Before the nine days’ wonder, which, you know, is said to be the
accompaniment of all marvels, had died away, Helstonleigh was fated
to be astonished by another piece of news of a different nature--the
preferment of the Reverend William Yorke.
A different preferment from what had been anticipated for him; otherwise
the news had been nothing extraordinary, for it is usual for the Dean
and Chapter to provide livings for their minor canons. In a fine, open
part of the town was a cluster of buildings, called Hazeldon’s Charity,
so named from its founder Sir Thomas Hazeldon--a large, paved inclosure,
fenced in by iron railings, and a pair of iron gates. A chapel stood in
the midst. On either side, right and left, ran sixteen almshouses,
and at the end, opposite to the iron gates, stood the dwelling of the
chaplain to the charity, a fine residence, called Hazeldon House. This
preferment, worth three hundred a year, had been for some weeks vacant,
the chaplain having died. It was in the gift of the present baronet,
Sir Frederick Hazeldon, a descendant of the founder, and he now suddenly
conferred it upon the Rev. William Yorke. It took Helstonleigh by
surprise. It took Mr. Yorke himself entirely by surprise. He possessed
no interest whatever with Sir Frederick, and had never cast a thought to
the probability of its becoming his. Perhaps, Sir Frederick’s motive
for bestowing it upon him was this--that, of all the clergy in the
neighbourhood, looking out for something good to fall to them, Mr. Yorke
had been almost the only one who had not solicited it of Sir Frederick.
It was none the less welcome. It would not interfere in the least with
the duties or preferment of his minor canonry: a minor canon had once
before held it. In short, it was one of those slices of luck which do
sometimes come unexpectedly in this world.
In the soft light of the summer evening, Constance Channing stood under
the cedar-tree. A fine old tree was that, the pride of the Channings’
garden. The sun was setting in all its beauty; clouds of crimson and
purple floated on the horizon; a roseate hue tinged the atmosphere, and
lighted with its own loveliness the sweet face of Constance. It was an
evening that seemed to speak peace to the soul--so would it have spoken
to that of Constance, but for the ever-present trouble which had fallen
there.
Another trouble was falling upon her, or seemed to be; one that more
immediately concerned herself. Since the disgrace had come to Arthur,
Mr. Yorke had been less frequent in his visits. Some days had now
elapsed from the time of Arthur’s dismissal from Mr. Galloway’s, and
Mr. Yorke had called only once. This might have arisen from accidental
circumstances; but Constance felt a different fear in her heart.
Hark! that is his ring at the hall-bell. Constance has not listened for,
and loved that ring so long, to be mistaken now. Another minute, and she
hears those footsteps approaching, warming her life-blood, quickening
her pulses: her face deepens to crimson, as she turns it towards him.
She knows nothing yet of his appointment to the Hazeldon chaplaincy; Mr.
Yorke has not known it himself two hours.
He came up and laid his hands upon her shoulders playfully, looking
down at her. “What will you give me for some news, by way of greeting,
Constance?”
“News?” she answered, raising her eyes to his, and scarcely knowing what
she did say, in the confusion of meeting him, in her all-conscious love.
“Is it good or bad news?”
“Helstonleigh will not call it good, I expect. There are those upon whom
it will fall as a thunder-clap.”
“Tell it me, William; I cannot guess,” she said, somewhat wearily. “I
suppose it does not concern me.”
“But it does concern you--indirectly.”
Poor Constance, timorous and full of dread since this grief had fallen,
was too apt to connect everything with that one source. We have done
the same in our lives, all of us, when under the consciousness of
some secret terror. She appeared to be living upon a mine, which might
explode any hour and bring down Hamish in its _débris_. The words bore
an ominous sound; and, foolish as it may appear to us, who know the
nature of Mr. Yorke’s news, Constance fell into something very like
terror, and turned white.
“Does--does--it concern Arthur?” she uttered.
“No. Constance,” changing his tone, and dropping his hands as he gazed
at her, “why should you be so terrified for Arthur? You have been a
changed girl since that happened--shrinking, timid, starting at every
sound, unable to look people in the face. Why so, if he is innocent?”
She shivered inwardly, as was perceptible to the eyes of Mr. Yorke.
“Tell me the news,” she answered in a low tone, “if, as you say, it
concerns me.”
“I hope it will concern you, Constance. At any rate, it concerns me.
The news,” he gravely added, “is, that I am appointed to the Hazeldon
chaplaincy.”
“Oh, William!” The sudden revulsion of feeling from intense, undefined
terror to joyful surprise, was too much to bear calmly. Her emotion
overpowered her, and she burst into tears. Mr. Yorke compelled her to
sit down on the bench, and stood over her--his arm on her shoulder, her
hand clasped in his.
