Shaking hands with Lady Augusta Yorke as she turned out of Mr.
Galloway’s office, was Mr. Huntley. He had only just arrived at
Helstonleigh; had not yet been home; but he explained that he wished to
give at once a word of pleasant news to Constance Channing of her
father and mother, and, on his way to the Boundaries, was calling on Mr.
Galloway.
“You will find Miss Channing at my house,” said Lady Augusta, after some
warm inquiries touching Mr. and Mrs. Channing. “I would offer to go
back there with you, but I am on my way to make some calls.” She turned
towards the town as she spoke, and Mr. Huntley entered the office.
“I thought you were never coming home again!” cried free Roland. “Why,
you have been away three months, Mr. Huntley!”
“Very nearly. Where is Mr. Galloway?”
“In his skin,” said Roland.
Jenkins looked up deprecatingly, as if he would apologize for the
rudeness of Roland Yorke. “Mr. Galloway is out, sir. I dare say he will
not be away more than half an hour.”
“I cannot wait now,” said Mr. Huntley. “So you are one less in this
office than you were when I left?”
“The awfullest shame!” struck in Roland. “Have you heard that Galloway
lost a bank-note out of a letter, sir?”
“Yes. I have heard of it from Mr. Channing.”
“And they accused Arthur Channing of taking it!” exclaimed Roland.
“They took him up for it; he was had up twice to the town-hall, like any
felon. You may be slow to believe it, Mr. Huntley, but it’s true.”
“It was Butterby, sir,” interposed Jenkins. “He was rather too officious
over it, and acted without Mr. Galloway’s orders.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Jenkins,” rebuked Roland. “You have defended
Galloway all through the piece, but he is as much to blame as Butterby.
Why did he turn off Channing?”
“You do not think him guilty, Roland, I see,” said Mr. Huntley.
“I should hope I don’t,” answered Roland. “Butterby pitched upon Arthur,
because there happened to be nobody else at hand to pitch upon; just as
he’d have pitched upon you, Mr. Huntley, had you happened to be in the
office that afternoon.”
“Mr. Arthur Channing was not guilty, I am sure, sir; pray do not think
him so,” resumed Jenkins, his eye lighting as he turned to Mr. Huntley.
And Mr. Huntley smiled in response to the earnestness. _He_ believe
Arthur Channing guilty!
He left a message for Mr. Galloway, and quitted the office. Roland, who
was very difficult to settle to work again, if once disturbed from it,
strided himself across his stool, and tilted it backwards.
“I’m uncommonly glad Carrick’s coming!” cried he. “Do you remember him,
Jenkins?”
“Who, sir?”
“That uncle of mine. He was at Helstonleigh three years ago.”
“I am not sure that I do, sir.”
“What a sieve of a memory you must have! He is as tall as a house. We
are not bad fellows for height, but Carrick beats us. He is not married,
you know, and we look to him to square up many a corner. To do him
justice, he never says No, when he has the cash, but he’s often out at
elbows himself. It was he who bought George his commission and fitted
him out; and I know my lady looks to him to find the funds Gerald will
want to make him into a parson. I wonder what he’ll do for me?”
Jenkins was about to answer, but was stopped by his cough. For some
minutes it completely exhausted him; and Roland, for want of a hearer,
was fain to bring the legs of his stool down again, and apply himself
lazily to his work.
At this very moment, which was not much past two o’clock in the day,
Bywater had Charley Channing pinned against the palings underneath the
elm trees. He had him all to himself. No other boys were within hearing;
though many were within sight; for they were assembling in and round the
cloisters after their dinner.
“Now, Miss Charley, it’s the last time I’ll ask you, as true as that
we are living here! You are as obstinate as a young mule. I’ll give you
this one chance, and I’ll not give you another. I’d advise you to take
it, if you have any regard for your skin.”
“I don’t know anything, Bywater.”
“You shuffling little turncoat! I don’t _know_ that there’s any fire in
that kitchen chimney of the old dean’s, but I am morally certain that
there is, because clouds of black smoke are coming out of it. And you
know just as well who it was that played the trick to my surplice. I
don’t ask you to blurt it out to the school, and I won’t bring your name
up in it at all; I won’t act upon what you tell me. There!”
