Have you ever observed a large lake on the approach of a sudden
storm?--its unnatural stillness, death-like and ominous; its
undercurrent of anger not yet apparent on the surface; and then the
breaking forth of fury when the storm has come?
Not inaptly might the cloisters of Helstonleigh be compared to this,
that day, when the college boys were let out of school at one o’clock.
A strange rumour had been passed about amongst the desks--not reaching
that at which sat the seniors--a rumour which shook the equanimity
of the school to its centre; and, when one o’clock struck, the boys,
instead of clattering out with all the noise of which their legs and
lungs were capable, stole down the stairs quietly, and formed into
groups of whisperers in the cloisters. It was the calm that precedes a
storm.
So unusual a state of affairs was noticed by the senior boy.
“What’s up now?” he asked them, in the phraseology in vogue there and
elsewhere. “Are you all going to a funeral? I hope it’s your sins that
you are about to bury!”
A heavy silence answered him. Gaunt could not make it out. The other
three seniors, attracted by the scene, came back, and waited with Gaunt.
By that time the calm was being ruffled by low murmurings, and certain
distinct words came from more than one of the groups.
“What do you say?” burst forth Tom Channing, darting forward as the
words caught his ear. “You, Jackson! speak up; _what_ is it?”
Not Jackson’s voice especially, but several other voices arose then; a
word from one, a word from another, half sentences, disjointed hints,
forming together an unmistakable whole. “The theft of old Galloway’s
bank-note has been traced to Arthur Channing.”
“Who says it? Who dares to say it?” flashed Tom, his face flaming, and
his hand clenched.
“The police say it. Butterby says it.”
“I don’t care for the police; I don’t care for Butterby,” cried Tom,
stamping his foot in his terrible indignation. “I ask, who dares to say
it here?”
“I do, then! Come, Mr. Channing, though you are a senior, and can put me
up to Pye for punishment upon any false plea that you choose,” answered
a tall fellow, Pierce senior, who was chiefly remarkable for getting
into fights, and was just now unusually friendly with Mark Galloway, at
whose desk he sat.
Quick as lightning, Tom Channing turned and faced him. “Speak out what
you have to say,” cried he; “no hints.”
“Whew!” retorted Pierce senior, “do you think I am afraid? I say that
Arthur Channing stole the note lost by old Galloway.”
Tom, in uncontrollable temper, raised his hand and struck him. One
half-minute’s struggle, nothing more, and Pierce senior was sprawling on
the ground, while Tom Channing’s cheek and nose were bleeding. Gaunt had
stepped in between them.
“I stop this,” he said. “Pierce, get up! Don’t lie there like a
floundering donkey. Channing, what possessed you to forget yourself?”
“You would have done the same, Gaunt, had the insult been offered to
you. Let the fellow retract his words, or prove them.”
“Very good. That is how you ought to have met it at first,” said Gaunt.
“Now, Mr. Pierce, can you make good your assertion?”
Pierce had floundered up, and was rubbing one of his long legs, which
had doubled under him in the fall, while his brother, Pierce junior, was
collecting an armful of scattered books, and whispering prognostications
of parental vengeance in prospective; for, so surely as Pierce senior
fell into a fight at school, to the damage of face or clothes, so surely
was it followed up by punishment at home.
“If you want proof, go to Butterby at the police station, and get it
from him,” sullenly replied Pierce, who owned a sulky temper as well as
a pugnacious one.
“Look here,” interrupted Mark Galloway, springing to the front: “Pierce
was a fool to bring it out in that way, but I’ll speak up now it has
come to this. I went into my uncle’s, this morning, at nine o’clock, and
there was he, shut in with Butterby. Butterby was saying that there
was no doubt the theft had been committed by Arthur Channing. Mind,
Channing,” Mark added, turning to Tom, “I am not seconding the
accusation on my own score; but, that Butterby said it I’ll declare.”
“Pshaw! is that all?” cried Tom Channing, lifting his head with a
haughty gesture, and not condescending to notice the blood which
trickled from his cheek. “You must have misunderstood him, boy.”
“No, I did not,” replied Mark Galloway. “I heard him as plainly as I
hear you now.”
“It is hardly likely that Butterby would say that before you, Galloway,”
observed Gaunt.
