A powerful steamer was cutting smoothly through the waters. A large
expanse of sea lay around, dotted with its fishing-boats, which had come
out with the night’s tide. A magnificent vessel, her spars glittering in
the rising sun, might be observed in the distance, and the grey, misty
sky, overhead, gave promise of a hot and lovely day.
Some of the passengers lay on deck, where they had stationed themselves
the previous night, preferring its open air to the closeness of the
cabins, in the event of rough weather. Rough weather they need not have
feared. The passage had been perfectly calm; the sea smooth as a lake;
not a breath of wind had helped the good ship on her course; steam had
to do its full work. But for this dead calm, the fishing-craft would not
be close in-shore, looking very much like a flock of sea-gulls. Had
a breeze, ever so gentle, sprung up, they would have put out to more
prolific waters.
A noise, a shout, a greeting! and some of the passengers, already awake,
but lying lazily, sprang up to see what caused it. It was a passing
steamer, bound for the great metropolis which they had left not
seventeen hours ago. The respective captains exchanged salutes from
their places aloft, and the fine vessels flew past each other.
“_Bon voyage! bon voyage!_” shouted out a little French boy to the
retreating steamer.
“We have had a fine passage, captain,” observed a gentleman who was
stretching himself and stamping about the deck, after his night’s repose
on the hard bench.
“Middling,” responded the captain, to whom a dead calm was not quite
so agreeable as it was to his passengers. “Should ha’ been in all the
sooner for a breeze.”
“How long will it be, now?”
“A good time yet. Can’t go along as if we had wind at our back.”
The steamer made good progress, however, in spite of the faithless wind.
It glided up the Scheldt, and, by-and-by, the spire of Antwerp Cathedral
was discerned, rising against the clear sky. Mrs. Channing, who had been
one of those early astir, went back to her husband. He was lying where
he had been placed when the vessel left St. Katherine’s Docks.
“We shall soon be in, James. I wish you could see that beautiful spire.
I have been searching for it ever so long; it is in sight, now. Hamish
told me to keep a look-out for it.”
“Did he?” replied Mr. Channing. “How did Hamish know it might be seen?”
“From the guide-books, I suppose; or from hearsay. Hamish seems to know
everything. What a good passage we have had!”
“Ay,” said Mr. Channing. “What I should have done in a rough sea, I
cannot tell. The dread of it has been pressing on me as a nightmare
since our voyage was decided upon.”
Mrs. Channing smiled. “Troubles seldom come from the quarter we
anticipate them.”
Later, when Mrs. Channing was once more leaning over the side of the
vessel, a man came up and put a card into her hand, jabbering away in
German at the same time. The Custom House officers had come on board
then.
“Oh, dear, if Constance were only here! It is for interpreting that
we shall miss her,” thought Mrs. Channing. “I am sorry that I do not
understand you,” she said, turning to the man.
“Madame want an hot-el? That hot-el a good one,” tapping the card with
his finger, and dexterously turning the reverse side upward, where was
set forth in English the advantages of a certain Antwerp inn.
“Thank you, but we make no stay at Antwerp; we go straight on at once.”
And she would have handed back the card.
No, he would not receive it. “Madame might be wanting an hot-el at
another time; on her return, it might be. If so, would she patronize it?
it was a good hot-el; perfect!”
Mrs. Channing slipped the card into her reticule, and searched her
directions to see what hotel Hamish had indicated, should they require
one at Antwerp. She found it to be the Hôtel du Parc. Hamish certainly
had contrived to acquire for them a great fund of information; and, as
it turned out, information to be relied on.
Breakfast was to be obtained on board the steamer, and they availed
themselves of it, as did a few of the other passengers. Some delay
occurred in bringing the steamer to the side, after they arrived.
Whether from that cause, or the captain’s grievance--want of wind--or
from both, they were in later than they ought to have been. When the
first passenger put his foot on land, they had been out twenty hours.