“Constance, what is the cause of this?” he asked, when her emotion had
passed.
She avoided the question. She dried her tears and schooled her face to
smiles, and tried to look as unconscious as she might. “Is it really
true that you have the chaplaincy?” she questioned.
“I received my appointment this evening. Why Sir Frederick should have
conferred it upon me I am unable to say: I feel all the more obliged to
him for its being unexpected. Shall you like the house, Constance?”
The rosy hue stole over her face again, and a happy smile parted her
lips. “I once said to mamma, when we had been spending the evening
there, that I should like to live at Hazeldon House. I like its rooms
and its situation; I shall like to be busy among all those poor old
people, but, when I said it, William, I had not the slightest idea that
the chance would ever be mine.”
“You have only to determine now how soon the ‘chance’ shall become
certainty,” he said. “I must take up my residence there within a month,
and I do not care how soon my wife takes up hers after that.”
The rose grew deeper. She bent her brow down upon her hand and his,
hiding her face. “It could not possibly be, William.”
“What could not be?”
“So soon. Papa and mamma are going to Germany, you know, and I must
keep house here. Besides, what would Lady Augusta say at my leaving her
situation almost as soon as I have entered upon it?”
“Lady Augusta--” Mr. Yorke was beginning impulsively, but checked
himself. Constance lifted her face and looked at him. His brow was knit,
and a stern expression had settled on it.
“What is it, William?”
“I want to know what caused your grief just now,” was his abrupt
rejoinder. “And what is it that has made you appear so strange of late?”
The words fell on her as an ice-bolt. For a few brief moments she had
forgotten her fears, had revelled in the sunshine of the happiness so
suddenly laid out before her. Back came the gloom, the humiliation, the
terror.
“Had Arthur been guilty of the charge laid to him, and you were
cognizant of it, I could fancy that your manner would be precisely what
it is,” answered Mr. Yorke.
Her heart beat wildly. He spoke in a reserved, haughty tone, and she
felt a foreboding that some unpleasant explanation was at hand. She
felt more--that perhaps she ought not to become his wife with this cloud
hanging over them. She nerved herself to say what she deemed she ought
to say.
“William,” she began, “perhaps you would wish that our marriage should
be delayed until--until--I mean, now that this suspicion has fallen upon
Arthur--?”
She could scarcely utter the words coherently, so great was her
agitation. Mr. Yorke saw how white and trembling were her lips.
“I cannot believe Arthur guilty,” was his reply.
She remembered that Hamish was, though Arthur was not; and in point of
disgrace, it amounted to the same thing. Constance passed her hand
over her perplexed brow. “He is looked upon as guilty by many: that,
we unfortunately know; and it may not be thought well that you should,
under the circumstance, make me your wife. _You_ may not think so.”
Mr. Yorke made no reply. He may have been deliberating the question.
“Let us put it in this light, William,” she resumed, her tone one of
intense pain. “Suppose, for argument’s sake, that Arthur were guilty;
would you marry me, all the same?”
“It is a hard question, Constance,” he said, after a pause.
“It must be answered.”
“Were Arthur guilty and you cognizant of it--screening him--I should
lose half my confidence in you, Constance.”
That was the knell. Her heart and her eyes alike fell, and she knew, in
that one moment, that all hope of marrying William Yorke was at an end.
“You think that, were he guilty--I am speaking only for argument’s
sake,” she breathed in her emotion,--“you think, were I cognizant of it,
I ought to betray him; to make it known to the world?”
“I do not say that, Constance. No. But you are my affianced wife; and,
whatever cognizance of the matter you might possess, whatever might be
the mystery attending it--and a mystery I believe there is--you should
repose the confidence and the mystery in me.”
“That you might decide whether or not I am worthy to be your wife!” she
exclaimed, a flash of indignation lighting up her spirit. To doubt her!
She felt it keenly, Oh, that she could have told him the truth! But this
she dare not, for Hamish’s sake.
He took her hand in his, and gazed searchingly into her face.
“Constance, you know what you are to me. This unhappy business has been
as great a trial to me as to you. Can you deny to me all knowledge of
its mystery, its guilt? I ask not whether Arthur be innocent or guilty;
I ask whether you are innocent of everything in the way of concealment.
Can you stand before me and assure me, in all truth, that you are so?”
She could not. “I believe in Arthur’s innocence,” she replied, in a low
tone.
So did Mr. Yorke, or he might not have rejoined as he did. “I believe
also in his innocence,” he said. “Otherwise--”
“You would not make me your wife. Speak it without hesitation, William.”
“Well--I cannot tell what my course would be. Perhaps, I would not.”
