. And that was true in more senses than one, for I did not know +where to turn to for money for my own uses. At last Carrick gave it +me--he had given me a trifle or two before, of five pounds or so, of no +use--and then I had to wait an opportunity of sending it to London to be +posted. Carrick’s departure afforded that. I wrote the note to Galloway +with my _left_ hand, in print sort of letters, put the money into +it, and Carrick promised to post it in London. I told him it was a +_Valentine_ to old Galloway, flattering him on his youthful curls, +and Carrick laughed till he was hoarse, at the notion. Deuce take his +memory! he had been pretty nearly a week in London before he thought of +the letter, and then putting his hand into his pocket he found it. I had +given it up by that time, and thought no one in the world ever had such +luck as I. At last it came; and all I can say is, I wish the post-office +had taken that, before it ever did come. Of all the crying shames, that +was the worst! The old carp got the money, and _yet_ would not clear +you! I shall never forgive Galloway for that! and when I come back from +Port Natal, rolling in wealth, I’ll not look at him when I pass him in +the street, which will cork him uncommonly, and I don’t care if you tell +him so. Had I wavered about Port Natal before, that would have decided +me. Clear you I would, and I saw there was no way to do it but +by telling the truth, which I did not care to do while I was in +Helstonleigh. And now I am off, and you know the truth, and Galloway +knows it, for he’ll have his letter when you have yours (and I hope it +will be a pill for him), and all Helstonleigh will know it, and you are +cleared, dear old Arthur!” + +“The first person that I shall lavish a little of my wealth upon, when +I return, will be poor Jenkins, if he should be still in the land of +the living. We all know that he has as much in him as a gander, and lets +that adorable Mrs. J. (I wish you could have seen her turban the morning +I took leave!) be mistress and master, but he has done me many a good +turn: and, what’s more, he _stood up for you_. When Galloway, Butterby, +and Co. were on at it, discussing proofs against you, Jenkins’s humble +voice would be heard, ‘I am sure, gentlemen, Mr. Arthur never did it!’ +Many a time I could have hugged him! and he shall have some of my good +luck when I reach home. You shall have it too, Arthur! I shall never +make a friend to care for half as much as I care for you, and I wish you +would have been persuaded to come out with me and make your fortune; but +as you would not, you shall share mine. Mind! I should have cleared you +just the same, if you had come.” + +“And that’s all I have to tell. And now you see why I did not care to +say ‘Good-bye,’ for I don’t think I could have said it without telling +all. Remember me to the folks at your house, and I hope Mr. Channing +will come home stunning. I shall look to you for all the news, mind! If +a great wind blows the cathedral down, or a fire burns the town up, it’s +you who must write it; no one else will. Direct to me--Post-office, Port +Natal, until I send you an address, which I shall do the first thing. +Have you any news of Charley?” + +“I had almost forgotten that bright kinsman of mine, the chaplain of +Hazledon. Pray present my affectionate compliments to him, and say he +has not the least idea how very much I revere him. I should like to see +his face when he finds it was I who was the delinquent. Constance can +turn the tables on him now. But if she ever forgives him, she’ll deserve +to be as henpecked as Jenkins is; and tell her I say so.” + +“I meant to have told you about a spree I have had since I came to +London, but there’s no room, so I’ll conclude sentimentally, as a lady +does,” + +“Yours for ever and ever,” + +“ROLAND YORKE.” + +You must not think that Arthur Channing read this letter deliberately, +as you have been able to read it. He had only skimmed it--skimmed it +with straining eye and burning brow; taking in its general sense, its +various points; but of its words, none. In his overpowering emotion--his +perplexed confusion--he started up with wild words: “Oh, father! he is +innocent! Constance, he is innocent! Hamish, Hamish! forgive--forgive +me! I have been wicked enough to believe you guilty all this time!” + +To say that they stared at him--to say that they did not understand +him--would be weak words to express the surprise that fell upon them, +and seemed to strike them dumb. Arthur kept on reiterating the words, as +if he could not sufficiently relieve his overburdened heart. + +“Hamish never did it! Constance, we might have known it. Constance, what +could so have blinded our reason? He has been innocent all this time.” + +Mr. Huntley was the first to find his tongue. “Innocent of what?” asked +he. “What news have you received there?” pointing to the letter. + +“It is from Roland Yorke. He says”--Arthur hesitated, and lowered his +voice--“that bank-note lost by Mr. Galloway--” + +“Well?” they uttered, pressing round him. + +“It was Roland who took it!” + +Then arose a Babel of voices: questions to Arthur, references to the +letter, and explanations. Mr. Channing, amidst his deep thankfulness, +gathered Arthur to him with a fond gesture. “My boy, there has been +continual conflict waging in my heart,” he said; “appearances _versus_ +my better judgment. But for your own doubtful manner, I should have +spurned the thought that you were guilty. Why did you not speak out +boldly?” + +“Father, how could I--believing that it was Hamish? Hamish, dear Hamish, +say you forgive me!” + +Hamish was the only one who had retained calmness. Remarkably cool +was he. He gazed upon them with the most imperturbable +self-possession--rather inclined to be amused than otherwise. “Suspect +me!” cried he, raising his eyebrows. + +“We did, indeed!” + +“_Bien obligé_,” responded Mr. Hamish. “Perhaps _you_ shared the honour +of the doubt?” he mockingly added, turning to Mr. Huntley. + +“I did,” replied that gentleman. “Ellen did not,” he added, losing +his seriousness in a half laugh. “Miss Ellen and I have been at +daggers-drawn upon the point.” + +Hamish actually blushed like a schoolgirl. “Ellen knows me better,” was +all he said, speaking very quietly. “I should have thought some of the +rest of you had known me better, also.” + +“Hamish,” said Mr. Huntley, “I think we were all in for a host of +blunders.” + +Mr. Channing had listened in surprise, Mrs. Channing in indignation. Her +brave, good Hamish! her best and dearest! + +“I cannot see how it was possible to suspect Hamish,” observed Mr. +Channing. + +But, before any more could be said, they were interrupted by Mr. +Galloway, an open letter in his hand. “Here’s a pretty repast for a +man!” he exclaimed. “I go home, expecting to dine in peace, and I find +this pill upon my plate!” Pill was the very word Roland had used. + +They understood, naturally, what the pill was. Especially Arthur, who +had been told by Roland himself, that he was writing to Mr. Galloway. +“You see, sir,” said Arthur with a bright smile, “that I was innocent.” + +“I do see it,” replied Mr. Galloway, laying his hand on Arthur’s +shoulder. “Why could you not speak openly to my face and tell me so?” + +“Because--I am ashamed, sir, now to confess why. We were all at +cross-purposes together, it seems.” + +“He suspected that it was all in the family, Mr. Galloway,” cried +Hamish, in his gay good humour. “It appears that he laid the charge of +that little affair to _me_.” + +“Nonsense!” said Mr. Galloway. + +“We both did,” exclaimed Constance, coming forward with tears in her +eyes. “Do you think that the mere fact of suspicion being cast upon +him, publicly though it was made, could have rendered us as cowardly +miserable as it did? Hamish, how shall we atone to you?” + +“The question is, how shall I atone to you, my old friend, for the wrong +done your son?” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, seizing Mr. Channing’s hand. +“Arthur, you and I shall have accounts to make up together.” + +“If reparation for unjust suspicion is to be the order of the day, I +think I ought to have some of it,” said laughing Hamish, with a glance +at Mr. Huntley. + +A sudden thought seemed to strike Mr. Channing. “Huntley,” he +impulsively cried, “was this the cause of displeasure that you hinted +had been given you by Hamish?” + +“That, and nothing else,” was Mr. Huntley’s answer. “I suppose I must +take him into favour again--‘make reparation,’ as he says.” + +A saucy smile crossed the lips of Hamish. It as good as said, “I know +who will, if you don’t.” But Mr. Galloway was interrupting. + +“The most extraordinary thing of the whole is,” he observed, with +unwonted emphasis, “that we never suspected Roland Yorke, knowing him as +we did know him. It will be a caution to me as long as I live, never +to go again by appearances. Careless, thoughtless, impulsive, +conscienceless Roland Yorke! Of course! Who else would have been likely +to help themselves to it? I wonder what scales were before our eyes?” + +Mr. Channing turned to his son Tom, who had been seated astride on the +arm of a sofa, in a glow of astonishment, now succeeded by satisfaction. +“Tom, my boy! There’ll be no particular hurry for leaving the college +school, will there?” + +Tom slid off his perch and went straight up to Arthur. “Arthur, I beg +your pardon heartily for the harsh words and thoughts I may have given +you. I was just a fool, or I should have known you could not be guilty. +Were you screening Roland Yorke?” + +“No,” said Arthur, “I never suspected him for a moment. As to any +one’s begging _my_ pardon, I have most cause to do that, for suspecting +Hamish. You’ll be all right now, Tom.” + +But now, in the midst of this demonstration from all sides, I will leave +you to judge what were the feelings of that reverend divine, William +Yorke. You may remember that he was present. He had gone to Mr. +Channing’s house ostensibly to welcome Mr. Channing home and +congratulate him on his restoration. Glad, in truth, was he to possess +the opportunity to do that; but Mr. Yorke’s visit also included a +purpose less disinterested. Repulsed by Constance in the two or three +appeals he had made to her, he had impatiently awaited the return of Mr. +Channing, to solicit his influence. Remembering the past, listening to +this explanation of the present, you may imagine, if you can, what his +sensations must have been. He, who had held up his head, in his haughty +Yorke spirit, ready to spurn Arthur for the suspicion cast upon him, +ready to believe that he was guilty, resenting it upon Constance, had +now to stand and learn that the guilt lay in his family, not in theirs. +No wonder that he stood silent, grave, his lips drawn in to sternness. + +Mr. Galloway soon departed again. He had left his dinner untouched upon +his table. Mr. Huntley took the occasion to leave with him; and, in +the earnestness of discussion, they all went out with them to the hall, +except Constance. This was Mr. Yorke’s opportunity. His arms folded, his +pale cheek flushed to pain, he moved before her, and stood there, drawn +to his full height, speaking hoarsely. + +“Constance, will it be possible for you to forgive me?” + +What a fine field it presented for her to play the heroine! To go into +fierce declamations that she never could, and never would forgive him, +but would hold herself aloof from him for ever and a day, condemning him +to bachelorhood! Unfortunately for these pages, Constance Channing had +nothing of the heroine in her composition. She was only one of those +simple, truthful, natural English girls, whom I hope you often meet in +your every-day life. She smiled at William Yorke through her glistening +eye-lashes, and drew closer to him. Did he take the hint? He took _her_; +took her to that manly breast that would henceforth be her shelter for +ever. + +“Heaven knows how I will strive to atone to you, my darling.” + +It was a happy evening, chequered, though it necessarily must be, with +thoughts of Charles. And Mr. Channing, in the midst of his deep grief +and perplexity, thanked God for His great mercy in restoring the +suspected to freedom. “My boy!” he exclaimed to Arthur, “how bravely you +have borne it all!” + +“Not always very bravely,” said Arthur, shaking his head. “There were +times when I inwardly rebelled.” + +“It could not have been done without one thing,” resumed Mr. Channing: +“firm trust in God.” + +Arthur’s cheek kindled. That had ever been present with him. “When +things would wear their darkest aspect, I used to say to myself, +‘Patience and hope; and trust in God!’ But I never anticipated this +bright ending,” he added. “I never thought that I and Hamish should both +be cleared.” + +“I cannot conceive how you could have suspected Hamish!” Mr. Channing +repeated, after a pause. Of all the wonders, that fact seemed to have +taken most hold of his mind. + +Arthur made a slight answer, but did not pursue the topic. There were +circumstances connected with it, regarding Hamish, not yet explained. He +could not speak of them to Mr. Channing. + +Neither were they to be explained, as it seemed to Arthur. At any rate, +not at present. When they retired to rest, Hamish came into his room; as +he had done that former night, months ago, when suspicion had just +been thrown upon Arthur. They went up together, and Hamish, instead +of turning into his own room, followed Arthur to his. He set down the +candle on the table, and turned to Arthur with his frank smile. + +“How is it that we can have been playing at these cross-purposes, +Arthur? Why did you not tell me at the time that you were innocent?” + +“I think I did tell you so, Hamish: if my memory serves me rightly.” + +“Well, I am not sure; it may have been so; but in a very undemonstrative +sort of manner, if you did at all. That sort of manner from you, Arthur, +would only create perplexity.” + +Arthur smiled. “Don’t you see? believing that you had taken it, I +thought you must know whether I was innocent or guilty. And, for your +sake, I did not dare to defend myself to others. Had only a breath of +suspicion fallen upon you, Hamish, it might have cost my father his +post.” + +“What induced you to suspect me? Surely not the simple fact of being +alone for a few minutes with the letter in Galloway’s office?” + +“Not that. That alone would have been nothing; but, coupled with other +circumstances, it assumed a certain weight. Hamish, I will tell you. +Do you remember the trouble you were in at the time--owing money in the +town?” + +A smile parted Hamish’s lips; he seemed half inclined to make fun of the +reminiscence. “I remember it well enough. What of that?” + +“You contrived to pay those debts, or partially pay them, at the exact +time the note was taken; and we knew you had no money of your own to +do it with. We saw you also with gold in your purse--through +Annabel’s tricks, do you remember?