I like to see fair skies and sunshine on the morning fixed for a
journey. It seems to whisper a promise that satisfaction from that
journey lies before it: a foolish notion, no doubt, but a pleasant one.
Never did a more lovely morning arise to gladden the world, than that
fixed upon for Mr. and Mrs. Channing’s departure. The August sky was
without a cloud, the early dew glittered in the sunbeams, bees and
butterflies sported amidst the opening flowers.
Mr. Channing was up early, and had gathered his children around him. Tom
and Charles had, by permission, holiday that morning from early school,
and Constance had not gone to Lady Augusta Yorke’s. The very excitement
and bustle of preparation had appeared to benefit Mr. Channing; perhaps
it was the influence of the hope which had seated itself in his heart,
and was at work there. But Mr. Channing did not count upon this hope one
whit more than he could help; for disappointment _might_ be its ending.
In this, the hour of parting from his home and his children, the hope
seemed to have buried itself five fathoms deep, if not to have died away
completely. Who, in a similar position to Mr. Channing’s, has not felt
this depression on leaving a beloved home?
The parting had been less sad but for the dark cloud hanging over
Arthur. Mr. Channing had no resource but to believe him guilty, and his
manner to him had grown cold and stern. It was a pleasing sight--could
you have looked in upon it that morning--one that would put you in mind
of that happier world where partings are not.
For it was to that world that Mr. Channing had been carrying the
thoughts of his children in these, the last moments. The Bible was
before him, but all that he had chosen to read was a short psalm. And
then he prayed God to bless them; to keep them from evil; to be their
all-powerful protector. There was not a dry eye present; and Charles and
Annabel--Annabel with all her wildness--sobbed aloud.
He was standing up now, supported by Hamish, his left hand leaning
heavily, also for support, on the shoulder of Tom. Oh! Arthur felt it
keenly! felt it as if his heart would break. It was Tom whom his father
had especially called to his aid; _he_ was passed over. It was hard to
bear.
He was giving a word of advice, of charge to all. “Constance, my
pretty one, the household is in your charge; you must take care of your
brothers’ comforts. And, Hamish, my son, I leave Constance to _your_
care. Tom, let me enjoin you to keep your temper within bounds,
particularly with regard to that unsatisfactory matter, the seniorship.
Annabel, be obedient to your sister, and give her no care. And Charley,
my little darling, be loving and gentle as you always are. Upon my
return--if I shall be spared to return--”
“Father,” exclaimed Arthur, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, “have
you no word for _me_?”
Mr. Channing laid his hand upon the head of Arthur. “Bless, oh bless
this my son!” he softly murmured. “And may God forgive him, if he be
indeed the erring one we fear!”
But a few minutes had elapsed since Mr. Channing had repeated aloud
the petition in the prayer taught us by our Saviour--“Lead us not
into temptation!” It had come quickly to one of his hearers. If ever
temptation assailed a heart, it assailed Arthur’s then. “Not I, father;
it is Hamish who is guilty; it is for him I have to bear. Hamish,
whom you are caressing, was the true culprit; I, whom you despise, am
innocent.” Words such as these might have hovered on Arthur’s lips; he
had nearly spoken them, but for the strangely imploring look cast to
him from the tearful eyes of Constance, who read his struggle. Arthur
remembered One who had endured temptation far greater than this; Who
is ever ready to grant the same strength to those who need it. A few
moments, and the struggle and temptation passed, and he had not yielded
to it.
“Children, I do not like these partings. They always sadden my heart.
They make me long for that life where partings shall be no more. Oh, my
dear ones, do you all strive on to attain to that blessed life! Think
what would be our woeful grief--if such can assail us there; if memory
of the past may be allowed us--should we find any one of our dear ones
absent--of you who now stand around me! I speak to you all--not more to
one than to another--absent through his own fault, his own sin, his own
carelessness! Oh, children! you cannot tell my love for you--my anxious
care!--lest any of you should lose this inconceivable blessing. Work on;
strive on; and if we never meet again here--”
“Oh, papa, papa,” wildly sobbed Annabel, “we shall meet again! You will
come back well.”