A silence. Constance was feeling the avowal in all its bitter
humiliation. It seemed to humiliate _her_. “No, no; it would not be
right of him to make me his wife now,” she reflected. “Hamish’s disgrace
may come out any day; he may still be brought to trial for it. His
wife’s brother! and he attached to the cathedral. No, it would never do.
William,” she said, aloud, “we must part.”
“Part?” echoed Mr. Yorke, as the words issued faintly from her trembling
lips.
Tears rose to her eyes; it was with difficulty she kept them from
falling. “I cannot become your wife while this cloud overhangs Arthur.
It would not be right.”
“You say you believe in his innocence,” was the reply of Mr. Yorke.
“I do. But the world does not. William,” she continued, placing her
hand in his, while the tears rained freely down her face, “let us say
farewell now.”
He drew her closer to him. “Explain this mystery, Constance. Why are you
not open with me? What has come between us?”
“I cannot explain,” she sobbed. “There is nothing for us but to part.”
“We will not part. Why should we, when you say Arthur is innocent, and I
believe him to be so? Constance, my darling, what is this grief?”
What were the words but a tacit admission that, if Arthur were not
innocent, they should part? Constance so interpreted them. Had any
additional weight been needed to strengthen her resolution, this would
have supplied it.
“Farewell! farewell, William! To remain with you is only prolonging the
pain of parting.”
That her resolution to part was firm, he saw. It was his turn to be
angry now. A slight touch of the haughty Yorke temper was in him, and
there were times when it peeped out. He folded his arms, and the flush
left his countenance.
“I cannot understand you, Constance. I cannot fathom your motive, or why
you are doing this; unless it be that you never cared for me.”
“I have cared for you as I never cared for any one; as I shall never
care for another. To part with you will be like parting with life.”
“Then why speak of it? Be my wife, Constance; be my wife!”
“No, it might bring you disgrace,” she hysterically answered; “and,
that, you shall never encounter through me. Do not keep me, William; my
resolution is irrevocable.”
Sobbing as though her heart would break, she turned from him. Mr. Yorke
followed her indoors. In the hall stood Mrs. Channing. Constance turned
aside, anywhere, to hide her face from her mother’s eye. Mrs. Channing
did not particularly observe her, and turned to accost Mr. Yorke. An
angry frown was on his brow, an angry weight on his spirit. Constance’s
words and course of action had now fully impressed him with the belief
that Arthur was guilty; that she knew him to be so; and the proud Yorke
blood within him whispered that it was _well_ so to part. But he had
loved her with a deep and enduring love, and his heart ached bitterly.
“Will you come in and lend us your help in the discussion?” Mrs.
Channing said to him, with a smile. “We are carving out the plan for our
journey.”
He bowed, and followed her into the sitting-room. He did not speak of
what had just occurred, leaving that to Constance, if she should choose
to give an explanation. It was not Mr. Yorke’s place to say, “Constance
has given me up. She has impressed me with the conviction that Arthur
is guilty, and she says she will not bring disgrace upon me.” No,
certainly; he could not tell them that.
Mr. Channing lay as usual on his sofa, Hamish near him. Gay Hamish,
who was looking as light-faced as ever; undoubtedly, he seemed as
light-hearted. Hamish had a book before him, a map, and a pencil. He was
tracing out the route for his father and mother, joking always.
After much anxious consideration, Mr. Channing had determined to proceed
at once to Germany. It is true that he could not well afford to do so;
and, before he heard from Dr. Lamb the very insignificant cost it
would prove, he had always put it from him, as wholly impracticable at
present. But the information given him by the doctor altered his
views, and he began to think it not only practicable, but feasible. His
children were giving much help now to meet home expenses--Constance,
in going to Lady Augusta’s; Arthur, to the Cathedral. Dr. Lamb strongly
urged his going, and Mr. Channing himself knew that, if he could only
come home restored to health and to activity, the journey instead of
being an expense, would, in point of fact, prove an economy. With much
deliberation, with much prayer to be helped to a right decision, Mr.
Channing at length decided to go.
It was necessary to start at once, for the season was already advanced;
indeed, as Dr. Lamb observed, he ought to have been away a month ago.
Then all became bustle and preparation. Two or three days were wasted in
the unhappy business concerning Arthur. But all the grieving over that,
all the staying at home for it, could do no good; Mr. Channing was fain
to see this, and the preparations were hastened. Hamish was most active
in all--in urging the departure, in helping to pack, in carving out
their route: but always joking.
