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THE CHANNINGS
A STORY
By Mrs. Henry Wood
Author Of “East Lynne,” “Johnny Ludlow,” Etc. _Two Hundred And Tenth
Thousand_
1901
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. -- THE INKED SURPLICE.
CHAPTER II. -- BAD NEWS.
CHAPTER III. -- CONSTANCE CHANNING.
CHAPTER IV. -- NO HOLIDAY TO-DAY.
CHAPTER V. -- ROLAND YORKE.
CHAPTER VI. -- LADY AUGUSTA YORKE AT HOME.
CHAPTER VII. -- MR. KETCH.
CHAPTER VIII. -- THE ASSISTANT-ORGANIST.
CHAPTER IX. -- HAMISH’S CANDLES.
CHAPTER X. -- A FALSE ALARM.
CHAPTER XI. -- THE CLOISTER KEYS.
CHAPTER XII. -- A MISHAP TO THE BISHOP.
CHAPTER XIII. -- MAD NANCE.
CHAPTER XIV. -- KEEPING OFFICE.
CHAPTER XV. -- A SPLASH IN THE RIVER.
CHAPTER XVI. -- MUCH TO ALTER.
CHAPTER XVII. -- SUNDAY MORNING AT MR. CHANNING’S, AND AT LADY
AUGUSTA’S.
CHAPTER XVIII. -- MR. JENKINS ALIVE AGAIN.
CHAPTER XIX. -- THE LOSS.
CHAPTER XX. -- THE LOOMING OF AN AWFUL FEAR.
CHAPTER XXI. -- MR. BUTTERBY.
CHAPTER XXII. -- AN INTERRUPTED DINNER.
CHAPTER XXIII. -- AN ESCORT TO THE GUILDHALL.
CHAPTER XXIV. -- THE EXAMINATION.
CHAPTER XXV. -- A MORNING CALL.
CHAPTER XXVI. -- CHECKMATED.
CHAPTER XXVII. -- A PIECE OF PREFERMENT.
CHAPTER XXVIII. -- AN APPEAL TO THE DEAN.
CHAPTER XXIX. -- A TASTE OF “TAN.”
CHAPTER XXX. -- THE DEPARTURE.
CHAPTER XXXI. -- ABROAD.
CHAPTER XXXII. -- AN OMINOUS COUGH.
CHAPTER XXXIII. -- NO SENIORSHIP FOR TOM CHANNING.
CHAPTER XXXIV. -- GERALD YORKE MADE INTO A “BLOCK.”
CHAPTER XXXV. -- THE EARL OF CARRICK.
CHAPTER XXXVI. -- ELLEN HUNTLEY.
CHAPTER XXXVII. -- THE CONSPIRATORS.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. -- THE DECISION.
CHAPTER XXXIX. -- THE GHOST.
CHAPTER XL. -- MR. KETCH’S EVENING VISIT.
CHAPTER XLI. -- THE SEARCH.
CHAPTER XLII. -- AN OFFICIAL CEREMONY INTERRUPTED.
CHAPTER XLIII. -- DRAGGING THE RIVER.
CHAPTER XLIV. -- MR. JENKINS IN A DILEMMA.
CHAPTER XLV. -- A NEW SUSPICION.
CHAPTER XLVI. -- A LETTER FOR MR. GALLOWAY.
CHAPTER XLVII. -- DARK CLOUDS.
CHAPTER XLVIII. -- MUFFINS FOR TEA.
CHAPTER XLIX. -- A CHÂTEAU EN ESPAGNE.
CHAPTER L. -- REALLY GONE!
CHAPTER LI. -- AN ARRIVAL IN A FLY.
CHAPTER LII. -- A RELIC FROM THE BURIAL-GROUND.
CHAPTER LIII. -- THE RETURN HOME.
CHAPTER LIV. -- “THE SHIP’S DROWNED.”
CHAPTER LV. -- NEWS FROM ROLAND.
CHAPTER LVI. -- THE BROKEN PHIAL.
CHAPTER LVII. -- A GHOST AGAIN.
CHAPTER LVIII. -- BYWATER’S DANCE.
CHAPTER LIX. -- READY.
CHAPTER LX. -- IN WHAT DOES IT LIE?
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on and is never still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
CHAPTER I. -- THE INKED SURPLICE.
The sweet bells of Helstonleigh Cathedral were ringing out in the
summer’s afternoon. Groups of people lined the streets, in greater
number than the ordinary business of the day would have brought forth;
some pacing with idle steps, some halting to talk with one another,
some looking in silence towards a certain point, as far as the eye could
reach; all waiting in expectation.