“Bywater, I don’t know; and suspicion goes for nothing. Gaunt said it
did not.”
Bywater gave Charley a petulant shake. “I say that you know morally,
Miss Channing. I protest that I heard you mention the word ‘surplice’ to
Gerald Yorke, the day there was that row in the cloisters, when Roland
Yorke gave Tod a thrashing and I tore the seat out of my pants. Gerald
Yorke looked ready to kill you for it, too! Come, out with it. This is
about the sixth time I have had you in trap, and you have only defied
me.”
“I don’t defy you, Bywater. I say that I will not tell. I would not if I
knew. It is no business of mine.”
“You little ninny! Don’t you see that your obstinacy is injuring Tom
Channing? Yorke is going in for the seniorship; is sure to get it--if
it’s true that Pye has given the promise to Lady Augusta. But, let it
come out that he was the Jack-in-the-box, and his chance falls to the
ground. And you won’t say a word to do good to your brother!”
Charley shook his head. He did not take the bait. “And Tom himself would
be the first to punish me for doing wrong! He never forgives a sneak.
It’s of no use your keeping me, Bywater.”
“Listen, youngster. I have my suspicions; I have had them all along;
and I have a clue--that’s more. But, for a certain reason, I think my
suspicions and my clue point to the wrong party; and I don’t care to
stir in it till I am sure. One--two--three! for the last time. Will you
tell me?”
“No.”
“Then, look you, Miss Charley Channing. If I do go and denounce the
wrong party, and find out afterwards that it is the wrong one, I’ll give
you as sweet a drubbing as you ever had, and your girl’s face shan’t
save you. Now go.”
He propelled Charley from him with a jerk, and propelled him against Mr.
Huntley, who was at that moment turning the corner close to them, on his
way from Mr. Galloway’s office.
“You can’t go through me, Charley,” said Mr. Huntley. “Did you think I
was made of glass, Bywater?”
“My patience!” exclaimed Bywater. “Why, Harry was grumbling, not five
minutes ago, that you were never coming home at all, Mr. Huntley.”
“He was, was he? Is he here?”
“Oh, he’s somewhere amongst the ruck of them,” cried Bywater, looking
towards the distant boys. “He wants you to see about this bother of the
seniorship. If somebody doesn’t, we shall get up a mutiny, that’s all.
Here, Huntley,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “here’s an arrival
from foreign parts!”
Some of the nearer boys looked round, and the word was passed to
Huntley. Harry Huntley and the rest soon surrounded him, and Mr. Huntley
had no reason to complain of the warmth of his reception. When news had
recently arrived that Mr. Huntley was coming home, the boys had taken
up the hope of his interference. Of course, schoolboy-like, they all
entered upon it eagerly.
“Stop, stop, stop!” said Mr. Huntley. “One at a time. How can I hear, if
you all talk together? Now, what’s the grievance?”
They detailed it as rationally and with as little noise as it was in
their nature to do. Huntley was the only senior present, but Gaunt came
up during the conference.
“It’s all a cram, Mr. Huntley,” cried Tod Yorke. “My brother Gerald says
that Jenkins dreamt it.”
“I’ll ‘dream’ you, if you don’t keep your tongue silent, Tod Yorke,”
reprimanded Gaunt. “Take yourself off to a distance, Mr. Huntley,” he
added, turning to that gentleman, “it is certain that Lady Augusta
said it; and we can’t think she’d say it, unless Pye promised it. It is
unfair upon Channing and Huntley.”
A few more words given to the throng, upon general matters--for Mr.
Huntley touched no more on the other topic--and then he continued his
way to Lady Augusta’s. As he passed the house of the Reverend Mr.
Pye, that gentleman was coming out of it. Mr. Huntley, a decisive,
straightforward man, entered upon the matter at once, after some moments
spent in greeting.