Mr. Channing was the last to be removed, as, with him, aid was required.
Mrs. Channing stood on the shore at the head of the ladder, looking down
anxiously, lest in any way harm should come to him, when she found a
hand laid upon her shoulder, and a familiar voice saluted her.
“Mrs. Channing! Who would have thought of seeing you here! Have you
dropped from the moon?”
Not only was the voice familiar, but the face also. In the surprise
of being so addressed, in the confusion around her, Mrs. Channing
positively did not for a moment recognize it; all she saw was, that it
was a _home_ face. “Mr. Huntley!” she exclaimed, when she had gathered
her senses; and, in the rush of pleasure of meeting him, of not feeling
utterly alone in that strange land, she put both her hands into his.
“I may return your question by asking where you have dropped from. I
thought you were in the south of France.”
“So I was,” he answered, “until a few days ago, when business brought me
to Antwerp. A gentleman is living here whom I wished to see. Take care,
my men!” he continued to the English sailors, who were carrying up
Mr. Channing. “Mind your footing.” But the ascent was accomplished in
safety, and Mr. Channing was placed in a carriage.
“Do you understand their lingo?” Mr. Huntley asked, as the porters
talked and chattered around.
“Not a syllable,” she answered. “I can manage a little French, but this
is as a sealed book to me. Is it German or Flemish?”
“Flemish, I conclude,” he said laughingly; “but my ears will not tell
me, any more than yours tell you. I should have done well to bring
Ellen with me. She said, in her saucy way, ‘Papa, when you are among the
French and Germans, you will be wishing for me to interpret for you.’”
“As I have been wishing for Constance,” replied Mrs. Channing. “In our
young days, it was not thought more essential to learn German than it
was to learn Hindustanee. French was only partially taught.”
“Quite true,” said Mr. Huntley. “I managed to rub through France after a
fashion, but I don’t know what the natives thought of my French. What I
did know, I have half forgotten. But, now for explanations. Of course,
Mr. Channing has come to try the effect of the German springs?”
“Yes, and we have such hopes!” she answered. “There does appear to be
a probability that not only relief, but a cure, may be effected;
otherwise, you may be sure we should not have ventured on so much
expense.”
“I always said Mr. Channing ought to try them.”
“Very true; you did so. We were only waiting, you know, for the
termination of the chancery suit. It is terminated, Mr. Huntley; and
against us.”
Mr. Huntley had been abroad since June, travelling in different parts
of the Continent; but he had heard from home regularly, chiefly from
his daughter, and this loss of the suit was duly communicated with other
news.
“Never mind,” said he to Mrs. Channing. “Better luck next time.”
He was of a remarkably pleasant disposition, in temperament not unlike
Hamish Channing. A man of keen intellect was Mr. Huntley; his fine face
expressing it. The luggage collected, they rejoined Mr. Channing.
“I have scarcely said a word to you,” cried Mr. Huntley, taking his
hand. “But I am better pleased to see you here, than I should be to see
any one else living. It is the first step towards a cure. Where are you
bound for?”
“For Borcette. It is--”
“I know it,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “I was at it a year or two ago.
One of the little Brunnens, near Aix-la-Chapelle. I stayed a whole week
there. I have a great mind to accompany you thither, now, and settle you
there.”
“Oh, do!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, his face lighting up, as the faces of
invalids will light up at the anticipated companionship of a friend. “If
you can spare time, do come with us!”
“My time is my own; the business that brought me here is concluded, and
I was thinking of leaving to-day. Having nothing to do after my early
breakfast, I strolled down to watch in the London steamer, little
thinking I should see you arrive by it. That’s settled, then. I will
accompany you as far as Borcette, and see you installed.”
“When do you return home?”
“Now; and glad enough I shall be to get there. Travelling is delightful
for a change, but when you have had enough of it, home peeps out in the
distance with all its charms.”