“Ah, but he didn’t see I was there, or my uncle either,” said Mark.
“When he is reading his newspaper of a morning, he can’t bear a noise,
and I always go into the room as quiet as mischief. He turned me out
again pretty quick, I can tell you; but not till I had heard Butterby
say that.”
“You must have misunderstood him,” returned Gaunt, carelessly taking up
Tom Channing’s notion; “and you had no right to blurt out such a thing
to the school. Arthur Channing is better known and trusted than you, Mr.
Mark.”
“I didn’t accuse Arthur Channing to the school. I only repeated to my
desk what Butterby said.”
“It is that ‘only repeating’ which does three parts of the mischief
in this world,” said Gaunt, giving the boys a little touch of morality
gratis, to their intense edification. “As to you, Pierce senior, you’ll
get more than you bargain for, some of these days, if you poke your
ill-conditioned nose so often into other people’s business.”
Tom Channing had marched away towards his home, head erect, his step
ringing firmly and proudly on the cloister flags. Charley ran by his
side. But Charley’s face was white, and Tom caught sight of it.
“What are you looking like that for?”
“Tom! you don’t think it’s true, do you?”
Tom turned his scorn upon the boy. “You little idiot! True! A Channing
turn thief! _You_ may, perhaps--it’s best known to yourself--but never
Arthur.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, can it be true that the police suspect him?”
“Oh! that’s what your face becomes milky for? You ought to have been
born a girl, Miss Charley. If the police do suspect him, what of
that?--they’ll only have the tables turned upon themselves, Butterby
might come out and say he suspects me of murder! Should I care? No; I’d
prove my innocence, and make him eat his words.”
They were drawing near home. Charley looked up at his brother. “You must
wipe your face, Tom.”
Tom took out his handkerchief, and gave his face a rub. In his
indignation, his carelessness, he would have done nothing of the sort,
had he not been reminded by the boy. “Is it off?”
“Yes, it’s off. I am not sure but it will break out again. You must take
care.”
“Oh, bother! let it. I should like to have polished off that Pierce
senior as he deserves. A little coin of the same sort would do Galloway
no harm. Were I senior of the school, and Arthur not my brother, Mr.
Mark should hear a little home truth about sneaks. I’ll tell it him in
private, as it is; but I can’t put him up for punishment, or act in it
as Gaunt could.”
“Arthur is our brother, therefore we feel it more pointedly than Gaunt,”
sensibly remarked Charley.
“I’d advise you not to spell forth that sentimental rubbish, though you
are a young lady,” retorted Tom. “A senior boy, if he does his duty,
should make every boy’s cause his own, and ‘feel’ for him.”
“Tom,” said the younger and more thoughtful of the two, “don’t let us
say anything of this at home.”
“Why not?” asked Tom, hotly. He would have run in open-mouthed.
“It would pain mamma to hear it.”
“Boy! do you suppose _she_ would fear Arthur?”
“You seem to misconstrue all I say, Tom. Of course she would not fear
him--you did not fear him; but it stung you, I know, as was proved by
your knocking down Pierce.”
“Well, I won’t speak of it before her,” conciliated Tom, somewhat won
over, “or before my father, either; but catch me keeping it from the
rest.”
As Charles had partially foretold, they had barely entered, when
Tom’s face again became ornamented with crimson. Annabel shrieked out,
startling Mr. Channing on his sofa. Mrs. Channing, as it happened, was
not present; Constance was: Lady Augusta Yorke and her daughters were
spending part of the day in the country, therefore Constance had come
home at twelve.
“Look at Tom’s face!” cried the child. “What has he been doing?”
“Hold your tongue, little stupid,” returned Tom, hastily bringing his
handkerchief into use again; which, being a white one, made the worse
exhibition of the two, with its bright red stains. “It’s nothing but a
scratch.”
But Annabel’s eyes were sharp, and she had taken in full view of the
hurt. “Tom, you have been fighting! I am sure of it!”
“Come to me, Tom,” said Mr. Channing. “Have you been fighting?” he
demanded, as Tom crossed the room in obedience, and stood close to him.
“Take your handkerchief away, that I may see your face.”