--and we knew that it could not be +yours--legitimately yours, I mean.” + +Hamish’s smile turned into a laugh. “Stop a bit, Arthur. The money with +which I paid up, and the gold you saw, _was_ mine; legitimately mine. +Don’t speak so fast, old fellow.” + +“But where did it come from, Hamish?” + +“It did not come from Galloway’s office, and it did not drop from the +skies,” laughed Hamish. “Never mind where else it came from. Arthur boy, +I wish you had been candid, and had given me a hint of your suspicion.” + +“We were at cross purposes, as you observe,” repeated Arthur. “Once +plunge into them, and there’s no knowing when enlightenment will come; +perhaps never. But you were not very open with me.” + +“I was puzzled,” replied Hamish. “You may remember that my seeing a +crowd round the Guildhall, was the first intimation I received of the +matter. When they told me, in answer to my questions, that my brother, +Arthur Channing, was taken up on suspicion of stealing a bank-note, and +was then under examination, I should have laughed in their faces, but +for my inclination to knock them down. I went into that hall, Arthur, +trusting in your innocence as implicitly as I trusted in my own, boiling +over with indignation against all who had dared to accuse you, ready +to stand up for you against the world. I turned my eyes upon you as you +stood there, and your gaze met mine. Arthur, what made you look so? +I never saw guilt--or perhaps I would rather say shame, conscious +shame--shine out more palpably from any countenance than it did from +yours then. It startled me--it _cowed_ me; and, in that moment, I did +believe you guilty. Why did you look so?” + +“I looked so for your sake, Hamish. Your countenance betrayed your +dismay, and I read it for signs of your own guilt and shame. Not until +then did I fully believe you guilty. We were at cross-purposes, you see, +throughout the piece.” + +“Cross-purposes, indeed!” repeated Hamish. + +“Have you believed me guilty until now?” + +“No,” replied Hamish. “After a few days my infatuation wore off. It +was an infatuation, and nothing less, ever to have believed a Channing +guilty. I then took up another notion, and that I have continued to +entertain.” + +“What was it?” + +“That you were screening Roland Yorke.” + +Arthur lifted up his eyes to Hamish. + +“I did indeed. Roland’s excessive championship of you, his impetuous +agitation when others brought it up against you, first aroused my +suspicions that he himself must have been guilty; and I came to the +conclusion that you also had discovered his guilt, and were generously +screening him. I believed that you would not allow a stir be made in it +to clear yourself, lest it should bring it home to him. Cross purposes +again, you will say.” + +“Ah, yes. Not so much as an idea of suspecting Roland Yorke ever came +across me. All my fear was, that he, or any one, should suspect you.” + +Hamish laughed as he placed his hands upon Arthur’s shoulders. “The +best plan for the future will be, to have no secrets one from the other; +otherwise, it seems hard to say what labyrinths we may not get into. +What do you say, old fellow?” + +“You began the secrets first, Hamish.” + +“Did I? Well, let us thank Heaven that the worst are over.” + +Ay, thank Heaven! Most sincerely was Arthur Channing doing that. The +time to give thanks had come. + +Meanwhile Mr. Huntley had proceed home. He found Miss Huntley in the +stiffest and most uncompromising of moods; and no wonder, for Mr. +Huntley had kept dinner waiting, I am afraid to say how long. Harry, who +was to have dined with them that day, had eaten his, and flown off to +the town again, to keep some appointment with the college boys. Miss +Huntley now ate hers in dignified displeasure; but Mr. Huntley, sitting +opposite to her, appeared to be in one of his very happiest moods. Ellen +attributed it to the fact of Mr. Channing’s having returned home well. +She asked a hundred questions about them--of their journey, their +arrival--and Mr. Huntley never seemed tired of answering. + +Barely was the cloth removed, when Miss Huntley rose. Mr. Huntley +crossed the room to open the door for her, and bow her out. Although he +was her brother, she would never have forgiven him, had he omitted that +little mark of ceremony. Ellen was dutifully following. She could not +always brave her aunt. Mr. Huntley, however, gave Ellen a touch as she +was passing him, drew her back, and closed the door upon his sister. + +“Ellen, I have been obliged to take Mr. Hamish into favour again.” + +Ellen’s cheeks became glowing. She tried to find an answer, but none +came. + +“I find Hamish had nothing to do with the loss of the bank-note.” + +Then she found words. “Oh, papa, no! How could you ever have imagined +such a thing? You might have known the Channings better. They are above +suspicion.” + +“I did know them better at one time, or else you may be sure, young +lady, Mr. Hamish would not have been allowed to come here as he did. +However, it is cleared up; and I suppose you would like to tell me that +I was just a donkey for my pains.” + +Ellen shook her head and laughed. She would have liked to ask whether +Mr. Hamish was to be allowed to come again on the old familiar footing, +had she known how to frame the question. But it was quite beyond her +courage. + +“When I told him this evening that I had suspected him--” + +She clasped her hands and turned to Mr. Huntley, her rich colour going +and coming. “Papa, you _told_ him?” + +“Ay. And I was not the only one to suspect him, or to tell him. I can +assure you that, Miss Ellen.” + +“What did he say? How did he receive it?” + +“Told us he was much obliged to us all. I don’t think Hamish _could_ be +put out of temper.” + +“Then you do not dislike him now, papa?” she said, timidly. + +“I never have disliked him. When I believed what I did of him, I could +not dislike him even then, try as I would. There, you may go to your +aunt now.” + +And Ellen went, feeling that the earth and air around her had suddenly +become as Eden. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. -- THE BROKEN PHIAL. + +That broken phial, you have heard of, was burning a hole in Bywater’s +pocket, as Roland Yorke had said the bank-note did in his. He had been +undecided about complaining to the master; strangely so for Bywater. The +fact was, he had had a strong suspicion, from the very first, that the +boy who did the damage to the surplice was Pierce senior. At least, his +suspicions had been divided between that gentleman and Gerald Yorke. The +cause of suspicion against Pierce need not be entered into, since it was +misplaced. In point of fact, Mr. Pierce was, so far as that feat went, +both innocent and unconscious. But Bywater could not be sure that +he was, and he did not care to bring the accusation publicly against +Gerald, should he be innocent. + +You saw Bywater, a chapter or two back, fitting the broken pieces +together in his bedroom. On the following morning--it was also the +morning following the arrival of the important letter from Roland +Yorke--Bywater detained Gerald Yorke when the boys tore down the +schoolroom steps after early school. + +“I say, Yorke, I said I’d give you a last chance, and now I am doing +it,” he began. “If you’ll acknowledge the truth to me about that +surplice affair, I’ll let it drop. I will, upon my honour. I’ll never +say another word about it.” + +Gerald flew into a rage. “Now look you here, Mr. Bywater,” was his angry +retort. “You bother me again with that stale fish, and I’ll put you up +for punishment. It’s--” + +Gerald stopped. Tom Channing was passing close to them, and Mr. Gerald +had never cared to be heard, when talking about the surplice. At that +moment a group of boys, who were running out of the cloisters, the +opposite road to Tom Channing, turned round and hissed him, Tod Yorke +adding some complimentary remark about “stolen notes.” As usual, it was +a shaft launched at Arthur. Not as usual did Tom receive it. There was +nothing of fierce defiance now in his demeanour; nothing of half-subdued +rage. Tom halted; took off his trencher with a smile of suavity that +might have adorned Hamish, and thanked them with as much courtesy as +if it had been real, especially Tod. Gerald Yorke and Bywater looked +on with surprise. They little dreamt of the great secret that Tom now +carried within him. He could afford to be calm. + +“Why, it’s four months, good, since that surplice was damaged,” resumed +Gerald, in a tone of irritation, to Bywater, as soon as they were alone +again. “One would think it was of rare value, by your keeping up the +ball in this way. Every now and then you break out afresh about that +surplice. Was it made of gold?” + +“It was made of Irish linen,” returned Bywater, who generally contrived +to retain his coolness, whoever might grow heated. “I tell you that +I have a fresh clue, Yorke; one I have been waiting for. I thought it +would turn up some time. If you say you did it, by accident or how you +like, I’ll let it drop. If you don’t, I’ll bring it before Pye after +breakfast.” + +“Bring it,” retorted Gerald. + +“Mind you, I mean what I say. I shall bring the charge against you, and +I have the proofs.” + +“Bring it, I say!” fiercely repeated Gerald. “Who cares for your +bringings? Mind your bones afterwards, that’s all!” + +He pushed Bywater from him with a haughty gesture, and raced home to +breakfast, hoping there would be something good to assuage his hunger. + +But Bywater was not to be turned from his determination. Never a boy +in the school less likely than he. He went home to _his_ breakfast, and +returned to school to have his name inscribed on the roll, and then went +into college with the other nine choristers, and took his part in the +service. And the bottle, I say, was burning a hole in his pocket. The +Reverend William Yorke was chanting, and Arthur Channing sat at the +organ. Would the Very Reverend the Dean of Helstonleigh, standing in +his stall so serenely placid, his cap resting on the cushion beside him, +ever again intimate a doubt that Arthur was not worthy to take part in +the service? But the dean did not know the news yet. + +Back in the school-room, Bywater lost no time. He presented himself +before the master, and entered upon his complaint, schoolboy fashion. + +“Please, sir, I think I have found out who inked my surplice.” + +The master had allowed the occurrence to slip partially from his memory. +At any rate, it was some time since he had called it up. “Oh, indeed!” + said he somewhat cynically, to Bywater, after a pause given to revolving +the circumstances. “Think you have found out the boy, do you?” + +“Yes, sir; I am pretty sure of it. I think it was Gerald Yorke.” + +“Gerald Yorke! One of the seniors!” repeated the master, casting a +penetrating gaze upon Bywater. + +The fact was, Mr. Pye, at the time of the occurrence, had been somewhat +inclined to a secret belief that the real culprit was Bywater himself. +Knowing that gentleman’s propensity to mischief, knowing that the +destruction of a few surplices, more or less, would be only fun to +him, he had felt an unpleasant doubt upon the point. “Did you do it +yourself?” he now plainly asked of Bywater. + +Bywater for once was genuinely surprised. “I had no more to do with +it, sir, than this desk had,” touching the master’s. “I should not have +spent many an hour since, trying to ferret it out, if I had done it.” + +“Well, what have you found out?” + +“On the day it happened, sir, when we were discussing it in the +cloisters, little Channing suddenly started up with a word that caused +me to think he had seen something connected with it, in which Gerald +Yorke was mixed up. But the boy recollected himself before he had said +much, and I could get no more from him. Once afterwards I heard him tell +Yorke that he had kept counsel about the inked surplice.” + +“Is that all?” asked the master, while the whole school sat with +tingling ears, for Bywater was not making his complaint in private. + +“Not quite, sir. Please to look at this.” + +Bywater had whipped the broken phial out of his pocket, and was handing +the smaller piece towards the master. Mr. Pye looked at it curiously. + +“As I was turning over my surplice, sir, in the vestry, when I found +it that day, I saw this bit of glass lying in the wet ink. I thought it +belonged to a small ornamental phial, which Gerald Yorke used to keep, +about that time, in his pocket, full of ink. But I couldn’t be sure. So +I put the bit of glass into my pocket, thinking the phial would turn up +some day, if it did belong to it. And so it has. You can put the piece +into it, sir, and see whether it fits.” + +Gerald Yorke left his place, and joined Bywater before the head master. +He looked white and haughty. “Is it to be borne, sir, that he should +tell these lies of me?” + +“Are they lies?” returned Mr. Pye, who was fitting the piece into the +bottle. + +“I have told no lies yet,” said Bywater. “And I have not said for +certain you did it. I say I think so.” + +“You never found that bottle upon the surplice! I don’t believe it!” + foamed Gerald. + +“I found the little piece of glass. I put it into my trousers pocket, +wet with ink as it was, and here are the stains of ink still,” added +Bywater, turning out that receptacle for the benefit of Mr. Pye. “It was +this same pair of trousers I had on that day.” + +“Bywater,” said the master, “why did you not say, at the time, that you +found the piece of glass?” + +“Because, sir, the bit, by itself, would have told nothing. I thought +I’d wait till the bottle itself turned up. Old Jenkins, the bedesman, +found it a few days ago in the college burial-ground, pretty near to the +college gates; just in the spot where it most likely would be, sir, if +one came out of the college in a fright and dashed it over.” + +“Does this belong to you, Yorke?” inquired the master, scrutinizing that +gentleman’s countenance, as he had previously scrutinized Bywater’s. + +Gerald Yorke took the phial in his hand