It was the first day of Helstonleigh Assizes; that is, the day on
which the courts of law began their sittings. Generally speaking,
the commission was opened at Helstonleigh on a Saturday; but for some
convenience in the arrangements of the circuit, it was fixed this time
for Wednesday; and when those cathedral bells burst forth, they gave
signal that the judges had arrived and were entering the sheriff’s
carriage, which had gone out to meet them.
A fine sight, carrying in it much of majesty, was the procession, as it
passed through the streets with its slow and stately steps; and although
Helstonleigh saw it twice a year, it looked at it with gratified eyes
still, and made the day into a sort of holiday. The trumpeters
rode first, blowing the proud note of advance, and the long line of
well-mounted javelin men came next, two abreast; their attire that of
the livery of the high sheriff’s family, and their javelins held in
rest. Sundry officials followed, and the governor of the county gaol
sat in an open carriage, his long white wand raised in the air. Then
appeared the handsome, closed equipage of the sheriff, its four horses,
caparisoned with silver, pawing the ground, for they chafed at the slow
pace to which they were restrained. In it, in their scarlet robes and
flowing wigs, carrying awe to many a young spectator, sat the judges.
The high sheriff sat opposite to them, his chaplain by his side, in his
gown and bands. A crowd of gentlemen, friends of the sheriff, followed
on horseback; and a mob of ragamuffins brought up the rear.
To the assize courts the procession took its way, and there the short
business of opening the commission was gone through, when the judges
re-entered the carriage to proceed to the cathedral, having been joined
by the mayor and corporation. The sweet bells of Helstonleigh were
still ringing out, not to welcome the judges to the city now, but as an
invitation to them to come and worship God. Within the grand entrance
of the cathedral, waiting to receive the judges, stood the Dean of
Helstonleigh, two or three of the chapter, two of the minor canons, and
the king’s scholars and choristers, all in their white robes. The bells
ceased; the fine organ pealed out--and there are few finer organs in
England than that of Helstonleigh--the vergers with their silver maces,
and the decrepit old bedesmen in their black gowns, led the way to the
choir, the long scarlet trains of the judges held up behind: and places
were found for all.
The Rev. John Pye began the service; it was his week for chanting.
He was one of the senior minor canons, and head-master of the college
school. At the desk opposite to him sat the Rev. William Yorke, a young
man who had only just gained his minor canonry.
The service went on smoothly until the commencement of the anthem. In
one sense it went on smoothly to the end, for no person present, not
even the judges themselves, could see that anything was wrong. Mr. Pye
was what was called “chanter” to the cathedral, which meant that it was
he who had the privilege of selecting the music for the chants and other
portions of the service, when the dean did not do so himself. The anthem
he had put up for this occasion was a very good one, taken from the
Psalms of David. It commenced with a treble solo; it was, moreover, an
especial favourite of Mr. Pye’s; and he complacently disposed himself to
listen.
But no sooner was the symphony over, no sooner had the first notes of
the chorister sounded on Mr. Pye’s ear, than his face slightly flushed,
and he lifted his head with a sharp, quick gesture. _That_ was not the
voice which ought to have sung this fine anthem; that was a cracked,
_passée_ voice, belonging to the senior chorister, a young gentleman
of seventeen, who was going out of the choir at Michaelmas. He had done
good service for the choir in his day, but his voice was breaking now;
and the last time he had attempted a solo, the bishop (who interfered
most rarely with the executive of the cathedral; and, indeed, it was not
his province to do so) had spoken himself to Mr. Pye on the conclusion
of the service, and said the boy ought not to be allowed to sing alone
again.
Mr. Pye bent his head forward to catch a glimpse of the choristers,
five of whom sat on his side of the choir, the _decani_; five on the
opposite, or _cantori_ side. So far as he could see, the boy, Stephen
Bywater, who ought to have taken the anthem, was not in his place. There
appeared to be only four of them; but the senior boy with his clean,
starched surplice, partially hid those below him. Mr. Pye wondered where
his eyes could have been, not to have noticed the boy’s absence when
they had all been gathered round the entrance, waiting for the judges.
Had Mr. Pye’s attention not been fully engrossed with his book, as the
service had gone on, he might have seen the boy opposite to him; for
there sat Bywater, before the bench of king’s scholars, and right in
front of Mr. Pye. Mr. Pye’s glance fell upon him now, and he could
scarcely believe it. He rubbed his eyes, and looked, and rubbed again.