“It could not be called a fight, papa,” said Tom, holding his cheek so
that the light from the window fell full upon the hurt. “One of the boys
offended me; I hit him, and he gave me this; then I knocked him down,
and there it ended. It’s only a scratch.”
“Thomas, was this Christian conduct?”
“I don’t know, papa. It was schoolboy’s.”
Mr. Channing could not forbear a smile. “I know it was a schoolboy’s
conduct; that is bad enough: and it is my son’s, that is worse.”
“If I had given him what he deserved, he would have had ten times as
much; and perhaps I should, for my temper was up, only Gaunt put in his
interference. When I am senior, my rule will be different from Gaunt’s.”
“Ah, Tom! your ‘temper up!’ It is that temper of yours which brings you
harm. What was the quarrel about?”
“I would rather not tell you, papa. Not for my own sake,” he added,
turning his honest eyes fearlessly on his father; “but I could not tell
it without betraying something about somebody, which it may be as well
to keep in.”
“After that lucid explanation, you had better go and get some warm water
for your face,” said Mr. Channing. “I will speak with you later.”
Constance followed him from the room, volunteering to procure the warm
water. They were standing in Tom’s chamber afterwards, Tom bathing his
face, and Constance looking on, when Arthur, who had then come in from
Mr. Galloway’s, passed by to his own room.
“Hallo!” he called out; “what’s the matter, Tom?”
“Such a row!” answered Tom. “And I wish I could have pitched into Pierce
senior as I’d have liked. What do you think, Arthur? The school
were taking up the notion that you--you!--had stolen old Galloway’s
bank-note. Pierce senior set it afloat; that is, he and Mark Galloway
together. Mark said a word, and Pierce said two, and so it went on. I
should have paid Pierce out, but for Gaunt.”
A silence. It was filled up by the sound of Tom splashing the water on
his face, and by that only. Arthur spoke presently, his tone so calm a
one as almost to be unnatural.
“How did the notion arise?”
“Mark Galloway said he heard Butterby talking with his uncle; that
Butterby said the theft could only have been committed by Arthur
Channing. Mark Galloway’s ears must have played him false; but it was
a regular sneak’s trick to come and repeat it to the school. I say,
Constance, is my face clean now?”
Constance woke up from a reverie to look at his face. “Quite clean,” she
answered.
He dried it, dried his hands, gave a glance at his shirt-front in the
glass, which had, however, escaped damage, brushed his hair, and went
downstairs. Arthur closed the door and turned to Constance. Her eyes
were seeking his, and her lips stood apart. The terrible fear which had
fallen upon both the previous day had not yet been spoken out between
them. It must be spoken now.
“Constance, there is tribulation before us,” he whispered. “We must
school ourselves to bear it, however difficult the task may prove.
Whatever betide the rest of us, suspicion must be averted from _him_.”
“What tribulation do you mean?” she murmured.
“The affair has been placed in the hands of the police; and I believe--I
believe,” Arthur spoke with agitation, “that they will publicly
investigate it. Constance, they suspect _me_. The college school is
right, and Tom is wrong.”
Constance leaned against a chest of drawers to steady herself, and
pressed her hand upon her shrinking face. “How have you learnt it?”
“I have gathered it from different trifles; one fact and another.
Jenkins said Butterby was with him this morning, asking questions about
me. Better that I should be suspected than Hamish. God help me to bear
it!”
“But it is so unjust that you should suffer for him.”
“Were it traced home to him, it might be the whole family’s ruin, for
my father would inevitably lose his post. He might lose it were only
suspicion to stray to Hamish. There is no alternative. I must screen
him. Can you be firm, Constance, when you see me accused?”
Constance leaned her head upon her hand, wondering whether she could be
firm in the cause. But that she knew where to go for strength, she might
have doubted it; for the love of right, the principles of justice were
strong within her. “Oh, what could possess him?” she uttered, wringing
her hands; “what could possess him? Arthur, is there no loophole, not
the faintest loophole for hope of his innocence?”
“None that I see. No one whatever had access to the letter but Hamish
and I. He must have yielded to the temptation in a moment of delirium,
knowing the money would clear him from some of his pressing debts--as it
has done.”
“How could he brave the risk of detection?”