The train which Mr. and Mrs. Channing had intended to take was already
gone, through delay in the steamer’s reaching Antwerp, and they had to
wait for another. When it started, it had them safely in it, Mr. Huntley
with them. Their route lay through part of the Netherlands, through
Malines, and some beautiful valleys; so beautiful that it is worth going
the whole distance from England to see them.
“What is this disturbance about the seniorship, and Lady Augusta Yorke?”
asked Mr. Huntley, as it suddenly occurred to his recollection, in the
earlier part of their journey. “Master Harry has written me a letter
full of notes of exclamation and indignation, saying I ‘ought to come
home and see about it.’ What is it?”
Mr. Channing explained; at least, as far as he was able to do so. “It
has given rise to a good deal of dissatisfaction in the school,” he
added, “but I cannot think, for my own part, that it can have any
foundation. Mr. Pye would not be likely to give a promise of the kind,
either to Lady Augusta, or to any other of the boys’ friends.”
“If he attempted to give one to me, I should throw it back to him with a
word of a sort,” hastily rejoined Mr. Huntley, in a warm tone. “Nothing
can possibly be more unjust, than to elevate one boy over another
undeservedly; nothing, in my opinion, can be more pernicious. It is
enough to render the boy himself unjust through life; to give him loose
ideas of right and wrong. Have you not inquired into it?”
“No,” replied Mr. Channing.
“I shall. If I find reason to suspect there may be truth in the report,
I shall certainly inquire into it. Underhand work of that sort goes,
with me, against the grain. I can stir in it with a better grace than
you can,” Mr. Huntley added: “my son being pretty sure not to succeed to
the seniorship, so long as yours is above him to take it. Tom Channing
will make a good senior; a better than Harry would. Harry, in his easy
indifference, would suffer the school to lapse into insubordination; Tom
will keep a tight hand over it.”
A sensation of pain darted across the heart of Mr. Channing. Only the
day before his leaving home, he had accidentally heard a few words
spoken between Tom and Charley, which had told him that Tom’s chance
of the seniorship was emperilled through the business connected with
Arthur. Mr. Channing had then questioned Tom, and found that it was so.
He must speak of this now to Mr. Huntley, however painful it might be to
himself to do so. It were more manly to meet it openly than to bury it
in silence, and let Mr. Huntley hear of it (if he had not heard of it
already) as soon as he reached Helstonleigh.
“Have you heard anything in particular about Arthur lately?” inquired
Mr. Channing.
“Of course I have,” was the answer. “Ellen did not fail to give me a
full account of it. I congratulate you on possessing such sons.”
“Congratulate! To what do you allude?” asked Mr. Channing.
“To Arthur’s applying after Jupp’s post, as soon as he knew that the
suit had failed. He’s a true Channing. I am glad he got it.”
“Not to that--I did not allude to that,” hastily rejoined Mr. Channing.
And then, with downcast eyes, and a downcast heart, he related
sufficient to put Mr. Huntley in possession of the facts.
Mr. Huntley heard the tale with incredulity, a smile of ridicule parting
his lips. “Suspect Arthur of theft!” he exclaimed. “What next? Had
I been in my place on the magistrates’ bench that day, I should have
dismissed the charge at once, upon such defective evidence. Channing,
what is the matter?”
Mr. Channing laid his hand upon his aching brow, and Mr. Huntley had to
bend over him to catch the whispered answer. “I do fear that he may be
guilty. If he is not guilty, some strange mystery altogether is attached
to it.”
“But why do you fear that he is guilty?” asked Mr. Huntley, in surprise.
“Because his own conduct, relating to the charge, is so strange. He will
not assert his innocence; or, if he does attempt to assert it, it is
with a faint, hesitating manner and tone, that can only give one the
impression of falsehood, instead of truth.”
“It is utterly absurd to suppose your son Arthur capable of the
crime. He is one of those whom it is impossible to doubt; noble, true,
honourable! No; I would suspect myself, before I could suspect Arthur
Channing.”