Bywater there! and without his surplice! braving, as it were, the
head-master! What could he possibly mean by this act of insubordination?
Why was he not in his place in the school? Why was he mixing with
the congregation? But Mr. Pye could as yet obtain no solution to the
mystery.
The anthem came to an end; the dean had bent his brow at the solo, but
it did no good; and, the prayers over, the sheriff’s chaplain ascended
to the pulpit to preach the sermon. He selected his text from St. John’s
Gospel: “That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is
born of the Spirit is spirit.” In the course of his sermon he pointed
out that the unhappy prisoners in the gaol, awaiting the summons to
answer before an earthly tribunal for the evil deeds they had committed,
had been led into their present miserable condition by the seductions
of the flesh. They had fallen into sin, he went on, by the indulgence of
their passions; they had placed no restraint upon their animal appetites
and guilty pleasures; they had sunk gradually into crime, and had now to
meet the penalty of the law. But did no blame, he asked, attach to those
who had remained indifferent to their downward course; who had never
stretched forth a friendly hand to rescue them from destruction; who had
made no effort to teach and guide in the ways of truth and righteousness
these outcasts of society? Were we, he demanded, at liberty to ignore
our responsibility by asking in the words of earth’s first criminal, “Am
I my brother’s keeper?” No; it was at once our duty and our privilege to
engage in the noble work of man’s reformation--to raise the fallen--to
seek out the lost, and to restore the outcast; and this, he argued,
could only be accomplished by a widely-disseminated knowledge of God’s
truth, by patient, self-denying labour in God’s work, and by a devout
dependence on God’s Holy Spirit.
At the conclusion of the service the head-master proceeded to the
vestry, where the minor canons, choristers, and lay-clerks kept their
surplices. Not the dean and chapter; they robed in the chapter-house:
and the king’s scholars put on their surplices in the schoolroom. The
choristers followed Mr. Pye to the vestry, Bywater entering with them.
The boys grouped themselves together: they were expecting--to use their
own expression--a row.
“Bywater, what is the meaning of this conduct?” was the master’s stern
demand.
“I had no surplice, sir,” was Bywater’s answer--a saucy-looking boy
with a red face, who had a propensity for getting into “rows,” and,
consequently, into punishment.
“No surplice!” repeated Mr. Pye--for the like excuse had never been
offered by a college boy before. “What do you mean?”
“We were ordered to wear clean surplices this afternoon. I brought mine
to college this morning; I left it here in the vestry, and took the
dirty one home. Well, sir, when I came to put it on this afternoon, it
was gone.”
“How could it have gone? Nonsense, sir! Who would touch your surplice?”
“But I could _not_ find it, sir,” repeated Bywater. “The choristers know
I couldn’t; and they left me hunting for it when they went into the hall
to receive the judges. I could not go into my stall, sir, and sing the
anthem without my surplice.”
“Hurst had no business to sing it,” was the vexed rejoinder of the
master. “You know your voice is gone, Hurst. You should have gone up to
the organist, stated the case, and had another anthem put up.”
“But, sir, I was expecting Bywater in every minute. I thought he’d be
sure to find his surplice somewhere,” was Hurst’s defence. “And when he
did not come, and it grew too late to do anything, I thought it better
to take the anthem myself than to give it to a junior, who would be safe
to have made a mess of it. Better for the judges and other strangers to
hear a faded voice in Helstonleigh Cathedral, than to hear bad singing.”
The master did not speak. So far, Hurst’s argument had reason in it.
“And--I beg your pardon for what I am about to say, sir,” Hurst went on:
“but I hope you will allow me to assure you beforehand, that neither
I, nor my juniors under me, have had a hand in this affair. Bywater has
just told me that the surplice is found, and how; and blame is sure
to be cast upon us; but I declare that not one of us has been in the
mischief.”
Mr. Pye opened his eyes. “What now?” he asked. “What is the mischief?”
“I found the surplice afterwards, sir,” Bywater said. “This is it.”
He spoke meaningly, as if preparing them for a surprise, and pointed to
a corner of the vestry. There lay a clean, but tumbled surplice, half
soaked in ink. The head-master and Mr. Yorke, lay-clerks and choristers,
all gathered round, and stared in amazement.
“They shall pay me the worth of the surplice,” spoke Bywater, an angry
shade crossing his usually good-tempered face.
“And have a double flogging into the bargain,” exclaimed the master.
“Who has done this?”