“You will pardon my speaking of it to you personally,” he said, when
he had introduced the subject, “In most cases I consider it perfectly
unjustifiable for the friends of boys in a public school to interfere
with the executive of its master; but this affair is different. Is it,
or is it not correct, that there is an intention afloat to exalt Yorke
to the seniorship?”
“Mr. Huntley, you must be aware that in _no case_ can the head-master of
a public school allow himself to be interfered with, or questioned,” was
the reply of the master.
“I hope you will meet this amicably,” returned Mr. Huntley.
“I have no other wish than to be friendly; quite so. We all deem
ourselves under obligations to you, Mr. Pye, and esteem you highly; we
could not have, or wish, a better preceptor for our sons. But in this
instance, my duty is plain. The injustice--if any such injustice is
contemplated--tells particularly upon Tom Channing and my son. Mr.
Channing does not give ear to it; I would rather not; nevertheless,
you must pardon me for acting, in the uncertainty, as though it had
foundation. I presume you cannot be ignorant of the dissatisfied feeling
that reigns in the school?”
“I have intimated that I will not be questioned,” said Mr. Pye.
“Quite right. I merely wished to express a hope that there may be no
foundation for the rumour. If Tom Channing and Harry forfeit their
rights legally, through want of merit, or ill conduct, it is not I that
would urge a word in their favour. Fair play’s a jewel: and the highest
boy in the school should have no better chance given him than the
lowest. But if the two senior boys do not so forfeit their rights, Yorke
must not be exalted above them.”
“Who is to dictate to me?” demanded Mr. Pye. “Certainly not I,” replied
Mr. Huntley, in a courteous but firm tone. “Were the thing to take
place, I should simply demand, through the Dean and Chapter, that the
charter of the school might be consulted, as to whether its tenets had
teen strictly followed.”
The head-master made no reply. Neither did he appear angry; only
impassible. Mr. Huntley had certainly hit the right nail on the head;
for the master of Helstonleigh College school was entirely under the
control, of the Dean and Chapter.
“I can speak to you upon this all the more freely and with better
understanding, since it is not my boy who stands any chance,” said Mr.
Huntley, with a cordial smile. “Tom Channing heads him on the rolls.”
“Tom Channing will not be senior; I have no objection to affirm so much
to you,” observed the master, falling in with Mr. Huntley’s manner,
“This sad affair of his brother Arthur’s debars him.”
“It ought not to debar him, even were Arthur guilty,” warmly returned
Mr. Huntley.
“In justice to Tom Channing himself, no. But,” and the master dropped
his voice to a confidential tone, “it is necessary sometimes to study
the prejudices taken up by a school; to see them, and not to appear
to see them--if you understand me. Were Tom Channing made head of the
school, part of the school would rise up in rebellion; some of the boys
would, no doubt, be removed from it. For the peace of the school alone,
it could not be done. The boys would not now obey him as senior, and
there would be perpetual warfare, resulting we know not in what.”
“Arthur Channing was not guilty. I feel as sure of it as I do of my own
life.”
“He is looked upon as guilty by those who must know best, from their
familiarity with the details,” rejoined Mr. Pye, “For my own part, I
have no resource but to believe him so, I regard it as one of those
anomalies which you cannot understand, or would believe in, but that it
happens under your own eye; where the moment’s yielding to temptation
is at variance with the general character, with the whole past life.
Of course, in these cases, the disgrace is reflected upon relatives and
connections, and they have to suffer for it. I cannot help the school’s
resenting it upon Tom.”
“It will be cruel to deprive Tom of the seniorship upon these grounds,”
remonstrated Mr. Huntley.
“To himself individually,” assented the master. “But it is well that
one, promoted to a foundation-school’s seniorship, should be free from
moral taint. Were there no feeling whatever against Tom Channing in the
school, I do not think I could, consistently with my duty and with a due
regard to the fitness of things, place him as senior. I am sorry for
the boy; I always liked him; and he has been of good report, both as to
scholarship and conduct.”
“I know one thing,” said Mr. Huntley: “that you may search the school
through, and not find so good a senior as Tom Channing would make.”
“He would have made a very good one, there’s no doubt. Would have ruled
the boys well and firmly, though without oppression. Yes, we lose a good
senior in Tom Channing.”