and examined it. He knew +perfectly well that it was his, but he was asking himself whether the +school, apart from Bywater, could contradict him, if he said it was not. +He feared they might. + +“I had a phial very much like this, sir,” turning it over and over in +his hand, apparently for the purpose of a critical inspection. “I am +not sure that this is the same; I don’t think it is. I lost mine, sir: +somebody stole it out of my pocket, I think.” + +“When did you lose it?” demanded Mr. Pye. + +“About the time that the surplice got inked, sir; a day or two before +it.” + +“Who is telling lies now?” cried bold Bywater. “He had the bottle that +very day, sir, at his desk, here, in this schoolroom. The upper boys +know he had it, and that he was using it. Channing”--turning round and +catching Tom’s eye, the first he did catch--“you can bear witness that +he was using it that morning.” + +“Don’t call upon me,” replied Tom, stolidly. “I decline to interfere +with Mr. Yorke; for, or against him.” + +“It is his bottle, and he had it that morning; and I say that I think he +must have broken it over the surplice,” persisted Bywater, with as much +noise as he dared display in the presence of the master. “Otherwise, how +should a piece out of the bottle be lying on the surplice?” + +The master came to the conclusion that the facts were tolerably +conclusive. He touched Yorke. “Speak the truth, boy,” he said, with a +tone that seemed to imply he rather doubted Gerald’s strict adherence to +truth at all times and seasons. + +Gerald turned crusty. “I don’t know anything about it, sir. Won’t I +pummel you for this!” he concluded, in an undertone, to Bywater. + +“Besides that, sir,” went on Bywater, pushing Gerald aside with his +elbow, as if he were nobody: “Charles Channing, I say, saw something +that led him to suspect Gerald Yorke. I am certain he did. I think it +likely that he saw him fling the bottle away, after doing the mischief. +Yorke knows that I have given him more than one chance to get out of +this. If he had only told me in confidence that it was he who did it, +whether by accident or mischief, I’d have let it drop.” + +“Yorke,” said the master, leaning his face forward and speaking in +an undertone, “do you remember what I promised the boy who did this +mischief? Not for the feat itself, but for braving me, when I ordered +him to speak out, and he would not.” + +Yorke grew angry and desperate. “Let it be proved against me, sir, if +you please, before you punish. I don’t think even Bywater, rancorous as +he is, can prove me guilty.” + +At this moment, who should walk forward but Mr. Bill Simms, much to the +astonishment of the head-master, and of the school in general. Since Mr. +Simms’s confession to the master, touching the trick played on Charles +Channing, he had not led the most agreeable of lives. Some of the boys +treated him with silent contempt, some worried his life out of him, and +all hated him. He could now enjoy a little bit of retaliation on one of +them, at any rate. + +“Please, sir, the day the surplice was inked, I saw Gerald Yorke come +out of the college just before afternoon service, and chuck a broken +ink-bottle over into the burial-ground.” + +“You saw it!” exclaimed the master, while Gerald turned his livid face, +his flashing eye on the young tell-tale. + +“Yes, sir. I was in the cloisters, inside one of the niches, and saw it. +Charley Channing was in the cloisters, too, but he didn’t see me, and I +don’t think Mr. Yorke saw either of us.” + +“Why did you not tell me this at the time?” + +Mr. Bill Simms stood on his heels and stood on his toes, and pulled his +lanky straw-coloured hair, and rubbed his face, ere he spoke. “I was +afraid, sir. I knew Mr. Yorke would beat me.” + +“Cur!” ejaculated Gerald, below his breath. The head-master turned his +eyes upon him. + +“Yorke, I--” + +A commotion at the door, and Mr. Pye stopped. There burst in a lady with +a wide extent of crinoline, but that was not the worst of the bustle. +Her cheeks were flushed, her hands lifted, her eyes wild; altogether +she was in a state of the utmost excitement. Gerald stared with all his +might, and the head-master rose to receive her as she sailed down upon +him. It was Lady Augusta Yorke. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. -- A GHOST AGAIN. + +Minds are differently constituted: as was exemplified in the case under +our immediate notice. While one of Mr. Galloway’s first thoughts, on the +receipt of Roland Yorke’s letter, was to rush round to Lady Augusta’s +with the news, half in anger, half in a reproachful humour, Arthur +Channing was deliberating how they could contrive to keep it from her. +The one was actuated by an angry, the other by a generous spirit. + +Mr. Galloway at length concluded his long-delayed dinner that evening. +Then he put on his hat, and, with Roland’s letter safe in his pocket, +went out again to call on Lady Augusta. It happened, however, that Lady +Augusta was not at home. + +She had gone to dine at Colonel Joliffe’s, a family who lived some +distance from Helstonleigh--necessitating an early departure from home, +if she would be in time for their six o’clock dinner-hour. It had thus +occurred that when the afternoon’s post arrived, Lady Augusta was in the +bustle and hurry of dressing; and Lady Augusta was one of those who +are, and must be, in a bustle, even if they are only going to a friendly +dinner-party. + +Martha was busily assisting, and the cook brought up two letters. “Both +for my lady,” she said, giving them to Martha. + +“I have no time for letters now,” called out my lady. “Put them into my +drawer, Martha.” + +Martha did as she was bid, and Lady Augusta departed. She returned home +pretty late, and the letters remained in their receptacle untouched. + +Of course, to retire to rest late, necessitated, with Lady Augusta +Yorke, rising late the next morning. About eleven o’clock she came down +to breakfast. A letter on the breakfast-table brought to her remembrance +the letters of the previous night, and she sent Martha for them. Looking +at their addresses, she perceived one of them to be from Roland; +the other from Lord Carrick: and she laid them by her to be opened +presently. + +“Mr. Galloway called last night, my lady,” observed Martha. + +“Oh, did he?” said Lady Augusta. + +“He said he wanted to see your ladyship particularly. But I said you +were gone to Colonel Joliffe’s.” + +Barely had Lady Augusta tasted her coffee, the letters still lying +unopened at her side, when William Yorke entered, having just left the +cathedral. + +“This is a terrible blow, Lady Augusta,” he observed, as he sat down. + +“What’s a blow?” returned Lady Augusta. “Will you take some coffee, +William?” + +“Have you not heard of it?” he replied, declining the coffee with a +gesture. “I thought it probable that you would have received news from +Roland.” + +“A letter arrived from Roland last night,” she said, touching the letter +in question. “What is the matter? Is there bad news in it? What! have +you heard anything?” + +Mr. Yorke had not the slightest doubt that the letter before him must +contain the same confession which had been conveyed to Arthur and to Mr. +Galloway. He thought it better that she should hear it from him, than +read it unprepared. He bent towards her, and spoke in a low tone of +compassion. + +“I fear that the letter does contain bad news; very bad news, indeed. +Ro--” + +“Good heavens! what has happened to him?” she interrupted, falling into +excitement, just as Roland himself might have done. “Is he ill? Has he +got hurt? Is he killed?” + +“Now, pray calm yourself, Lady Augusta. Roland is well in health, and +has sailed for Port Natal, under what he considers favourable auspices. +He--” + +“Then why in the world do you come terrifying me out of my wits with +your tales, William Yorke?” she broke forth. “I declare you are no +better than a child!” + +“Nay, Lady Augusta, you terrified yourself, jumping to conclusions. +Though Roland is safe and sound, there is still some very disagreeable +news to be told concerning him. He has been making a confession of bad +behaviour.” + +“Oh,” cried Lady Augusta, in a tone which seemed to say, “Is that all?” + as if bad behaviour and Roland might have some affinity for each other. +William Yorke bent his head nearer, and dropped his voice lower. + +“In that mysterious affair of the bank-note, when Arthur Channing was +accused--” + +“Well? well?” she hastily repeated--for he had made a slight pause--and +a tone of dread, as a shadow of evil, might be detected in her accents. + +“It was Roland who took the note.” + +Lady Augusta jumped up. She _would_ not receive it. “It is not true; it +cannot be true!” she reiterated. “How dare you so asperse him, William +Yorke? Thoughtless as Roland is, he would not be guilty of dishonour.” + +“He has written full particulars both to Arthur Channing and to Mr. +Galloway,” said Mr. Yorke, calmly. “I have no doubt that that letter to +you also relates to it. He confesses that to clear Arthur was a great +motive in taking him from Helstonleigh.” + +Lady Augusta seized the letter and tore it open. She was too agitated +to read calmly, but she saw enough to convince her that Roland, and no +other, had appropriated the money. This must have been the matter he +had obscurely hinted at in one of his last conversations with her. The +letter was concluded very much after Roland’s own fashion. + +“Now, mother, if you care that anything in the shape of honour should +ever shine round me again, you’ll go off straight to the college school, +and set Tom Channing right with it and with the masters. And if you +don’t, and I get drowned on my voyage, I’ll not say but my ghost will +come again and haunt every one who has had to do with the injustice.” + +Ghosts were not agreeable topics to Lady Augusta, and she gave a shriek +at the bare thought. But that was as nothing, compared with her anger. +Honourable in the main--hot, hasty, impulsive, losing all judgment, all +self-control when these fits of excitement came upon her--it is more +than probable that her own course would have been to fly to the college +school, unprompted by Roland. A sense of justice was strong within her; +and in setting Tom right, she would not spare Roland, her own son though +he was. + +Before William Yorke knew what she was about, she had flown upstairs, +and was down again with her things on. Before he could catch her up, she +was across the Boundaries, entering the cloisters, and knocking at the +door of the college school. + +There she broke in upon that interesting investigation, touching the +inked surplice. + +Bywater, who seemed to think she had arrived for the sole purpose of +setting at rest the question of the phial’s ownership, and not being +troubled with any superfluous ideas of circumlocution, eagerly held out +the pieces to her when she was yards from his desk. “Do you know this, +Lady Augusta? Isn’t it Gerald’s?” + +“Yes, it is Gerald’s,” replied she. “He took it out of my desk one day +in the summer, though I told him not, and I never could get it back +again. Have you been denying that it was yours?” she sternly added to +Gerald. “Bad luck to you, then, for a false boy. You are going to take a +leaf out of your brother Roland’s pattern, are you? Haven’t I had enough +of you bad boys on my hands, but there must something fresh come up +about one or the other of you every day that the sun rises? Mr. Pye, I +have come by Roland’s wish, and by my own, to set the young Channings +right with the school. You took the seniorship from Tom, believing +that it was his brother Arthur who robbed Mr. Galloway. Not but that I +thought some one else would have had that seniorship, you know!” + +In Lady Augusta’s present mood, had any one of her sons committed a +murder, she must have proclaimed it, though it had been to condemn him +to punishment. She had not come to shield Roland; and she did not care, +in her anger, how bad she made him out to be; or whether she did it +in Irish or English. The head-master could only look at her with +astonishment. He also believed her visit must have reference to the +matter in hand. + +“It is true, Lady Augusta. But for the suspicion cast upon his brother, +Channing would not have lost the seniorship,” said the master, ignoring +the hint touching himself. + +“And all of ye”--turning round to face the wondering school--“have been +ready to fling ye’re stones at Tom Channing, like the badly brought up +boys that ye are. _I_ have heard of it. And my two, Gerald and Tod, the +worst of ye at the game. You may look, Mr. Tod, but I’ll be after giving +ye a jacketing for ye’re pains. Let me tell ye all, that it was not Tom +Channing’s brother took the bank-note; it was _their_ brother--Gerald’s +and Tod’s! It was my ill-doing boy, Roland, who took it.” + +No one knew where to look. Some looked at her ladyship; some at the +head-master; some at the Reverend William Yorke, who stood pale and +haughty; some at Gerald and Tod; some at Tom Channing. Tom did not +appear to regard it as news: he seemed to have known it before: the +excessive astonishment painted upon every other face was absent +from his. But, half the school did not understand Lady Augusta. None +understood her fully. + +“I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” said the head-master. “I do not +comprehend what it is that you are talking about.” + +“Not comprehend!” repeated her ladyship. “Don’t I speak plainly? My +unhappy son Roland has confessed that it was he who stole the bank-note +that so much fuss has been made about, and that Arthur Channing was +taken up for. You two may look and frown”--nodding to Gerald and +Tod--“but it was your own brother who was the thief; Arthur Channing was +innocent. I’m sure I shan’t look a Channing in the face for months to +come! Tell them about it in a straightforward way, William Yorke.” + +Mr. Yorke, thus called upon, stated, in a few concise words, the facts +to the master. His tone was low, but the boys caught the sense, that +Arthur was really innocent, and that poor Tom had been degraded for +nothing. The master beckoned Tom forward. + +“Did you know of this, Channing?” + +“Yes, sir; since the letter came to my brother Arthur last night.” + +Lady Augusta rushed up impulsively to Tom. She seized his hands, and +shook them heartily. Tom never afterwards was sure that she didn’t kiss +him. “You’ll live to be an honour to your parents yet, Tom,” she said, +“when my boys are breaking