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 forhimselfthat 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 thinkmeguilty,” 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.Hedid 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 explanationcouldhe 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, “Youknow 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! IwishI 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.
“Youwill 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 leastacknowledgethe 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’ttellhow 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.
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 beused—not abused or wasted.”
“Iwilltry 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, whatisthis 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 therewasan 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!”
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 itsdébris. 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.Youmay 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 humiliateher. “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 waswellso 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 theAntwerppacket 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 toldher!”
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, inquiredwhyit 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: itwoulddisgrace 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.