“I would have suspected myself before I had suspected him,” impulsively
spoke Mr. Channing. “But there are the facts, coupled with his not
denying the charge. He could not deny it, even to the satisfaction of
Mr. Galloway: did not attempt it; had he done so, Galloway would not
have turned him from the office.”
Mr. Huntley fell into thought, revolving over the details, as they had
been related to him. That Arthur was the culprit, his judgment utterly
repudiated; and he came to the conclusion that he must be screening
another. He glanced at Mrs. Channing, who sat in troubled silence.
“You do not believe Arthur guilty?” he said, in a low tone, suddenly
bending over to her.
“I do not know what to believe; I am racked with doubt and pain,” she
answered. “Arthur’s words to me in private are only compatible with
entire innocence; but then, what becomes of the broad facts?--of
his strange appearance of guilt before the world? God can bring his
innocence to light, he says; and he is content to wait His time.”
“If there is a mystery, I’ll try to come to the bottom of it, when I
reach Helstonleigh,” thought Mr. Huntley. “Arthur’s not guilty, whoever
else may be.”
It was impossible to shake his firm faith in Arthur Channing. Mr.
Huntley was one of the few who read character strongly and surely, and
he _knew_ Arthur was incapable of doing wrong. Had his eyes witnessed
Arthur positively stealing the bank-note, his mind, his judgment would
have refused credence to his eyes. You may, therefore, judge that
neither then, nor afterwards, was he likely to admit the possibility of
Arthur’s guilt.
“And the college school is saying that Tom shall not stand for the
seniorship!” he resumed aloud. “Does my son say it?”
“Some of them are saying it; I believe the majority of the school. I do
not know whether your son is amongst the number.”
“He had better not let me find him so,” cried Mr. Huntley. “But now,
don’t suffer this affair to worry you,” he added, turning heartily to
Mr. Channing. “If Arthur’s guilty, I’ll eat him; and I shall make it
my business to look into it closely when I reach home. You are
incapacitated, my old friend, and I shall act for you.”
“Did Ellen not mention this, in writing to you?”
“No; the sly puss! Catch Miss Ellen writing to me anything that might
tell against the Channings.”
A silence followed. The subject, which the words seemed to hint at,
was one upon which there could be no openness between them. A warm
attachment had sprung up between Hamish Channing and Ellen Huntley; but
whether Mr. Huntley would sanction it, now that the suit had failed, was
doubtful. He had never absolutely sanctioned it before: tacitly, in so
far as that he had not interfered to prevent Ellen from meeting Hamish
in society--in friendly intercourse. Probably, he had never looked upon
it from a serious point of view; possibly, he had never noticed it.
Hamish had not spoken, even to Ellen; but, that they did care for each
other very much, was evident to those who chose to open their eyes.
“No two people in all Helstonleigh were so happy in their children as
you!” exclaimed Mr. Huntley. “Or had such cause to be so.”
“None happier,” assented Mrs. Channing, tears rising to her eyes. “They
were, and are good, dutiful, and loving. Would you believe that Hamish,
little as he can have to spare, has been one of the chief contributors
to help us here?”
Mr. Huntley lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Hamish has! How did he
accomplish it?”
“He has, indeed. I fancy he has been saving up with this in view. Dear,
self-denying Hamish!”
Now, it just happened that Mr. Huntley was cognizant of Mr. Hamish’s
embarrassments; so, how the “saving up” could have been effected, he was
at a loss to know. “Careless Hamish may have borrowed it,” thought he to
himself, “but saved it up he has not.”
“What are we approaching now?” interrupted Mr. Channing.
They were approaching the Prussian frontier; and there they had to
change trains: more embarrassment for Mr. Channing. After that, they
went on without interruption, and arrived safely at the terminus, almost
close to Borcette, having been about four hours on the road.
“Borcette at last!” cheerily exclaimed Mr. Huntley, as he shook Mr.