“It looks as though it had been rabbled up for the purpose,” cried
Hurst, in schoolboy phraseology, bending down and touching it gingerly
with his finger. “The ink has been poured on to it.”
“Where did you find it?” sharply demanded the master--not that he was
angry with the boys before him, but he felt angry that the thing should
have taken place.
“I found it behind the screen, sir,” replied Bywater. “I thought I’d
look there, as a last resource, and there it was. I should think nobody
has been behind that screen for a twelvemonth past, for it’s over ankles
in dust there.”
“And you know nothing of it, Hurst?”
“Nothing whatever, sir,” was the reply of the senior chorister, spoken
earnestly. “When Bywater whispered to me what had occurred, I set it
down as the work of one of the choristers, and I taxed them with it. But
they all denied it strenuously, and I believe they spoke the truth. I
put them on their honour.”
The head-master peered at the choristers. Innocence was in every
face--not guilt; and he, with Hurst, believed he must look elsewhere for
the culprit. That it had been done by a college boy there could be no
doubt whatever; either out of spite to Bywater, or from pure love of
mischief. The king’s scholars had no business in the vestry; but just at
this period the cathedral was undergoing repair, and they could enter,
if so minded, at any time of the day, the doors being left open for the
convenience of the workmen.
The master turned out of the vestry. The cathedral was emptied of its
crowd, leaving nothing but the dust to tell of what had been, and the
bells once more went pealing forth over the city. Mr. Pye crossed the
nave, and quitted the cathedral by the cloister door, followed by the
choristers. The schoolroom, once the large refectory of the monks in
monkish days, was on the opposite side of the cloisters; a large room,
which you gained by steps, and whose high windows were many feet from
the ground. Could you have climbed to those windows, and looked from
them, you would have beheld a fair scene. A clear river wound under the
cathedral walls; beyond its green banks were greener meadows, stretching
out in the distance; far-famed, beautiful hills bounded the horizon.
Close by, were the prebendal houses; some built of red stone, some
covered with ivy, all venerable with age. Pleasant gardens surrounded
most of them, and dark old elms towered aloft, sheltering the rooks,
which seemed as old as the trees.
The king’s scholars were in the schoolroom, cramming their surplices
into bags, or preparing to walk home with them thrown upon their arms,
and making enough hubbub to alarm the rooks. It dropped to a dead calm
at sight of the master. On holidays--and this was one--it was not
usual for the masters to enter the school after service. The school was
founded by royal charter--its number limited to forty boys, who were
called king’s scholars, ten of whom, those whose voices were the best,
were chosen choristers. The master marched to his desk, and made a sign
for the boys to approach, addressing himself to the senior boy.
“Gaunt, some mischief has been done in the vestry, touching Bywater’s
surplice. Do you know anything of it?”
“No, sir,” was the prompt answer. And Gaunt was one who scorned to tell
a lie.
The master ranged his eyes round the circle. “Who does?”
There was no reply. The boys looked at one another, a sort of stolid
surprise for the most part predominating. Mr. Pye resumed:
“Bywater tells me that he left his clean surplice in the vestry this
morning. This afternoon it was found thrown behind the screen, tumbled
together, beyond all doubt purposely, and partially covered with ink. I
ask, who has done this?”
“I have not, sir,” burst forth from most of the boys simultaneously. The
seniors, of whom there were three besides Gaunt, remained silent. But
this was nothing unusual; for the seniors, unless expressly questioned
or taxed with a fault, did not accustom themselves to a voluntary
denial.
“I can only think this has been the result of accident,” continued the
head-master. “It is incredible to suppose any one of you would wantonly
destroy a surplice. If so, let that boy, whoever he may have been, speak
up honourably, and I will forgive him. I conclude that the ink must
have been spilt upon it, I say accidentally, and that he then, in his
consternation, tumbled the surplice together, and threw it out of sight
behind the screen. It had been more straightforward, more in accordance
with what I wish you all to be--boys of thorough truth and honour--had
he candidly confessed it. But the fear of the moment may have frightened
his better judgment away. Let him acknowledge it now, and I will forgive
him; though of course he must pay Bywater for another surplice.”
A dead silence.
“Do you hear, boys?” the master sternly asked.
No answer from any one; nothing but continued silence. The master rose,
and his countenance assumed its most severe expression.