my heart with wilfulness.” + +Tom’s face flushed with pleasure; not so much at the words as at the +yearning, repentant faces cast at him from all parts of the room. There +was no mistaking that they were eager to offer reparation. Tom Channing +innocent all this time! How should they make it up to him? He turned to +resume his seat, but Huntley slipped out of the place he occupied as the +head of the school, and would have pushed Tom into it. There was some +slight commotion, and the master lifted his spectacles. + +“Silence, there! Huntley, what are you about? Keep your seat.” + +“No, sir,” said Huntley, advancing a step forward. “I beg your pardon, +sir, but the place is no longer mine. I never have considered it mine +legally, and I will, with your permission, resign it to its rightful +owner. The place is Channing’s; I have only occupied it for him.” + +He quietly pushed Tom into it as he spoke, and the school, finding their +voices, and ignoring the presence of the master and of Lady Augusta, +sprang from their desks at one bound and seized upon Tom, wishing him +luck, asking him to be a good old fellow and forgive them. “Long live +Tom Channing, the senior of Helstonleigh school!” shouted bold Bywater; +and the boys, thus encouraged, took up the shout, and the old walls +echoed it. “Long live Tom Channing, the senior of Helstonleigh school!” + +Before the noise had died away, Lady Augusta was gone, and another had +been added to the company, in the person of Mr. Huntley. “Oh,” he said, +taking in a rapid glance of affairs: “I see it is all right. Knowing how +thoughtless Harry is, I feared he might not recollect to do an act of +justice. That he would be the first to do it if he remembered, I knew.” + +“As if I should forget that, sir!” responded Mr. Harry. “Why, I could no +more live, with Channing under me now, than I could let any one of the +others be above me. And I am not sorry,” added the young gentleman, +_sotto voce_. “If the seniorship is a great honour, it is also a great +bother. Here, Channing, take the keys.” + +He flung them across the desk as he spoke; he was proceeding to fling +the roll also, and two or three other sundries which belong to the +charge of the senior boy, but was stopped by the head-master. + +“Softly, Huntley! I don’t know that I can allow this wholesale changing +of places and functions.” + +“Oh yes, you can, sir,” said Harry, with a bright look. “If I committed +any unworthy act, I should be degraded from the seniorship, and another +appointed. The same thing can be done now, without the degradation.” + +“He deserves a recompense,” said Mr. Huntley to the master. “But this +will be no recompense; it is Channing’s due. He will make you a better +senior than Harry, Mr. Pye. And now,” added Mr. Huntley, improving upon +the whole, “there will be no necessity to separate the seniorship from +the Oxford exhibition.” + +It was rather a free and easy mode of dealing with the master’s +privileges, and Mr. Pye relaxed into a smile. In good truth, his sense +of justice had been inwardly burning since the communication made by +Lady Augusta. Tom, putting aside a little outburst or two of passion, +had behaved admirably throughout the whole season of opprobrium; there +was no denying it. And Mr. Pye felt that he had done so. + +“Will you do your duty as senior, Channing?” unnecessarily asked the +master. + +“I will try, sir.” + +“Take your place, then.” + +Mr. Huntley was the first to shake his hand when he was in it. “I told +you to bear up bravely, my boy! I told you better days might be in +store. Continue to do your duty in single-hearted honesty, under God, +as I truly believe you are ever seeking to do it, and you may well leave +things in His hands. God bless you, Tom!” + +Tom was a little overcome. But Mr. Bywater made a divertisement. He +seized the roll, with which it was no business of his to meddle, and +carried it to Mr. Pye. “The names have to be altered, sir.” In return +for which Mr. Pye sternly motioned him to his seat, and Bywater favoured +the school with a few winks as he lazily obeyed. + +“Who could possibly have suspected Roland Yorke!” exclaimed the master, +talking in an undertone with Mr. Huntley. + +“Nay, if we are to compare merits, he was a far more likely subject for +suspicion than Arthur,” was Mr. Huntley’s reply. + +“He was, taking them comparatively. What I meant to imply was, that +one could not have suspected that Roland, knowing himself guilty, would +suffer another to lie under the stigma. Roland has his good points--if +that may be said of one who helps himself to bank-notes,” concluded the +master. + +“Ay, he is not all bad. Witness sending back the money to Galloway; +witness his persistent championship of Arthur; and going away partly to +clear him, as he no doubt has done! I was as sure from the first that +Arthur Channing was not guilty, as that the sun shines in the heavens.” + +“Did you suspect Roland?” + +“No. I had a peculiar theory of my own upon the matter,” said Mr. +Huntley, smiling, and apparently examining closely the grain of the +master’s desk. “A theory, however, which has proved to be worthless; as +so many theories which obtain favour in this world often are. But I will +no longer detain you, Mr. Pye. You must have had enough hindrance from +your legitimate business for one morning.” + +“The hindrance is not at an end yet,” was the master’s reply, as he +shook hands with Mr. Huntley. “I cannot think what has possessed the +school lately: we are always having some unpleasant business or other to +upset it.” + +Mr. Huntley went out, nodding cordially to Tom as he passed his desk; +and the master turned his eyes and his attention on Gerald Yorke. + +Lady Augusta had hastened from the college school as impetuously as she +had entered it. Her errand now was to the Channings. She was eager to +show them her grieved astonishment, her vexation--to make herself the +_amende_ for Roland, so far as she could do so. She found both Mr. and +Mrs. Channing at home. The former had purposed being in Guild Street +early that morning; but so many visitors had flocked in to offer their +congratulations that he had hitherto been unable to get away. Constance +also was at home. Lady Augusta had insisted upon it that she should +not come to the children on that, the first day after her father and +mother’s return. They were alone when Lady Augusta entered. + +Lady Augusta’s first movement was to fling herself into a chair and +burst into tears. “What am I to say to you?” she exclaimed. “What +apology can I urge for my unhappy boy?” + +“Nay, dear Lady Augusta, do not let it thus distress you,” said Mr. +Channing. “You are no more to be held responsible for what Roland has +done, than we were for Arthur, when he was thought guilty.” + +“Oh, I don’t know,” she sobbed. “Perhaps, if I had been more strict with +him always, he would never have done it. I wish I had made a point of +giving them a whipping every night, all round, from the time they were +two years old!” she continued, emphatically. “Would that have made my +children turn out better, do you think?” + +Mrs. Channing could not forbear a smile. “It is not exactly _strictness_ +that answers with children, Lady Augusta.” + +“Goodness me! I don’t know what does answer with them, then! I have been +indulgent enough to mine, as every one else knows; and see how they are +turning out! Roland to go and take a bank-note! And, as if that were not +bad enough, to let the odium rest upon Arthur! You will never forgive +him! I am certain that you never can or will forgive him! And you and +all the town will visit it upon me!” + +When Lady Augusta fell into this tearful humour of complaint, it was +better to let it run its course; as Mr. and Mrs. Channing knew by past +experience. They both soothed her; telling her that no irreparable wrong +had been done to Arthur; nothing but what would be now made right. + +“It all turns contrary together!” exclaimed my lady, drying up her +tears over the first grievance, and beginning upon another. “I suppose, +Constance, you and William Yorke will be making it up now.” + +Constance’s self-conscious smile, and her drooping eyelids might have +told, without words, that that was already done. + +“And the next thing, of course, will be your getting married!” continued +Lady Augusta. “When is it to be? I suppose you have been settling the +time.” + +The question was a direct and pointed one, and Lady Augusta waited for +an answer. Mrs. Channing came to the relief of Constance. + +“It would have been very soon indeed, Lady Augusta, but for this +dreadful uncertainty about Charles. In any case, it will not be delayed +beyond early spring.” + +“Oh, to be sure! I knew that! Everything goes contrary and cross for me! +What am I to do for a governess? I might pay a thousand a year and not +find another like Constance. They are beginning to improve under you: +they are growing more dutiful girls to me; and now it will all be undone +again, and they’ll just be ruined!” + +Constance looked up with her pretty timid blush. “William and I have +been thinking, Lady Augusta, that, if you approved of it, they had +better come for a few months to Hazledon House. I should then have them +constantly under my own eye, and I think I could effect some good. +We used to speak of this in the summer; and last night we spoke of it +again.” + +Lady Augusta flew into an ecstasy as great as her late grief had been. +“Oh, it would be delightful!” she exclaimed. “Such a relief to me! and +I know it would be the making of them. I shall thank you and William for +ever, Constance; and I don’t care what I pay you. I’d go without shoes +to pay you liberally.” + +Constance laughed. “As to payment,” she said, “I shall have nothing to +do with that, on my own score, when once I am at Hazledon. Those things +will lie in William’s department, not in mine. I question if he will +allow you to pay him anything, Lady Augusta. We did not think of it in +that light, but in the hope that it might benefit Caroline and Fanny.” + +Lady Augusta turned impulsively to Mrs. Channing. “What good children +God has given you!” + +Tears rushed into Mrs. Channing’s eyes; she felt the remark in all its +grateful truth. She was spared a reply; she did not like to contrast +them with Lady Augusta’s, ever so tacitly, and say they were indeed +good; for Sarah entered, and said another visitor was waiting in the +drawing-room. + +As Mr. Channing withdrew, Lady Augusta rose to depart. She took Mrs. +Channing’s hand. “How dreadful for you to come home and find one of your +children gone!” she uttered. “How can you bear it and be calm!” + +Emotion rose then, and Mrs. Channing battled to keep it down. “The same +God who gave me my children, has taught me how to bear,” she presently +said. “For the moment, yesterday, I really was overwhelmed; but it +passed away after a few hours’ struggle. When I left home, I humbly +committed my child to God’s good care, in perfect trust; and I feel, +that whether dead or alive, that care is still over him.” + +“I wish to goodness one could learn to feel as you do!” uttered Lady +Augusta. “Troubles don’t seem to touch you and Mr. Channing; you rise +superior to them: but they turn me inside out. And now I must go! And I +wish Roland had never been born before he had behaved so! You must try +to forgive him, Mrs. Channing: you must promise to try and welcome him, +should he ever come back again!” + +“Oh yes,” Mrs. Channing answered, with a bright smile. “The one will be +as easy as the other has been. He is already forgiven, Lady Augusta.” + +“I have done what I could in it. I have been to the college school, +and told them all, and Tom is put into his place as senior. It’s true, +indeed! and I hope every boy will be flogged for putting upon him; +Gerald and Tod amongst the rest. And now, good-bye.” + +Sarah was holding the street door open for Lady Augusta. Lady Augusta, +who generally gave a word of gossip to every one, even as Roland, had +her head turned towards the girl as she passed out of it, and thereby +nearly fell over a boy who at the moment was seeking to enter, being +led by a woman, as if he had no strength to walk alone. A tall, thin, +white-faced boy, with great eyes and little hair, and a red handkerchief +tied over his head, to hide the deficiency; but a beautiful boy in spite +of all, for he bore a strange resemblance to Charles Channing. + +Was it Charles? Or was it his shadow? My lady turned again to the hall, +startling the house with her cries, that Charley’s ghost had come, and +bringing forth its inmates in consternation. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. -- BYWATER’S DANCE. + +Not Charley’s shadow--not Charley’s ghost--but Charley himself, in real +flesh and blood. One knew him, if the rest did not; and that was Judith. +She seized upon him with sobs and cries, and sat down on the hall +bench and hugged him to her. But Charley had seen some one else, and he +slipped from Judith to the arms that were held out to shelter him, his +warm tears breaking forth. “Mamma! mamma!” + +Mrs. Channing’s tears fell fast as she received him. She strained him +to her bosom, and held him there; and they had to hold _her_, for her +emotion was great. It is of no use endeavouring to describe this sort +of meeting. When the loved who have been thought dead, are restored to +life, all description must fall short of reality, if it does not utterly +fail. Charley, whom they had mourned as lost, was with them again: +traces of sickness, of suffering were in his face, in his attenuated +form; but still he was in life. You must imagine what it was. Mr. and +Mrs. Channing, Lady Augusta, Constance, the servants, and the Bishop of +Helstonleigh: for no less a personage than that distinguished prelate +had been the visitor to Mr. Channing, come to congratulate him on his +cure and his return. + +The woman who had accompanied Charley stood apart--a hard-featured +woman, in a clean cotton gown, and clean brown apron, whose face +proclaimed that she lived much in the open air. Perhaps she lived +so much in it as to disdain bonnets, for she wore none--a red cotton +handkerchief, fellow to the one on Charley’s head, being pinned over her +white calico cap. + +Many unexpected meetings take place in this life. A casual acquaintance +whom we have met years ago, but whom we never expected to see again, +may come across our path to-morrow. You, my reader, did not, I am sure, +expect to meet that woman again, whom you saw hanging up linen in a +boat, as it glided beneath the old cathedral walls, under the noses of +Bywater and a few more of his tribe, the morning they were throwing away +those unlucky keys, which they fondly thought were never to be fished +up again. But here is that very woman before you now, come to pay these +pages as unexpected a visit as the keys paid to the college boys. Not +more unlooked for, and not more strange than some of our meetings in +actual life. + +“Mamma, I have been ill; I have been nearly dying; and she has nursed me +through it, and been kind to me.” + +Mrs. Channing leaned forward and grasped the woman’s hand, gratitude +shining in her wet eyes. Mr. Channing and Judith had a fight which +should grasp the other. Lady Augusta laid hold of her behind, Sarah +assailed her in front. There appeared to be no room left for Constance +and the Bishop, or they might have assisted at the demonstration--as the +French say. + +It was soon explained. That same barge had been passing down stream +again that night, when Charley fell into the water. The man heard the +splash, called to his horse to stop, leaped overboard, and saved him. A +poor little boy, with a wound in his head, quite senseless, it proved to +be, when they had him on board and laid him on the bench for inspection. +Meanwhile the docile horse went on of its own accord, and before the +knotty question was decided as to whether the man should bring-to, and +get him on shore, and try and discover to whom he belonged, the barge +was clear of the town, for the current was strong. It had been nearly +clear of it when it passed the cathedral wall, and the splash occurred. +The man thought it as well that it was so; his voyage, this journey, +was being made against time, and he dared not linger. Had the boat-house +keeper’s mother not put her head under the bed-clothes and kept it +there, she might possibly have heard sounds of the rescue. + +So they kept Charley on board. He had evidently struck his head against +something which had caused the wound, and stunned him. It may have been, +it is just possible that it may have been, against the projecting wall +of the boat-house, as he turned the corner in his fright and hurry. If +so, that, no doubt, caused his fall and his stumble into the water. +The woman--she had children of her own: that great girl whom you saw +scraping potatoes was one, and she had two others still younger--washed +the wound, and tried to bring Charley round. But she could not awaken +him to full consciousness. His mind appeared to be wandering, and ere +another day had passed he was in strong delirium. Whether it was the +blow, or the terrible fright which had preceded it, or--and this was +most probable--both combined, Charles Channing was attacked with brain +fever. The woman nursed him through it; she applied her own simple +remedies. She cut off his hair, and kept wet linen constantly to his +head; and hot bricks, wrapped round with wet steaming flannels, to his +feet; and she gave him a certain herb tea to drink, which, in her firm +belief and experience, had never yet failed to subdue fever. Perhaps +Charley did as well without a doctor as he would have done with one. By +the time they reached their destination the malady was subsiding; but +the young patient was so prostrated and weak that all he could do was to +lie quite still, scarcely opening his eyes, scarcely moving his hands. + +When he became able to talk, they were beginning to move up stream +again, as the woman called it. Charley told her all about himself, about +his home, his dear mamma and Judith, his papa’s ill-health, and hopes of +restoration, his college schoolboy life. It was delicious to lie there +in the languor of returning health, and talk of these things. The kindly +woman won his love and confidence; but when she asked him how he came to +fall into the river, he could never remember. In the social atmosphere +of companionship, in the bright sunlight, Charley could look back on the +“ghost” in the cloisters, and draw his own deductions. His good sense +told him it was no ghost; that it was all a trick of Bywater’s and +others of the college boys. The woman’s opinion was, that if they did +do such a thing to frighten him, they ought to be whipped; but she was +inclined to view it as a delusion of Charley’s imagination, a relic left +by the fever. + +“Your folks’ll be fine and pleased to see you again, dear,” she would +say to him. “My master’ll moor the barge to the side when we gets to the +place, and I’ll take ye home to ‘um.” + +How Charley longed for it, he alone could tell; pleasant as it was, now +he was better, to lie on deck, on a rude bed made of sacks, and glide +peacefully along on the calm river, between the green banks, the blue +sky above, the warm sun shining on him. Had Charley been placed on that +barge in health, he would have thought it the nastiest place he had ever +seen--confined, dirty, monotonous. But waking to it from fever, when he +did not care where he lay, so that he could only lie, he grew reconciled +to it. Indeed, Charley began to like the boat; but he was none the less +eager for the day that would see him leave it. + +That day came at last. The barge was brought-to; and here you see +Charley and his protector. Charley’s clothes looked a mile too small for +him, he had so grown in his illness; and Charley was minus a cap, and +the handkerchief did duty for one. But it was Charley, in spite of all; +and I say that you must imagine the meeting. You must imagine their +heartfelt thanks to the woman, and their more substantial recompense. + +“Charley, darling, if you could only have written to us, what dreadful +distress you would have saved!” exclaimed Constance. + +“_He_ write, miss!” interposed the woman. “He couldn’t have writ to save +his life! And we was a-moving up stream again before he was well enough +to tell us anything about himself. My husband might have writ a word +else; I ain’t no hand at a pen myself. We have got quite used to the +little gentleman, and shall miss him now.” + +“Constance, tell her. Is it not true about the ghost? I am sure you must +have heard of it from the boys. She thinks I dreamt it, she says.” + +Judith broke out volubly before Constance could answer, testifying that +it was true, and relating the ill-doings of the boys that night rather +more at length than she need have done. She and the woman appeared to be +in perfect accord as to the punishment merited by those gentlemen. + +The bishop leaned over Charley. “You hear what a foolish trick it was,” + he said. “Were I you, I would be upon good terms with such ghosts in +future. There are no other sorts of ghosts, my boy.” + +“I know there are not,” answered Charles. “Indeed, my lord, I do know +there are not,” he repeated more earnestly. “And I knew it then; only, +somehow I got frightened. I will try and learn to be as brave in the +dark as in the light.” + +“That’s my sensible boy!” said the bishop. “For my part, Charley, I +rather like being in the dark. God seems all the nearer to me.” + +The woman was preparing to leave, declining all offers that she should +rest and take refreshment. “Our turn both down and up was hurried +this time,” she explained, “and I mayna keep the barge and my master +a-waiting. I’ll make bold, when we are past the town again, to step +ashore, and see how the young gentleman gets on.” + +Charley clung to her. “You shall not go till you promise to stay a whole +day with us!” he cried. “And you must bring the children for mamma to +see. She will be glad to see them.” + +The woman laughed. “A whole day! a whole day’s pleasure was na for the +likes of them,” she answered; “but she’d try and spare a bit longer to +stop than she could spare now.” + +With many kisses to Charles, with many hand-shakes from all, she took +her departure. The Bishop of Helstonleigh, high and dignified prelate +that he was, and she a poor, hard-working barge-woman, took her hand +into his, and shook it as heartily as the rest. Mr. Channing went out +with her. He was going to say a word of gratitude to the man. The bishop +also went out, but he turned the other way. + +As he was entering Close Street, the bishop encountered Arthur. The +latter raised his hat and was passing onwards, but the bishop arrested +him. + +“Channing, I have just heard some news from your father. You are at +length cleared from that charge. You have been innocent all this time.” + +Arthur’s lips parted with a smile. “Your lordship may be sure that I am +thankful to be cleared at last. Though I am sorry that it should be at +the expense of my friend Yorke.” + +“Knowing yourself innocent, you might have proclaimed it more +decisively. What could have been your motive for not doing so?” + +The ingenuous flush flew into Arthur’s cheek. “The truth is, my lord, I +suspected some one else. Not Roland Yorke,” he pointedly added. “But--it +was one against whom I should have been sorry to bring a charge. And +so--and so--I went on bearing the blame.” + +“Well, Channing, I must say, and I shall say to others, that you have +behaved admirably; showing a true Christian spirit. Mr. Channing may +well be happy in his children. What will you give me,” added the bishop, +releasing Arthur’s hand, which he had taken, and relapsing into his +free, pleasant manner, “for some news that I can impart to you?” + +Arthur wondered much. What news could the bishop have to impart which +concerned him? + +“The little lost wanderer has come home.” + +“Not Charles!” uttered Arthur, startled to emotion. “Charles! and not +dead?” + +“Not dead, certainly,” smiled the bishop, “considering that he can talk +and walk. He will want some nursing, though. Good-bye, Channing. This, +take it for all in all, must be a day of congratulation for you and +yours.” + +To leap into Mr. Galloway’s with the tidings, to make but a few bounds +thence home, did not take many minutes for Arthur. He found Charles in +danger of being kissed to death--Mrs. Channing, Lady Augusta, Constance, +and Judith, each taking her turn. I fear Arthur only made another. + +“Why, Charley, you have grown out of your clothes!” he exclaimed. “How +thin and white you are!” + +The remarks did not please Judith. “Thin and white!” she resentfully +repeated. “Did you expect him to come home as red and fat as a +turkey-cock, and him just brought to the edge of the grave with brain +fever? One would think, Master Arthur, that you’d rejoice to see him, if +he had come back a skeleton, when it seemed too likely you’d never see +him at all. And what if he have outgrown his clothes? They can be let +out, or replaced with new ones. I have hands, and there’s tailors in the +place, I hope.” + +The more delighted felt Judith, the more ready was she to take up +remarks and convert them into grievances. Arthur knew her, and only +laughed. A day of rejoicing, indeed, as the bishop had said. A day of +praise to God. + +Charley had been whispering to his mother. He wanted to go to the +college schoolroom and surprise it. He was longing for a sight of his +old companions. That happy moment had been pictured in his thoughts +fifty times, as he lay in the boat; it was almost as much desired as the +return home. Charley bore no malice, and he was prepared to laugh with +them at the ghost. + +“You do not appear strong enough to walk even so far as that,” said Mrs. +Channing. + +“Dear mamma, let me go! I could walk it, for that, if it were twice as +far.” + +“Yes, let him go,” interposed Arthur, divining the feeling. “I will help +him along.” + +Charley’s trencher--the very trencher found on the banks--was brought +forth, and he started with Arthur. + +“Mind you bring him back safe this time!” called out Judy in a tone of +command, as she stood at the door to watch them along the Boundaries. + +“Arthur,” said the boy, “were they punished for playing me that ghost +trick?” + +“They have not been punished yet; they are to be. The master waited to +see how things would turn out.” + +You may remember that Diggs, the boat-house keeper, when he took news of +Charles’s supposed fate to the college school, entered it just in time +to interrupt an important ceremony, which was about to be performed +on the back of Pierce senior. In like manner--and the coincidence was +somewhat remarkable--Charles himself now entered it, when that same +ceremony was just brought to a conclusion, only that the back, instead +of being Pierce senior’s, was Gerald Yorke’s. Terrible disgrace for a +senior! and Gerald wished Bywater’s surplice had been at the bottom of +the river before he had meddled with it. He had not done it purposely. +He had fallen in the vestry, ink-bottle in hand, which had broken and +spilt its contents over the surplice. In an unlucky moment, Gerald had +determined to deny all knowledge of the accident, never supposing it +would be brought home to him. + +Sullen, angry, and resentful, he was taking his seat again, and the +head-master, rather red and hot with exertion, was locking up the +great birch, when the door was opened, and Arthur Channing made his +appearance; a boy, carrying the college cap, with him. + +The school were struck dumb. The head-master paused, birch in hand. But +that he was taller and thinner, and that the bright colour and auburn +curls were gone, they would have said at once it was Charley Channing. + +The master let fall the birch and the lid of his desk. “_Channing!_” + he uttered, as the child walked up to him. “Is it really you? What has +become of you all this time? Where have you been?” + +“I have been a long way in a barge, sir. The barge-man saved me. And I +have had brain fever.” + +He looked round for Tom; and Tom, in the wild exuberance of his delight, +took Charley in his arms, and tears dropped from his eyes as he kissed +him as warmly as Judith could have done. And then brave Tom could have +eaten himself up, in mortification at having been so demonstrative in +sight of the college school. + +But the school were not in the humour to be fastidious just then. Some +of them felt more inward relief at sight of Charles than they cared to +tell; they had never experienced anything like it in their lives, and +probably never would again. In the midst of the murmur of heartfelt +delight that was arising, a most startling interruption occurred from +Mr. Bywater. That gentleman sprang from his desk to the middle of the +room, turned a somersault, and began dancing a hornpipe on his head. + +“_Bywater_!” uttered the astounded master. “Are you mad?” + +Bywater finished his dance, and then brought himself to his feet. + +“I am so glad he has turned up all right, sir. I forgot you were in +school.” + +“I should think you did,” significantly returned the master. But Charles +interrupted him. + +“You will not punish them, sir, now I have come back safe?” he pleaded. + +“But they deserve punishment,” said the master. + +“I know they have been sorry; Arthur says they have,” urged Charley. +“Please do not punish them now, sir; it is so pleasant to be back +again!” + +“Will you promise never to be frightened at their foolish tricks again?” + said the master. “Not that there is much danger of their playing you +any: this has been too severe a lesson. I am surprised that a boy of +your age, Charles, could allow himself to be alarmed by ‘ghosts.’ You do +not suppose there are such things, surely?” + +“No, sir; but somehow, that night I got too frightened to think. You +will forgive them, sir, won’t you?” + +“Yes! There! Go and shake hands with them,” said Mr. Pye, relaxing his +dignity. “It is worth something, Charley, to see you here again.” + +The school seemed to think so; and I wish you had heard the shout that +went up from it--the real, true, if somewhat noisy delight, that greeted +Charles. “Charley, we’ll never dress up a ghost again! We’ll never +frighten you in any way!” they cried, pressing affectionately round him. +“Only forgive us!” + +“Why are you sitting in the senior’s place, Tom?” asked Arthur. + +“Because it is his own,” said Harry Huntley, with a smile of +satisfaction. “Lady Augusta came in and set things right for you, and +Tom is made senior at last. Hurrah! Arthur cleared, Tom senior, Charley +back, and Gerald flogged! Hurrah!” + +“Hurrah! If Pye were worth a dump, he’d give us a holiday!” echoed bold +Bywater. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. -- READY. + +The glorious surprise of Charley’s safety greeted Hamish on his return +home to dinner. In fact, he was just in time, having come in somewhat +before one o’clock, to witness Charley’s arrival from the college +schoolroom, escorted by the whole tribe, from the first to the last. +Even Gerald Yorke made one, as did Mr. William Simms. Gerald, the smart +over, thought it best to put a light, careless face upon his punishment, +disgraceful though it was considered to be for a senior. To give Gerald +his due, his own share in the day’s exploits faded into insignificance, +compared with the shock of mortification which shook him, when he heard +the avowal of his mother, respecting Roland. He and Tod had been the +most eager of all the school to cast Arthur’s guilt in Tom Channing’s +cheek; they had proclaimed it as particularly objectionable to their +feelings that the robbery should have taken place in an office where +their brother was a pupil; and now they found that Tom’s brother had +been innocent, and their own brother guilty! It was well that Gerald’s +brow should burn. “But she’d no cause to come here and blurt it out to +the lot, right in one’s face!” soliloquized Gerald, alluding to Lady +Augusta. “They’d have heard it soon enough, without that.” + +Mr. William Simms, I have said, also attended Charles. Mr. William was +hoping that the return of Charley would put him upon a better footing +with the school. He need not have hoped it: his offence had been one +that the college boys never forgave. Whether Charley returned dead or +alive, or had never returned at all, Simms would always remain a +sneak in their estimation. “Sneak Simms,” he had been called since +the occurrence: and he had come to the resolution, in his own mind, +of writing word home to his friends that the studies in Helstonleigh +college school were too much for him, and asking to be removed to a +private one. I think he would have to do so still. + +Hamish lifted Charley to him with an eager, fond movement. A weight was +taken from his mind. Although really irresponsible for the disappearance +of Charles, he had always felt that his father and mother might inwardly +attach some blame to him--might think him to have been wanting in care. +Now, all was sunshine. + +Dinner over, Mr. Channing walked with Hamish to the office. They were +some time in getting there. Every other person they met, stopped Mr. +Channing to congratulate him. It seemed that the congratulations were +never to end. It was not only Mr. Channing’s renewed health that people +had to speak of. Helstonleigh, from one end to the other, was ringing +with the news of Arthur’s innocence; and Charley’s return was getting +wind. + +They reached Guild Street at last. Mr. Channing entered and shook hands +with his clerks, and then took his own place in his private room. “Where +are we to put you, now, Hamish?” he said, looking at his son with a +smile. “There’s no room for you here. You will not like to take your +place with the clerks again.” + +“Perhaps I had better follow Roland Yorke’s plan, and emigrate,” replied +Hamish, demurely. + +“I wish Mr. Huntley--By the way, Hamish, it would only be a mark +of courtesy if you stepped as far as Mr. Huntley’s and told him of +Charles’s return,” broke off Mr. Channing; the idea occurring to him +with Mr. Huntley’s name. “None have shown more sympathy than he, and he +will be rejoiced to hear that the child is safe.” + +“I’ll go at once,” said Hamish. Nothing loth was he, on his own part, to +pay a visit to Mr. Huntley’s. + +Hamish overtook Mr. Huntley close to his own home. He was returning from +the town. Had he been home earlier, he would have heard the news from +Harry. But Harry had now had his dinner and was gone again. He did not +dine at the later hour. + +“I have brought you some news, sir,” said Hamish, as they entered +together. + +“News again! It cannot be very great, by the side of what we were +favoured with last night from Mr. Roland,” was the remark of Mr. +Huntley. + +“But indeed it is. Greater news even than that. We have found Charley, +Mr. Huntley.” + +Mr. Huntley sprang from the chair he was taking. “Found Charley! Have +you really? Where has he--Hamish, I see by your countenance that the +tidings are good. He must be alive.” + +“He is alive and well. At least, well, comparatively speaking. A barge +was passing down the river at the time he fell in, and the man leaped +overboard and saved him. Charley has been in the barge ever since, and +has had brain fever.” + +“And how did he come home?” wondered Mr. Huntley, when he had +sufficiently digested the news. + +“The barge brought him back. It is on its way up again. Charley arrived +under escort of the barge-woman, a red handkerchief on his head in lieu +of his trencher, which, you know, he lost that night,” added Hamish, +laughing. “Lady Augusta, who was going out of the house as he entered, +was frightened into the belief that it was his ghost, and startled them +all with her cries to that effect, including the bishop, who was with my +father in the drawing-room.” + +“Hamish, it is like a romance!” said Mr. Huntley. + +“Very nearly, taking one circumstance with another. My father’s return, +cured; Roland’s letter; and now Charley’s resuscitation. Their all +happening together renders it the more remarkable. Poor Charley does +look as much like a ghost as anything, and his curls are gone. They had +to cut his hair close in the fever.” + +Mr. Huntley paused. “Do you know, Hamish,” he presently said, “I begin +to think we were all a set of wiseacres. We might have thought of a +barge.” + +“If we had thought of a barge, we should never have thought the barge +would carry him off,” objected Hamish. “However, we have him back now, +and I thank God. I always said he would turn up, you know.” + +“I must come and see him,” said Mr. Huntley. “I was at the college +school this morning, therefore close to your house, but I did not call. +I thought your father would have enough callers, without me.” + +Hamish laughed. “He has had a great many. The house, I understand, has +been like a fair. He is in Guild Street this afternoon. It looks like +the happy old times, to see him at his post again.” + +“What are you going to do, now your place is usurped?” asked Mr. +Huntley. “Subside into a clerk again, and discharge the one who was +taken on in your stead, when you were promoted?” + +“That’s the question--what is to be done with me?” returned Hamish, in +his joking manner. “I have been telling my father that I had perhaps +better pay Port Natal a visit, and join Roland Yorke.” + +“I told your father once, that when this time came, I would help you to +a post.” + +“I am aware you did, sir. But you told me afterwards that you had +altered your intention--I was not eligible for it.” + +“Believing you were the culprit at Galloway’s.” + +Hamish raised his eyebrows. “The extraordinary part of that, sir, is, +how you could have imagined such a thing of me.” + +“Hamish, I shall always think so myself in future. But I have this +justification--that I was not alone in the belief. Some of your family, +who might be supposed to know you better than I, entertained the same +opinion.” + +“Yes; Constance and Arthur. But are you sure, sir, that it was not their +conduct that first induced you to suspect me?” + +“Right, lad. Their conduct--I should rather say their manner--was +inexplicably mysterious, and it induced me to ferret out its cause. That +they were screening some one, was evident, and I could only come to the +conclusion that it was you. But, Master Hamish, there were circumstances +on your own part which tended to strengthen the belief,” added Mr. +Huntley, his tone becoming lighter. “Whence sprang that money wherewith +you satisfied some of your troublesome creditors, just at that same +time?” + +Once more, as when it was alluded to before, a red flush dyed the face +of Hamish. Certainly, it could not be a flush of guilt, while that +ingenuous smile hovered on his lips. But Hamish seemed attacked with +sudden shyness. “Your refusal to satisfy me on this point, when we +previously spoke of it, tended to confirm my suspicions,” continued Mr. +Huntley. “I think you might make a confidant of me, Hamish. That money +could not have dropped from the clouds; and I am sure you possessed no +funds of your own just then.” + +“But neither did I steal it. Mr. Huntley”--raising his eyes to that +gentleman’s face--“how closely you must have watched me and my affairs!” + +Mr. Huntley drew in his lips. “Perhaps I had my own motives for doing +so, young sir.” + +“I earned the money,” said Hamish, who probably penetrated into Mr. +Huntley’s “motives;” at any rate, he hoped he did so. “I earned it +fairly and honourably, by my own private and special industry.” + +Mr. Huntley opened his eyes. “Private and special industry! Have you +turned shoemaker?” + +“Not shoemaker,” laughed Hamish. “Book-maker. The truth is, Mr. +Huntley--But will you promise to keep my secret?” + +“Ay. Honour bright.” + +“I don’t want it to be known just yet. The truth is, I have been doing +some literary work. Martin Pope gave me an introduction to one of the +London editors, and I sent him some papers. They were approved of and +inserted: but for the first I received no pay. I threatened to strike, +and then payment was promised. The first instalment, I chiefly used to +_arrest_ my debts; the second and third to liquidate them. That’s where +the money came from.” + +Mr. Huntley stared at Hamish as if he could scarcely take in the news. +It was, however, only the simple truth. When Martin Pope paid a visit to +Hamish, one summer night, frightening Hamish and Arthur, who dreaded +it might be a less inoffensive visitor; frightening Constance, for that +matter, for she heard more of their dread than was expedient; his errand +was to tell Hamish that in future he was to be paid for his papers: +payment was to commence forthwith. You may remember the evening, though +it is long ago. You may also remember Martin Pope’s coming hurriedly +into the office in Guild Street, telling Hamish some one was starting by +the train; when both hastened to the station, leaving Arthur in wonder. +That was the very London editor himself. He had been into the country, +and was taking Helstonleigh on his way back to town; had stayed in it a +day or two for the purpose of seeing Martin Pope, who was an old +friend, and of being introduced to Hamish Channing. That shy feeling of +reticence, which is the characteristic of most persons whose genius is +worth anything, had induced Hamish to bury all this in silence. + +“But when have you found time to write?” exclaimed Mr. Huntley, unable +to get over his surprise. “You could not find it during office hours?” + +“Certainly not. I have written in the evening, and at night. I have been +a great rake, stopping up later than I ought, at this writing.” + +“Do they know of it at home?” + +“Some of them know that I sit up; but they don’t know what I sit up for. +By way of a blind--I suppose it may be called a justifiable deceit,” + said Hamish, gaily--“I have taken care to carry the office books into my +room, that their suspicions may be confined to the accounts. Judy’s keen +eyes detected my candle burning later than she considered it ought to +burn, and her rest has been disturbed with visions of my setting the +house on fire. I have counselled her to keep the water-butt full, under +her window, so that she may be safe from danger.” + +“And are you earning money now?” + +“In-one sense, I am: I am writing for it. My former papers were for the +most part miscellaneous--essays, and that sort of thing; but I am about +a longer work now, to be paid for on completion. When it is finished and +appears, I shall startle them at home with the news, and treat them to a +sight of it. When all other trades fail, sir, I can set up my tent as an +author.” + +Mr. Huntley’s feelings glowed within him. None, more than he, knew the +value of silent industry--the worth of those who patiently practise +it. His heart went out to Hamish. “I suppose I must recommend you to +Bartlett’s post, after all,” said he, affecting to speak carelessly, his +eye betraying something very different. + +“Is it not gone?” asked Hamish. + +“No, it is not gone. And the appointment rests with me. How would you +like it?” + +“Nay,” said Hamish, half mockingly: “the question is, should I be honest +enough for it?” + +Mr. Huntley shook his fist at him. “If you ever bring that reproach up +to me again, I’ll--I’ll--You had better keep friends with me, you know, +sir, on other scores.” + +Hamish laughed. “I should like the post very much