Channing’s hand. “Please God, it may prove to you a place of healing!”
“Amen!” was the earnestly murmured answer.
Mrs. Channing was delighted with Borcette. Poor Mr. Channing could as
yet see little of it. It was a small, unpretending place, scarcely ten
minutes’ distance from Aix-la-Chapelle, to which she could walk through
an avenue of trees. She had never before seen a bubbling fountain of
boiling water, and regarded those of Borcette with much interest. The
hottest, close to the Hotel Rosenbad, where they sojourned, boasted
a temperature of more than 150° Fahrenheit; it was curious to see it
rising in the very middle of the street. Other things amused her, too;
in fact, all she saw was strange, and bore its peculiar interest. She
watched the factory people flocking to and fro at stated hours in
the day--for Borcette has its factories for woollen fabrics and
looking-glasses--some thousands of souls, their walk as regular
and steady as that of school-girls on their daily march under the
governess’s eye. The men wore blue blouses; the women, neat and clean,
wore neither bonnets nor caps; but their hair was twisted round their
heads, as artistically as if done by a hairdresser. Not one, women or
girls, but wore enormous gold earrings, and the girls plaited their
hair, and let it hang behind.
What a contrast they presented to their class in England! Mrs. Channing
had, not long before, spent a few weeks in one of our large factory
towns in the north. She remembered still the miserable, unwholesome,
dirty, poverty-stricken appearance of the factory workers there--their
almost _disgraceful_ appearance; she remembered still the boisterous
or the slouching manner with which they proceeded to their work; their
language anything but what it ought to be. But these Prussians looked a
respectable, well-conducted, well-to-do body of people.
Where could the great difference lie? Not in wages; for the English were
better paid than the Germans. We might go abroad to learn economy, and
many other desirable accompaniments of daily life. Nothing amused her
more than to see the laundresses and housewives generally, washing the
linen at these boiling springs; wash, wash, wash! chatter, chatter,
chatter! She thought they must have no water in their own homes, for
they would flock in numbers to the springs with their kettles and jugs
to fill them.
It was Doctor Lamb who had recommended them to the Hotel Rosenbad;
and they found the recommendation a good one. Removed from the narrow,
dirty, offensive streets of the little town, it was pleasantly situated.
The promenade, with its broad walks, its gay company (many of them
invalids almost as helpless as Mr. Channing), and its musical bands, was
in front of the hotel windows; a pleasant sight for Mr. Channing until
he could get about himself. On the heights behind the hotel were two
churches; and the sound of their services would be wafted down in soft,
sweet strains of melody. In the neighbourhood there was a shrine, to
which pilgrims flocked. Mrs. Channing regarded them with interest, some
with their alpen-stocks, some in fantastic dresses, some with strings of
beads, which they knelt and told; and her thoughts went back to the old
times of the Crusaders. All she saw pleased her. But for her anxiety as
to what would be the effect of the new treatment upon her husband, and
the ever-lively trouble about Arthur, it would have been a time of real
delight to Mrs. Channing.
They could not have been better off than in the Hotel Rosenbad.
Their rooms were on the second floor--a small, exquisitely pretty
sitting-room, bearing a great resemblance to most continental
sitting-rooms, its carpet red, its muslin curtains snowy white; from
this opened a bed-room containing two beds, all as conveniently arranged
as it could be. Their meals were excellent; the dinner-table especially
being abundantly supplied. For all this they paid five francs a day
each, and the additional accommodation of having the meals served in
their room, on account of Mr. Channing, was not noted as an additional
expense. Their wax-lights were charged extra, and that was all. I think
English hotel-keepers might take a lesson from Borcette!
The doctor gave great hopes of Mr. Channing. His opinion was, that,
had Mr. Channing come to these baths when he was first taken ill, his
confinement would have been very trifling. “You will find the greatest
benefit in a month,” said the doctor, in answer to the anxious question,
How long the restoration might be in coming. “In two months you will
walk charmingly; in three, you will be well.” Cheering news, if it could
only be borne out.