“Hear further, boys. That it is one of you, I am convinced; and your
refusing to speak compels me to fear that it was _not_ an accident, but
a premeditated, wicked act. I now warn you, whoever did it, that if I
can discover the author or authors, he or they shall be punished with
the utmost severity, short of expulsion, that is allowed by the rules of
the school. Seniors, I call for your aid in this. Look to it.”
The master left the schoolroom, and Babel broke loose--questioning,
denying, protesting, one of another. Bywater was surrounded.
“Won’t there be a stunning flogging? Bywater, who did it? Do you know?”
Bywater sat himself astride over the end of a bench, and nodded. The
senior boy turned to him, some slight surprise in his look and tone.
“Do you know, Bywater?”
“Pretty well, Gaunt. There are two fellows in this school, one’s at your
desk, one’s at the second desk, and I believe they’d either of them do
me a nasty turn if they could. It was one of them.”
“Who do you mean?” asked Gaunt eagerly.
Bywater laughed. “Thank you. If I tell now, it may defeat the ends of
justice, as the newspapers say. I’ll wait till I am sure--and then, let
him look to himself. _I_ won’t spare him, and I don’t fancy Pye will.”
“You’ll never find out, if you don’t find out at once, Bywater,” cried
Hurst.
“Shan’t I? You’ll see,” was the significant answer. “It’s some distance
from here to the vestry of the cathedral, and a fellow could scarcely
steal there and steal back without being seen by somebody. It was done
stealthily, mark you; and when folks go on stealthy errands they are
safe to be met.”
Before he had finished speaking, a gentlemanly-looking boy of about
twelve, with delicate features, a damask flush on his face, and wavy
auburn hair, sprang up with a start. “Why!” he exclaimed, “I saw--” And
there he came to a sudden halt, and the flush on his cheek grew deeper,
and then faded again. It was a face of exceeding beauty, refined almost
as a girl’s, and it had gained for him in the school the _sobriquet_ of
“Miss.”
“What’s the matter with you, Miss Charley?”
“Oh, nothing, Bywater.”
“Charley Channing,” exclaimed Gaunt, “do you know who did it?”
“If I did, Gaunt, I should not tell,” was the fearless answer.
“_Do_ you know, Charley?” cried Tom Channing, who was one of the seniors
of the school.
“Where’s the good of asking that wretched little muff?” burst forth
Gerald Yorke. “He’s only a girl. How do you know it was not one of the
lay-clerks, Bywater? They carry ink in their pockets, I’ll lay. Or any
of the masons might have gone into the vestry, for the matter of that.”
“It wasn’t a lay-clerk, and it wasn’t a mason,” stoically nodded
Bywater. “It was a college boy. And I shall lay my finger upon him as
soon as I am a little bit surer than I am. I am three parts sure now.”
“If Charley Channing does not suspect somebody, I’m not here,” exclaimed
Hurst, who had closely watched the movement alluded to; and he brought
his hand down fiercely on the desk as he spoke. “Come, Miss Channing,
just shell out what you know; it’s a shame the choristers should lie
under such a ban: and of course we _shall_ do so, with Pye.”
“You be quiet, Hurst, and let Miss Charley alone,” drawled Bywater. “I
don’t want him, or anybody else to get pummelled to powder; I’ll find
it out for myself, I say. Won’t my old aunt be in a way though, when
she sees the surplice, and finds she has another to make! I say, Hurst,
didn’t you croak out that solo! Their lordships in the wigs will be
soliciting your photograph as a keepsake.”
“I hope they’ll set it in diamonds,” retorted Hurst.
The boys began to file out, putting on their trenchers, as they
clattered down the steps. Charley Channing sat himself down in the
cloisters on a pile of books, as if willing that the rest should pass
out before him. His brother saw him sitting there, and came up to him,
speaking in an undertone.
“Charley, you know the rules of the school: one boy must not tell of
another. As Bywater says, you’d get pummelled to powder.”
“Look here, Tom. I tell you--”
“Hold your tongue, boy!” sharply cried Tom Channing. “Do you forget
that I am a senior? You heard the master’s words. We know no brothers in
school life, you must remember.”
Charley laughed. “Tom, you think I am a child, I believe. I didn’t enter
the school yesterday. All I was going to tell you was this: I don’t
know any more than you who inked the surplice; and suspicion goes for
nothing.”
“All right,” said Tom Channing, as he flew after the rest; and Charley
sat on, and fell into a reverie.
The senior boy of the school, you have heard, was Gaunt. The other three
seniors, Tom Channing, Harry Huntley, and Gerald Yorke, possessed a
considerable amount of power; but nothing equal to that vested in Gaunt.