indeed, sir.” + +“And the house also, I suppose, you would make no objection to?” nodded +Mr. Huntley. + +“None in the world. I must work away, though, if it is ever to be +furnished.” + +“How can you tell but that some good spirit might furnish it for you?” + cried Mr. Huntley, quaintly. + +They were interrupted before anything more was said. Ellen, who had been +out with her aunt, came running in, in excitement. “Oh, papa! such happy +news! Charles Channing is found, and--” + +She stopped when she saw that she had another auditor. Hamish rose to +greet her. He took her hand, released it, and then returned to the fire +to Mr. Huntley. Ellen stood by the table, and had grown suddenly timid. + +“You will soon be receiving a visit from my mother and Constance,” + observed Hamish, looking at her. “I heard certain arrangements being +discussed, in which Miss Ellen Huntley’s name bore a part. We are soon +to lose Constance.” + +Ellen blushed rosy red. Mr. Huntley was the first to speak. “Yorke has +come to his senses, I suppose?” + +“Yorke and Constance between them. In a short time she is to be +transplanted to Hazledon.” + +“It is more than he deserves,” emphatically declared Mr. Huntley. “I +suppose you will be for getting married next, Mr. Hamish, when you come +into possession of that house we have been speaking of, and are your own +master?” + +“I always intended to think of it, sir, as soon as I could do so,” + returned saucy Hamish. And Ellen ran out of the room. + +That same afternoon Arthur Channing was seated at the organ in pursuance +of his duty, when a message came up from the dean. He was desired to +change the selected anthem, taken from the thirty-fifth Psalm, for +another: “O taste, and see, how gracious the Lord is!” + +It was not an anthem in the cathedral collection, but one recently +composed and presented to it by a private individual. It consisted of a +treble solo and chorus. Why had the dean specially commanded it for that +afternoon? Very rarely indeed did he change the services after they were +put up. Had he had _Arthur_ in his mind when he decided upon it? It was +impossible to say. Be it as it would, the words found a strange echo in +Arthur’s heart, as Bywater’s sweet voice rang through the cathedral. +“O taste, and see, how gracious the Lord is, blessed is the man that +trusteth in him. O fear the Lord, ye that are his saints, for they that +fear him lack nothing. The lions do lack, and suffer hunger: but they +who seek the Lord shall want no manner of thing that is good. The eyes +of the Lord are over the righteous: and his ears are open unto +their prayers. Great are the troubles of the righteous; but the +Lord delivereth him out of all. The Lord delivereth the souls of +his servants: and all they that put their trust in him shall not be +destitute.” + +Every word told upon Arthur’s heart, sending it up in thankfulness to +the Giver of all good. + +He found the dean waiting for him in the nave, when he went down at the +conclusion of the service. Dr. Gardner was with him. The dean held out +his hand to Arthur. + +“I am very glad you are cleared,” he said. “You have behaved nobly.” + +Arthur winced. He did not like to take the faintest meed of praise that +was not strictly his due. The dean might have thought he deserved less, +did he know that he had been only screening Hamish; but Arthur could not +avow that tale in public. He glanced at the dean with a frank smile. + +“You see now, sir, that I only spoke the truth when I assured you of my +innocence.” + +“I do see it,” said the dean. “I believed you then.” And once more +shaking Arthur’s hand, he turned into the cloisters with Dr. Gardner. + +“I have already offered my congratulations,” said the canon, good +humouredly, nodding to Arthur. This was correct. He had waylaid Arthur +as he went into college. + +Arthur suffered them to go on a few steps, and then descended to the +cloisters. Old Ketch was shuffling along. + +“What’s this I’ve been a hearing, about that there drownded boy having +come back?” asked he of Arthur, in his usual ungracious fashion. + +“I don’t know what you may have heard, Ketch. He has come back.” + +“And he ain’t dead nor drownded?” + +“Neither one nor the other. He is alive and well.” + +Ketch gave a groan of despair. “And them horrid young wretches’ll escape +the hangman! I’d ha’ walked ten miles to see em--” + +“Gracious, Sir John, what’s that you are talking about?” interrupted +Bywater, as the choristers trooped up, “Escaped you! so we have, for +once. What an agony of disappointment it must be for you, Mr. Calcraft! +Such practice for your old hands, to topple off a dozen or so of us! +Besides the pay! How much do you charge a head, Calcraft?” + +Ketch answered by a yell. + +“Now, don’t excite yourself, I beg,” went on aggravating Bywater. “We +are thinking of getting up a petition to the dean, to console you for +your disappointment, praying that he’ll allow you to wear a cap we have +ordered for you! It’s made of scarlet cloth, with long ears and a set of +bells! Its device is a cross beam and a cord, and we wish you health to +wear it out! I say, let’s wish Mr. Calcraft health! What’s tripe a pound +to-day, Calcraft?” + +The choristers, in various stages of delight, entered on their +aggravating shouts, their mocking dance. When they had driven Mr. Ketch +to the very verge of insanity, they decamped to the schoolroom. + +I need not enlarge on the evening of thankfulness it was at Mr. +Channing’s. Not one, but had special cause for gratitude--except, +perhaps, Annabel. Mr. Channing restored to health and strength; Mrs. +Channing’s anxiety removed; Hamish secure in his new prospects-for +Mr. Huntley had made them certain; heaviness removed from the heart of +Constance; the cloud lifted from Arthur; Tom on the pedestal he thought +he had lost, sure also of the Oxford exhibition; Charley amongst them +again! They could trace the finger of God in all; and were fond of doing +it. + +Soon after tea, Arthur rose. “I must drop in and see Jenkins,” he +observed. “He will have heard the items of news from twenty people, +there’s little doubt; but he will like me to go to him with particulars. +No one in Helstonleigh has been more anxious that things should turn out +happily, than poor Jenkins.” + +“Tell him he has my best wishes for his recovery, Arthur,” said Mr. +Channing. + +“I will tell him,” replied Arthur. “But I fear all hope of recovery for +Jenkins is past.” + +It was more decidedly past than even Arthur suspected when he spoke. +A young woman was attending to Mrs. Jenkins’s shop when Arthur passed +through it. Her face was strange to him; but from a certain peculiarity +in the eyes and mouth, he inferred it to be Mrs. Jenkins’s sister. In +point of fact, that lady, finding that her care of Jenkins and her care +of the shop rather interfered with each other, had sent for her sister +from the country to attend temporarily on the latter. Lydia went up to +Jenkins’s sick-room, and said a gentleman was waiting: and Mrs. Jenkins +came down. + +“Oh, it’s you!” quoth she. “I hope he’ll be at rest now. He has been +bothering his mind over you all day. My opinion is, he’d never have come +to this state if he had taken things easy, like sensible people.” + +“Is he in his room?” inquired Arthur. + +“He is in his room, and in his bed. And what’s more, young Mr. Channing, +hell never get out of it alive.” + +“Then he is worse?” + +“He has been worse this four days. And I only get him up now to have his +bed made. I said to him yesterday, ‘Jenkins, you may put on your things, +and go down to the office if you like.’ ‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I couldn’t +get up, much less get down to the office;’ which I knew was the case, +before I spoke. I wish I had had my wits about me!” somewhat irascibly +went on Mrs. Jenkins: “I should have had his bed brought down to the +parlour here, before he was so ill. I don’t speak for the shop, I have +somebody to attend to that; but it’s such a toil and a trapes up them +two pair of stairs for every little thing that’s wanted.” + +“I suppose I can go up, Mrs. Jenkins?” + +“You can go up,” returned she; “but mind you don’t get worrying him. I +won’t have him worried. He worries himself, without any one else doing +it gratis. If it’s not about one thing, it’s about another. Sometimes +it’s his master and the office, how they’ll get along; sometimes it’s +me, what I shall do without him; sometimes it’s his old father. He don’t +need any outside things to put him up.” + +“I am sorry he is so much worse,” remarked Arthur. + +“So am I,” said Mrs. Jenkins, tartly. “I have been doing all I could for +him from the first, and it has been like working against hope. If care +could have cured him, or money could have cured him, he’d be well now. I +have a trifle of savings in the bank, young Mr. Channing, and I have not +spared them. If they had ordered him medicine at a guinea a bottle, +I’d have had it for him. If they said he must have wine, or delicacies +brought from the other ends of the earth, they should have been brought. +Jenkins isn’t good for much, in point of spirit, as all the world knows; +but he’s my husband, and I have strove to do my duty by him. Now, if +you want to go up, you can go,” added she, after an imperceptible pause. +“There’s a light on the stairs, and you know his room. I’ll take the +opportunity to give an eye to the kitchen; I don’t care to leave him by +himself now. Finely it’s going on, I know!” + +Mrs. Jenkins whisked down the kitchen stairs, and Arthur proceeded up. +Jenkins was lying in bed, his head raised by pillows. Whatever may have +been Mrs. Jenkins’s faults of manner, her efficiency as a nurse and +manager could not be called into question. A bright fire burnt in +the well-ventilated though small room, the bed was snowy white, the +apartment altogether thoroughly comfortable. But--Jenkins! + +Fully occupied with his work for Mr. Galloway, it was several days since +Arthur had called on Jenkins, and the change he now saw in his face +struck him sharply. The skin was drawn, the eyes were unnaturally +bright, the cheeks had fallen in; certainly there could not be very many +hours of life left to Jenkins. A smile sat on his parched lips, and +his eyelashes became moist as he looked up to Arthur, and held out his +feeble hand. + +“I knew you would be cleared, sir! I knew that God would surely bring +the right to light! I have been humbly thanking Him for you, sir, all +day.” + +Arthur’s eyes glistened also as he bent over him. “You have heard it, +then, Jenkins? I thought you would.” + +“Yes, sir, I heard it this morning, when it was getting towards mid-day. +I had a visit, sir, from his lordship the bishop. I had, indeed! He came +up as he has done before--as kindly, and with as little ceremony, as if +he had been a poor body like myself. It was he who first told me, Mr. +Arthur.” + +“I am glad he came to see you, Jenkins.” + +“He talked so pleasantly, sir. ‘It is a journey that we must all take, +Jenkins,’ he said; ‘and for my part, I think it matters little whether +we take it sooner or later, so that God vouchsafes to us the grace to +prepare for it.’ For affability, sir, it was just as if it had been a +brother talking to me; but he said things different from what any poor +brother of mine could have said, and they gave me comfort. Then he asked +me if I had taken the Sacrament lately; and I thanked him, and said +I had taken it on Sunday last; our clergyman came round to me after +service. Mr. Arthur”--and poor Jenkins’s eyes wore an eager look of +gratitude--“I feel sure that his lordship would have administered it to +me with his own hands. I wonder whether all bishops are like him!” + +Arthur did not answer. Jenkins resumed, quitting the immediate topic for +another. + +“And I hear, sir, that Mr. Channing has come home restored, and that the +little boy is found. His lordship was so good as to tell me both. Oh, +Mr. Arthur, how merciful God has been!” + +“We are finding Him so, just now,” fervently spoke Arthur. + +“And it is all right again, sir, with you and Mr. Galloway?” + +“Quite right. I am to remain in the office. I am to be in your place, +Jenkins.” + +“You’ll occupy a better position in it, sir, than I ever did. But you +will not be all alone, surely?” + +“Young Bartlett is coming to be under me. Mr. Galloway has made final +arrangements to-day. We shall go on all right now.” + +“Ay,” said Jenkins, folding his thin hands upon the counterpane, and +speaking as in self-commune; “we must live near to God to know His +mercy. It does seem almost as if I had asked a favour of any earthly +person, so exactly has it been granted me! Mr. Arthur, I prayed that I +might live to see you put right with Mr. Galloway and the town, and I +felt as sure as I could feel, by some inward evidence which I cannot +describe, but which was plain to me, that God heard me, and would grant +me my wish. It seems, sir, as if I had been let live for that. I shan’t +be long now.” + +“While there is life there is hope, you know, Jenkins,” replied Arthur, +unable to say anything more cheering in the face of circumstances. + +“Mr. Arthur, the hope for me now is, to go,” said Jenkins. “I would not +be restored if I could. How can I tell, sir, but I might fall away from +God? If the call comes to-night, sir, it will find me ready. Oh, Mr. +Arthur, if people only knew the peace of living close to God--of feeling +that they are READY! Ready for the summons, let it come in the second or +third watch!” + +“Jenkins!” exclaimed Arthur, as the thought struck him: “I have not +heard you cough once since I came in! Is your cough better!” + +“Oh, sir, there’s another blessing! Now that I have grown so weak that +the cough would shatter me--tear my frame to pieces--it is gone! It is +nearly a week, sir, since I coughed at all. My death-bed has been made +quite pleasant for me. Except for weakness, I am free from pain, and I +have all things comfortable. I am rich in abundance: my wife waits upon +me night and day--she lets me want for nothing; before I can express a +wish, it is done. When I think of all the favours showered down upon +me, and how little I can do, or have ever done, for God, in return, I am +overwhelmed with shame.” + +“Jenkins, one would almost change places with you, to be in your frame +of mind,” cried Arthur, his tone impassioned. + +“God will send the same frame of mind to all who care to go to Him,” was +the reply. “Sir,” and now Jenkins dropped his