“I will not have you say ‘If,’” cried Mr. Huntley, who had made one in
consultation with the doctor. “You are told that it will be so, under
God’s blessing, and all you have to do is to anticipate it.”
Mr. Channing smiled. They were stationed round the open window of
the sitting-room, he on the most comfortable of sofas, Mrs. Channing
watching the gay prospect below, and thinking she should never tire of
it. “There can be no hope without fear,” said he.
“But I would not think of fear: I would bury that altogether,” said Mr.
Huntley. “You have nothing to do here but to take the remedies, look
forward with confidence, and be as happy as the day’s long.”
“I will if I can,” said Mr. Channing, with some approach to gaiety. “I
should not have gone to the expense of coming here, but that I had great
hopes of the result.”
“Expense, you call it! I call it a marvel of cheapness.”
“For your pocket. Cheap as it is, it will tell upon mine: but, if it
does effect my restoration, I shall soon repay it tenfold.”
“‘If,’ again! It will effect it, I say. What shall you do with Hamish,
when you resume your place at the head of your office?”
“Let me resume it first, Huntley.”
“There you go! Now, if you were only as sanguine and sure as you ought
to be, I could recommend Hamish to something good to-morrow.”
“Indeed! What is it?”
“But, if you persist in saying you shall not get well, or that there’s a
doubt whether you will get well, where’s the use of my doing it? So long
as you are incapacitated, Hamish must be a fixture in Guild Street.”
“True.”
“So I shall say no more about it at present. But remember, my old
friend, that when you are upon your legs, and have no further need of
Hamish--who, I expect, will not care to drop down into a clerk again,
where he has been master--I may be able to help him to something; so
do not let anticipations on his score worry you. I suppose you will be
losing Constance soon?”
Mr. Channing gave vent to a groan: a sharp attack of his malady pierced
his frame just then. Certain reminiscences, caused by the question, may
have helped its acuteness; but of that Mr. Huntley had no suspicion.
In the evening, when Mrs. Channing was sitting under the acacia trees,
Mr. Huntley joined her, and she took the opportunity of alluding to the
subject. “Do not mention it again in the presence of my husband,” she
said: “talking of it can only bring it before his mind with more vivid
force. Constance and Mr. Yorke have parted.”
Had Mrs. Channing told him the cathedral had parted, Mr. Huntley could
not have felt more surprise. “Parted!” he ejaculated. “From what cause?”
“It occurred through this dreadful affair of Arthur’s. I fancy the fault
was as much Constance’s as Mr. Yorke’s, but I do not know the exact
particulars. He did not like it; he thought, I believe, that to marry
a sister of Arthur’s would affect his own honour--or she thought it.
Anyway, they parted.”
“Had William Yorke been engaged to my daughter, and given her up upon
so shallow a plea, I should have been disposed to chastise him,”
intemperately spoke Mr. Huntley, carried away by his strong feeling.
“But, I say I fancy that the giving up was on Constance’s side,”
repeated Mrs. Channing. “She has a keen sense of honour, and she knows
the pride of the Yorkes.”
“Pride, such as that, would be the better for being taken down a peg,”
returned Mr. Huntley. “I am sorry for this. The accusation has indeed
been productive of serious effects. Why did not Arthur go to William
Yorke and avow his innocence, and tell him there was no cause for their
parting? Did he not do so?”
Mrs. Channing shook her head only, by way of answer; and, as Mr. Huntley
scrutinized her pale, sad countenance, he began to think there must be
greater mystery about the affair than he had supposed. He said no more.
On the third day he quitted Borcette, having seen them, as he expressed
it, fully installed, and pursued his route homewards, by way of Lille,
Calais, and Dover. Mr. Huntley was no friend to long sea passages:
people with well-filled purses seldom are so.