“I don’t know. My head aches, pondering over it. I suppose he concluded
that suspicion would fall upon the post-office. It would have done so,
but for that seal placed on the letter afterwards. What an unfortunate
thing it was, that Roland Yorke mentioned there was money inside the
letter in the hearing of Hamish!”
“Did he mention it?” exclaimed Constance.
He said there was a twenty-pound note in the letter, going to the cousin
Galloway, and Hamish remarked that he wished it was going into his
pocket instead. “I _wish_” Arthur uttered, in a sort of frenzy, “I had
locked the letter up there and then.”
Constance clasped her hands in pain. “I fear he may have been going
wrong for some time,” she breathed. “It has come to my knowledge,
through Judith, that he sits up for hours night after night, doing
something to the books. Arthur,” she shivered, glancing fearfully round,
“I hope those accounts are right?”
The doubt thus given utterance to, blanched even the cheeks of Arthur.
“Sits up at the books!” he exclaimed.
“He sits up, that is certain; and at the books, as I conclude. He takes
them into his room at night. It may only be that he has not time, or
does not make time, to go over them in the day. It _may_ be so.”
“I trust it is; I pray it may be. Mind you, Constance, our duty is
plain: we must screen him; screen him at any sacrifice to ourselves, for
the father and mother’s sake.”
“Sacrifice to you, you ought to say. What were our other light troubles,
compared with this? Arthur, will they publicly accuse you?”
“It may come to that; I have been steeling myself all the morning to
meet it.”
He looked into her face as he said it. Constance could see how his brow
and heart were aching. At that moment they were called to dinner, and
Arthur turned to leave the room. Constance caught his hand, the tears
raining from her eyes.
“Arthur,” she whispered, “in the very darkest trouble, God can comfort
us. Be assured He will comfort you.”
Hamish did not make his appearance at dinner, and they sat down
without him. This was not so very unusual as to cause surprise; he was
occasionally detained at the office.
The meal was about half over, when Annabel, in her disregard of the
bounds of discipline, suddenly started from her seat and flew to the
window.
“Charley, there are two policemen coming here! Whatever can they want?”
“Perhaps to take you,” said Mrs. Channing, jestingly. “A short sojourn
at the tread-mill might be of great service to you, Annabel.”
The announcement had struck upon the ear and memory of Tom. “Policemen!”
he exclaimed, standing up in his place, and stretching his neck to
obtain a view of them. “Why--it never can be that--old Butterby--Arthur,
what ails you?”
A sensitive, refined nature, whether implanted in man or woman, is
almost sure to betray its emotions on the countenance. Such a nature
was Arthur Channing’s. Now that the dread had really come, every drop
of blood forsook his cheeks and lips, leaving his face altogether of a
deathly whiteness. He was utterly unable to control or help this, and it
was this pallor which had given rise to Tom’s concluding exclamation.
Mr. Channing looked at Arthur, Mrs. Channing looked at him; they all
looked at him, except Constance, and she bent her head lower over her
plate, to hide, as she best might, her own white face and its shrinking
terror. “Are you ill, Arthur?” inquired his father.
A low brief reply came; one struggling for calmness. “No, sir.”
Impetuous Tom, forgetting caution, forgetting all except the moment
actually present, gave utterance to more than was prudent. “Arthur, you
are never fearing what those wretched schoolboys said? The police are
not come to arrest you. Butterby wouldn’t be such a fool!”
But the police were in the hall, and Judith had come to the dining-room
door. “Master Arthur, you are wanted, please.”
“What is all this?” exclaimed Mr. Channing in astonishment, gazing from
Tom to Arthur, from Arthur to the vision of the blue official dress, a
glimpse of which he could catch beyond Judith. Tom took up the answer.
“It’s nothing, papa. It’s a trick they are playing for fun, I’ll lay.
They _can’t_ really suspect Arthur of stealing the bank-note, you know.
They’ll never dare to take him up, as they take a felon.”
Charley stole round to Arthur with a wailing cry, and threw his arms
round him--as if their weak protection could retain him in its shelter.
Arthur gently unwound them, and bent down till his lips touched the
yearning face held up to him in its anguish.
“Charley, boy, I am innocent,” he breathed in the boy’s ear. “You won’t
doubt that, I know. Don’t keep me. They have come for me, and I must go
with them.”