“I trust we shall! I do trust I may! God is ever merciful and good. All
I would say is, that my life is uncertain; that, if it be His will
not to spare me, I shall have but preceded you to that better land. My
blessing be upon you, my children! God’s blessing be upon you! Fare you
well.”
In the bustle of getting Mr. Channing to the fly, Arthur was left alone
with his mother. She clung to him, sobbing much. Even her faith in him
was shaken. When the rupture occurred between Mr. Yorke and Constance,
Arthur never spoke up to say: “There is no cause for parting; I am not
guilty.” Mrs. Channing was not the only one who had expected him to say
this, or something equivalent to it; and she found her expectation vain.
Arthur had maintained a studied silence; of course it could only tell
against him.
“Mother! my darling mother! I would ask you to trust me still, but that
I see how difficult it is for you!” he said, as hot tears were wrung
from his aching heart.
Hamish came in. Arthur, not caring to exhibit his emotion for every
one’s benefit, retired to a distant window. “My father is in, all
comfortable,” said Hamish. “Mother, are you sure you have everything?”
“Everything, I believe.”
“Well--put this into your private purse, mother mine. You’ll find some
use for it.”
It was a ten-pound note. Mrs. Channing began protesting that she should
have enough without it.
“Mrs. Channing, I know your ‘enoughs,’” laughed Hamish, in his very
gayest and lightest tone. “You’ll be for going without dinner every
other day, fearing that funds won’t last. If you don’t take it, I shall
send it after you to-morrow.”
“Thank you, my dear, considerate boy!” she gratefully said, as she put
up the money, which would, in truth, prove useful. “But how have you
been able to get it for me?”
“As if a man could not save up his odd sixpences for a rainy day!” quoth
Hamish.
She implicitly believed him. She had absolute faith in her darling
Hamish; and the story of his embarrassments had not reached her ear.
Arthur heard all from his distant window. “For that very money, given
to my mother as a gift from _him_, I must suffer,” was the rebellious
thought that ran through his mind.
The fly started. Mr. and Mrs. Channing and Charley inside, Hamish on the
box with the driver. Tom galloped to the station on foot. Of course
the boys were eager to see them off. But Arthur, in his refined
sensitiveness, would not put himself forward to make one of them; and no
one asked him to do so.
The train was on the point of starting. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were in
their places, certain arrangements having been made for the convenience
of Mr. Channing, who was partially lying across from one seat to the
other; Hamish and the others were standing round for a last word; when
there came one, fighting his way through the platform bustle, pushing
porters and any one else who impeded his progress to the rightabout. It
was Roland Yorke.
“Haven’t I come up at a splitting pace! I overslept myself, Mr.
Channing, and I thought I should not be in time to give you a God-speed.
I hope you’ll have a pleasant time, and come back cured, sir!”
“Thank you, Roland. These heartfelt wishes from you all are very
welcome.”
“I say, Mr. Channing,” continued Roland, leaning over the carriage
window, in utter disregard of danger: “If you should hear of any good
place abroad, that you think I might do for, I wish you’d speak a word
for me.”
“Place abroad?” repeated Mr. Channing, while Hamish burst into a laugh.
“Yes,” said Roland. “My brother George knew a fellow who went over to
Austria or Prussia, or some of those places, and dropped into a very
good thing there, quite by accident. It was connected with one of the
embassies, I think; five or six hundred a year, and little to do.”
Mr. Channing smiled. “Such windfalls are rare. I fear I am not likely
to hear of anything of the sort. But what has Mr. Galloway done to you,
Roland? You are a fixture with him.”
“I am tired of Galloway’s,” frankly confessed Roland. “I didn’t enjoy
myself there before Arthur left, but I am ready to hang myself since,
with no one to speak to but that calf of a Jenkins! If Galloway will
take on Arthur again, and do him honour, I’ll stop and make the best of
it; but, if he won’t--”
“Back! back! hands off there! Are you mad?” And amidst much shouting,
and running, and dragging careless Roland out of danger, the train
steamed out of the station.