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.”
“Youhave 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 onthem. 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 Icannotlive 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 bemywife, 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. Ibegyou 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, areyouhere?”
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.
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?Doesit 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 youarein 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 therestit 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 hecoulddrag 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—tryingto 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’snot coming to it.”
“Ican’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 lockthemup.”
“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.”
“Heintend 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!”
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. “Idon’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.Iam not going to work over hours!Iwon’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.
“Ihaveheard 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.
“Youmaycome 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 therearepeople 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 thisshouldhave 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 ladwasinnocent, 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 Arthurknewthat 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.”