voice, “I was grieved to +hear about Mr. Roland. I could not have thought it.” + +“Ay; it was unwelcome news, for his own sake.” + +“I never supposed but that the post-office must have been to blame. I +think, Mr. Arthur, he must have done it in a dream; as one, I mean, who +has not his full faculties about him. I hope the Earl of Carrick will +take care of him. I hope he will live to come back a good, brave man! +If he would only act less on impulse and more on principle, it would +be better for him. Little Master Charles has been ill, I hear, sir? I +should like to see him.” + +“I will bring him to see you,” replied Arthur. + +“Will you, sir?” and Jenkins’s face lighted up. “I should like just to +set eyes on him once again. But--it must be very soon, Mr. Arthur.” + +“You think so?” murmured Arthur. + +“I know it, sir--I feel it. I do not say it before my wife, sir, for +I don’t think she sees herself that I am so near the end, and it would +only grieve her. It _will_ grieve her, sir, whenever it comes, though +she may not care to show people that it does. I shall see you again, I +hope, Mr. Arthur?” + +“That you shall be sure to do. I will not miss a day now, without coming +in. It will do me good to see you, Jenkins; to hear you tell me, again, +of your happy state of resignation.” + +“It is better than resignation, Mr. Arthur, it is a state of hope. Not +but that I shall leave some regrets behind me. My wife will be lone and +comfortless, and must trust to her own exertions only. And my poor old +father--” + +“If I didn’t know it! If I didn’t know that, on some subject or other, +he’d be safe to be worrying himself, or it would not be him! I’d put +myself into my grave at once, if I were you, Jenkins. As good do it that +way, as by slow degrees.” + +Of course you cannot fail to recognize the voice. She entered at that +unlucky moment when Jenkins was alluding to his father. He attempted a +defence--an explanation. + +“My dear, I was not worrying. I was only telling Mr. Arthur Channing +that there were some things I should regret to leave. My poor old father +for one; he has looked to me, naturally, to help him a little bit in his +old age, and I would rather, so far as that goes, have been spared to do +it. But, neither that nor anything else can worry me now. I am content +to leave all to God.” + +“Was ever the like heard?” retorted Mrs. Jenkins, “Not worrying! _I_ +know. If you were not worrying, you wouldn’t be talking. Isn’t old +Jenkins your father, and shan’t I take upon myself to see that he does +not want? You know I shall, Jenkins. When do I ever go from my word?” + +“My dear, I know you will do what’s right,” returned Jenkins, in his +patient meekness: “but the old man will feel it hard, my departing +before him. Are you going, sir?” + +“I must go,” replied Arthur, taking one of the thin hands. “I will bring +Charley in to-morrow.” + +Jenkins pressed Arthur’s hand between his. “God bless you, Mr. Arthur,” + he fervently said. “May He be your friend for ever! May He render your +dying bed happy, as He has rendered mine!” And Arthur turned away--never +again to see Jenkins in life. + +“Blessed are those servants, whom the Lord when He cometh shall find +watching.” + +As Jenkins was, that night, when the message came for him. + + + + + + + + + +CHAPTER LX. -- IN WHAT DOES IT LIE? + +Had the clerk of the weather been favoured with an express letter +containing a heavy bribe, a more lovely day could not have been secured +than that one in January which witnessed the marriage of Constance +Channing to the Rev. William Yorke. + +The ceremony was over, and they were home again; seated at breakfast +with their guests. But only a few guests were present, and they for the +most part close friends: the Huntleys; Lady Augusta Yorke, and Gerald; +Mr. Galloway; and the Rev. Mr. Pye, who married them. It has since +become the fashion to have a superfluity of bridesmaids: I am not sure +that a young lady would consider herself legally married unless she +enjoyed the privilege. Constance, though not altogether a slave to +fashion, followed it, not in a very extensive degree. Annabel Channing, +Ellen Huntley, and Caroline and Fanny Yorke, had been the _demoiselles +d’honneur_. Charley’s auburn curls had grown again, and Charley +himself was in better condition than when he arrived from his impromptu +excursion. For grandeur, no one could approach Miss Huntley; her brocade +silk stood on end, stiff, prim, and stately as herself. Judy, in her +way, was stately too; a curiously-fine lace cap on her head, which had +not been allowed to see the light since Charley’s christening, with a +large white satin bow in front, almost as large as the cap itself. And +that was no despicable size. + +The only one who did not behave with a due regard to what might be +expected of him, was Hamish--grievous as it is to have to record it. It +had been duly impressed upon Hamish that he was to conduct Miss Huntley +in to breakfast, etiquette and society consigning that lady to his +share. Mr. Hamish, however, chose to misconstrue instructions in the +most deplorable manner. He left Miss Huntley, a prey to whomsoever might +pick her up, and took in Miss Ellen. It might have passed, possibly, but +for Annabel, who appeared as free and unconcerned that important morning +as at other times. + +“Hamish, that’s wrong! It is Miss Huntley you are to take in; not +Ellen.” + +Hamish had grown suddenly deaf. He walked on with Ellen, leaving +confusion to right itself. Arthur stepped up in the dilemma, and the +tips of Miss Huntley’s white-gloved fingers were laid upon his arm. It +would take her some time to forgive Hamish, favourite though he was. +Later on, Hamish took the opportunity of reading Miss Annabel a private +lecture on the expediency of minding her own business. + +Hamish was in his new post now, at the bank: thoroughly +well-established. He had not yet taken up his abode in the house. It was +too large, he laughingly said, for a single man. + +The breakfast came to an end, as other breakfasts do; and next, +Constance came down in her travelling dress. Now that the moment of +parting was come, Constance in her agitation longed for it to be over. +She hurriedly wished them adieu, and lifted her tearful face last to her +father. + +Mr. Channing laid his hands upon her. “May God bless my dear child, and +be her guide and refuge for ever! William Yorke, it is a treasure of +great price that I have given you this day. May she be as good a wife as +she has been a daughter!” + +Mr. Yorke, murmuring a few heartfelt words, put Constance into the +carriage, and they drove away. + +“It will be your turn next,” whispered Hamish to Ellen Huntley, who +stood watching the departure from one of the windows. + +What Ellen would have said--whether she would have given any other +answer than that accorded by her blushing cheeks, cannot be told. The +whisper had not been quite so low as Hamish thought it, and it was +overheard by Mr. Huntley. + +“There may be two words to that bargain, Mr. Hamish.” + +“Twenty, if you like, sir,” responded Hamish, promptly, “so that they be +affirmative ones.” + +“Ellen,” whispered Mr. Huntley, “would you have him, with all his +gracelessness?” + +Ellen seemed ready to fall, and her eyes filled. “Do not joke now, +papa,” was all she said. + +Hamish caught her hand, and took upon himself the task of soothing her. +And Mr. Huntley relapsed into a smile, and did not hinder him. + +But some one else was bursting into tears: as the sounds testified. It +proved to be Lady Augusta Yorke. A few tears might well be excused +to Mrs. Channing, on the occasion of parting with her ever-loving, +ever-dutiful child, but what could Lady Augusta have to cry about? + +Lady Augusta was excessively impulsive: as you have long ago learned. +The happiness of the Channing family, in their social relations to +each other; the loving gentleness of Mr. and Mrs. Channing with their +children; the thorough respect, affection, duty, rendered to them by the +children in return--had struck her more than ever on this morning. She +was contrasting the young Channings with her own boys and girls, and the +contrast made her feel very depressed. Thus she was just in a condition +to go off, when the parting came with Constance, and the burst took +place as she watched the carriage from the door. Had any one asked Lady +Augusta why she cried, she would have been puzzled to state. + +“Tell me!” she suddenly uttered, turning and seizing Mrs. Channing’s +hands--“what makes the difference between your children and mine? My +children were not born bad, any more than yours were; and yet, look at +the trouble they give me! In what does it lie?” + +“I think,” said Mrs. Channing, quietly, and with some hesitation--for it +was not pleasant to say anything which might tacitly reflect on the Lady +Augusta--“that the difference in most children lies in the bringing up. +Children turn out well or ill, as they are trained; and in accordance +with this rule they will become our blessing or our grief.” + +“Ah, yes, that must be it,” acquiesced Lady Augusta. “And yet--I don’t +know,” she rejoined, doubtingly. “Do you believe that so very much lies +in the training?” + +“It does, indeed, Lady Augusta. God’s laws everywhere proclaim it. Take +a rough diamond from a mine--what is it, unless you polish it, and cut +it, and set it? Do you see its value, its beauty, in its original +state? Look at the trees of our fields, the flowers and fruits of the +earth--what are they, unless they are pruned and cared for? It is by +cultivation alone that they can be brought, to perfection. And, if God +so made the productions of the earth, that it is only by our constant +attention and labour that they can be brought to perfection, would He, +think you, have us give less care to that far more important product, +our children’s minds? _They_ may be trained to perfectness, or they may +be allowed to run to waste from neglect.” + +“Oh dear!” sighed Lady Augusta. “But it is a dreadful trouble, always to +be worrying over children.” + +“It is a trouble that, in a very short time after entering upon it, +grows into a pleasure,” said Mrs. Channing. “I am sure that there is not +a mother, really training her children to good, who will not bear me out +in the assertion. It is a pleasure that they would not be without. Take +it from them, and the most delightful occupation of their lives is gone. +And think of the reward! Were there no higher end to be looked for, it +would be found in the loving obedience of the children. You talk of +the trouble, Lady Augusta: those who would escape trouble with their +children should be careful how they train them.” + +“I think I’ll begin at once with mine,” exclaimed Lady Augusta, +brightening up. + +A smile crossed Mrs. Channing’s lips, as she slightly shook her head. +None knew better than she, that training, to bear its proper fruit, must +be begun with a child’s earliest years. + +Meanwhile, the proctor was holding a conference with Mr. Channing. +“Presents seem to be the order of the day,” he was remarking, in +allusion to sundry pretty offerings which had been made to Constance. “I +think I may as well contribute my mite--” + +“Why, you have done it! You gave her a bracelet, you know,” cried Miss +Annabel. For which abrupt interruption she was forthwith consigned to a +distance; and ran away, to be teased by Tom and Gerald. + +“I have something in my pocket which I wish to give to Arthur; which I +have been intending for some time to give him,” resumed Mr. Galloway, +taking from his pocket what seemed to be a roll of parchment. “Will you +accept them, Arthur?” + +“What, sir?” + +“Your articles.” + +“Oh! Mr. Galloway--” + +“No thanks, my boy. I am in your debt far deeper than I like to be! A +trifling thing such as this”--touching the parchment--“cannot wipe out +the suspicion I cast upon you, the disgrace which followed it. Perhaps +at some future time, I may be better able to atone for it. I hope we +shall be together many years, Arthur. I have no son to succeed to my +business, and it may be--But I will leave that until the future comes.” + +It was a valuable present gracefully offered, and Mr. Channing and +Arthur so acknowledged it, passing over the more important hint in +silence. + +“Children,” said Mr. Channing, as, the festivities of the day at an +end, and the guests departed, they were gathered together round their +fireside, bereft of Constance “what a forcible lesson of God’s mercy +ought these last few months to teach us! Six months ago, there came to +us news that our suit was lost; other troubles followed upon it, and +things looked dark and gloomy. But I, for one, never lost my trust in +God; it was not for a moment shaken; and if you are the children I and +your mother have striven to bring up, you did not lose yours. Tom,” + turning suddenly upon him, “I fear you were the only impatient one.” + +Tom looked contrite. “I fear I was, papa.” + +“What good did the indulgence of your hasty spirit do you?” + +“No good, but harm,” frankly confessed Tom. “I hope it has helped me to +some notion of patience, though, for the future, papa.” + +“Ay,” said Mr. Channing. “Hope on, strive on, work on, and trust on! I +believe that you made those your watchwords; as did I. And now, in an +almost unprecedentedly short time, we are brought out of our troubles. +While others, equally deserving, have to struggle on for years before +the cloud is lifted, it has pleased God to bring us wonderfully quickly +out of ours; to heap mercies and blessings, and a hopeful future upon +us. I may truly say, ‘He has brought us to great honour, and comforted +us on every side.’” + +“I HAVE BEEN YOUNG, AND NOW AM OLD; AND YET SAW I NEVER THE RIGHTEOUS +FORSAKEN, NOR HIS SEED BEGGING THEIR BREAD.” + + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Channings, by Mrs. Henry Wood + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHANNINGS *** + +***** This file should be named 9192-0.txt or 9192-0.zip ***** This and +all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/9/9192/ + + +Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charlie Kirschner, and the +Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be +renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one +owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and +you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission +and without paying copyright royalties. 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