“Now, mind, mother, as you are to be commander in chief, it is the
_Antwerp_ packet you are to take,” he was saying, in a serio-comic,
dictatorial manner. “Don’t get seduced on to any indiscriminate steamer,
or you may find yourselves carried off to some unknown regions inhabited
by cannibals, and never be heard of again. The Antwerp steamer; and it
starts from St. Katherine’s Docks--if you have the pleasure of knowing
that enchanting part of London. I made acquaintance with it in a fog, in
that sight-seeing visit I paid to town; and its beauty, I must confess,
did not impress me. From St. Katherine’s Docks you will reach Antwerp in
about eighteen hours--always provided the ship does not go to pieces.”
“Hamish!”
“Well, I won’t anticipate: I dare say it is well caulked. At any rate,
take an insurance ticket against accident, and then you’ll be all right.
An Irishman slept at the top of a very high hotel. ‘Are you not afraid
to sleep up there, in case of fire?’ a friend asked him. ‘By the powers,
no!’ said he; ‘they tell me the house is insured.’ Now, mother mine--”
“Shall we have to stay in Antwerp, Hamish?” interrupted Mr. Channing.
“Yes, as you return, sir; an answer that you will think emanated from
our Irish friend. No one ever yet went to Antwerp without giving the
fine old town a few hours’ inspection. I only wish the chance were
offered me! Now, on your way there, you will not be able to get about;
but, as you return, you will--if all the good has been done you that I
anticipate.”
“Do not be too sanguine, Hamish.”
“My dear father,” and Hamish’s tone assumed a deeper feeling, “to be
sanguine was implanted in my nature, at my birth: but in this case I am
more than sanguine. You will be cured, depend upon it. When you return,
in three months’ time, I shall not have a fly waiting for you at the
station here, or if I do, it will be for the mother’s exclusive use and
benefit; I shall parade you through the town on my arm, showing your
renewed strength of leg and limb to the delighted eyes of Helstonleigh.”
“Why are you so silent?” Mrs. Channing inquired of William Yorke. She
had suddenly noticed that he had scarcely said a word; had sat in a fit
of abstraction since his entrance.
“Silent? Oh! Hamish is talking for all of us,” he answered, starting
from his reverie.
“The ingratitude of some people!” ejaculated Hamish. “Is he saying that
in a spirit of complaint, now? Mr. Yorke, I am astonished at you.”
At this moment Tom was heard to enter the house. That it could be no one
but Tom was certain, by the noise and commotion that arose; the others
were quieter, except Annabel, and she was a girl. Tom came in, tongue,
hands, and feet all going together.
“What luck, is it not, Mr. Yorke? I am so glad it has been given to
you!”
Mr. Channing looked up in surprise. “Tom, you will never learn manners!
What has been given?”
“Has he not told you?” exclaimed Tom, ignoring the reproof to his
manners. “He is appointed to Hazeldon Chapel. Where’s Constance? I’ll be
bound he has told _her_!”
Saucy Tom! They received his news in silence, looking to Mr. Yorke for
explanation. He rose from his chair, and his cheek slightly flushed as
he confirmed the tidings.
“Does Constance know it?” inquired Mrs. Channing, speaking in the
moment’s impulse.
“Yes,” was Mr. Yorke’s short answer. And then he said something, not
very coherently, about having an engagement, and took his leave, wishing
Mr. Channing every benefit from his journey.
“But, we do not go until the day after to-morrow,” objected Mr.
Channing. “We shall see you before that.”
Another unsatisfactory sentence from Mr. Yorke, that he “was not sure.”
In shaking hands with Mrs. Channing he bent down with a whisper: “I
think Constance has something to say to you.”
Mrs. Channing found her in her room, in a sad state of distress. “Child!
what is this?” she uttered.
“Oh! mother, mother, it is all at an end, and we have parted for ever!”
was poor Constance’s wailing answer. And Mrs. Channing, feeling quite
sick with the various troubles that seemed to be coming upon her,
inquired _why_ it was at an end.
“He feels that the disgrace which has fallen upon us would be reflected
upon him, were he to make me his wife. Mother, there is no help for it:
it _would_ disgrace him.”
“But where there is no real guilt there can be no real disgrace,”
objected Mrs. Channing. “I am firmly persuaded, however mysterious and
unsatisfactory things may appear, that Arthur is not guilty, and that
time will prove him so.”
Constance could only shiver and sob. Knowing what she knew, she could
entertain no hope.
“Poor child! poor child!” murmured Mrs. Channing, her own tears dropping
upon the fair young face, as she gathered it to her sheltering bosom.
“What have you done that this blight should extend to you?”
“Teach me to bear it, mother. It must be God’s will.” And Constance
Channing lay in her resting-place, and there sobbed out her heart’s
grief, as she had done in her early girlhood.