They had all three entered the school on the same day, and had kept pace
with each other as they worked their way up in it, consequently not one
could be said to hold priority; and when Gaunt should quit the school at
the following Michaelmas, one of the three would become senior. Which,
you may wish to ask? Ah, we don’t know that, yet.
Charley Channing--a truthful, good boy, full of integrity, kind and
loving by nature, and a universal favourite--sat tilted on the books. He
was wishing with all his heart that he had not seen something which
he had seen that day. He had been going through the cloisters in the
afternoon, about the time that all Helstonleigh, college boys included,
were in the streets watching for the sheriff’s procession, when he saw
one of the seniors steal (Bywater had been happy in the epithet) out of
the cathedral into the quiet cloisters, peer about him, and then throw
a broken ink-bottle into the graveyard which the cloisters enclosed. The
boy stole away without perceiving Charley; and there sat Charley now,
trying to persuade himself by some ingenious sophistry--which, however,
he knew _was_ sophistry--that the senior might not have been the one in
the mischief; that the ink-bottle might have been on legitimate duty,
and that he threw it from him because it was broken. Charles Channing
did not like these unpleasant secrets. There was in the school a code of
honour--the boys called it so--that one should not tell of another; and
if the head-master ever went the length of calling the seniors to his
aid, those seniors deemed themselves compelled to declare it, if the
fault became known to them. Hence Tom Channing’s hasty arrest of his
brother’s words.
“I wonder if I could see the ink-bottle there?” quoth Charles to
himself. Rising from the books he ran through the cloisters to a certain
part, and there, by a dexterous spring, perched himself on to the frame
of the open mullioned windows. The gravestones lay pretty thick in the
square, enclosed yard, the long, dank grass growing around them; but
there appeared to be no trace of an ink-bottle.
“What on earth are you mounted up there for? Come down instantly. You
know the row there has been about the walls getting defaced.”
The speaker was Gerald Yorke, who had come up silently. Openly disobey
him, young Channing dared not, for the seniors exacted obedience in
school and out of it. “I’ll get down directly, sir. I am not hurting the
wall.”
“What are you looking at? What is there to see?” demanded Yorke.
“Nothing particular. I was looking for what I can’t see,” pointedly
returned Charley.
“Look here, Miss Channing; I don’t quite understand you to-day. You were
excessively mysterious in school, just now, over that surplice affair.
Who’s to know you were not in the mess yourself?”
“I think you might know it,” returned Charley, as he jumped down. “It
was more likely to have been you than I.”
Yorke laid hold of him, clutching his jacket with a firm grasp. “You
insolent young jackanapes! Now! what do you mean? You don’t stir from
here till you tell me.”
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Yorke; I’d rather tell,” cried the boy, sinking his
voice to a whisper. “I was here when you came peeping out of the college
doors this afternoon, and I saw you come up to this niche, and fling
away an ink-bottle.”
Yorke’s face flushed scarlet. He was a tall, strong fellow, with a pale
complexion, thick, projecting lips, and black hair, promising fair to
make a Hercules--but all the Yorkes were finely framed. He gave young
Channing a taste of his strength; the boy, when shaken, was in his hands
as a very reed. “You miserable imp! Do you know who is said to be the
father of lies?”
“Let me alone, sir. It’s no lie, and you know it’s not. But I promise
you on my honour that I won’t split. I’ll keep it in close; always, if I
can. The worst of me is, I bring things out sometimes without thought,”
he added ingenuously. “I know I do; but I’ll try and keep in this. You
needn’t be in a passion, Yorke; I couldn’t help seeing what I did. It
wasn’t my fault.”
Yorke’s face had grown purple with anger. “Charles Channing, if you
don’t unsay what you have said, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your
life.”
“I can’t unsay it,” was the answer.
“You can’t!” reiterated Yorke, grasping him as a hawk would a pigeon.
“How dare you brave me to my presence? Unsay the lie you have told.”
“I am in God’s presence, Yorke, as well as in yours,” cried the boy,
reverently; “and I will not tell a lie.”
“Then take your whacking! I’ll teach you what it is to invent
fabrications! I’ll put you up for--”
Yorke’s tongue and hands stopped. Turning out of the private
cloister-entrance of the deanery, right upon them, had come Dr. Gardner,
one of the prebendaries. He cast a displeased glance at Yorke, not
speaking; and little Channing, touching his trencher to the doctor, flew
to the place where he had left his books, caught them up, and ran out of
the cloisters towards home.