There was no more to be said. Mr. Huntley felt that the master was
thoroughly decided; and for the other matter, touching Yorke, he had
done with it until the time of appointment. As he went musing on, he
began to think that Mr. Pye might be right with regard to depriving Tom
of the seniorship, however unjust it might appear to Tom himself. Mr.
Huntley remembered that not one of the boys, except Gaunt, had mentioned
Tom Channing’s name in his recent encounter with them; they had spoken
of the injustice of exalting Yorke over _Harry Huntley_. He had not
noticed it at the time.
He proceeded to Lady Augusta’s, and Constance was informed of his visit.
She had three pupils at Lady Augusta’s now, for that lady had kindly
insisted that Constance should bring Annabel to study with her
daughters, during the absence of Mrs. Channing. Constance left them to
themselves and entered the drawing-room. Pretty Constance! so fresh, so
lovely, in her simple muslin dress, and her braided hair. Mr. Huntley
caught her hands, and imprinted a very fatherly kiss upon her fair
forehead.
“That is from the absentees, Constance. I told them I should give it to
you. And I bring you the bravest news, my dear. Mr. Channing was already
finding benefit from his change; he was indeed. There is every hope that
he will be restored.”
Constance was radiant with delight. To see one who had met and stayed
with her father and mother at their distant sojourn, was almost like
seeing her parents themselves.
“And now, my dear, I want a word with you about all those untoward
trials and troubles, which appear to have come thickly during my
absence,” continued Mr. Huntley. “First of all, as to yourself. What
mischief-making wind has been arising between you and William Yorke?”
The expression of Constance’s face changed to sadness, and her cheeks
grew crimson.
“My dear, you will not misunderstand me,” he resumed. “I heard of these
things at Borcette, and I said that I should undertake to inquire into
them in the place of your father: just as he, health permitting him,
would have undertaken for me in my absence, did any trouble arise to
Ellen. Is it true that you and Mr. Yorke have parted?”
“Yes,” faltered Constance.
“And the cause?”
Constance strove to suppress her tears. “You can do nothing, Mr.
Huntley; nothing whatever. Thank you all the same.”
“He has made this accusation upon Arthur the plea for breaking off his
engagement?”
“I could not marry him with this cloud upon me,” she murmured. “It would
not be right.”
“Cloud upon _you!_” hastily ejaculated Mr. Huntley. “The accusation
against Arthur was the sole cause, then, of your parting?”
“Yes; the sole cause which led to it.”
Mr. Huntley paused, apparently in thought. “He is presented to Hazeldon
Chapel, I hear. Did his rupture with you take place _after_ that
occurrence?”
“I see what you are thinking,” she impulsively cried, caring too much
for Mr. Yorke not to defend him. “The chief fault of the parting was
mine. I felt that it would not do to become his wife, being--being--”
she hesitated much--“Arthur’s sister. I believe that he also felt it.
Indeed, Mr. Huntley, there is no help for it; nothing can be done.”
“Knowing what I do of William Yorke, I am sure that the pain of
separation must be keen, whatever may be his pride. Constance, unless I
am mistaken, it is equally keen to you.”
Again rose the soft damask blush to the face of Constance. But she
answered decisively. “Mr. Huntley, I pray you to allow the subject to
cease. Nothing can bring about the renewal of the engagement between
myself and Mr. Yorke. It is irrevocably at an end.”
“Until Arthur shall be cleared, you mean?”
“No,” she answered--a vision of Hamish and _his_ guilt flashing across
her--“I mean for good.”
“Why does not Arthur assert his innocence to Mr. Yorke? Constance, I am
sure you know, as well as I do, that he is not guilty. _Has_ he asserted
it?”
She made no answer.
“As I would have wished to serve you, so will I serve Arthur,” said Mr.
Huntley. “I told your father and mother, Constance, that I should make
it my business to investigate the charge against him; I shall leave not
a stone unturned to bring his innocence to light.”
The avowal terrified Constance, and she lost her self-possession. “Oh
don’t! don’t!” she uttered. “You must not, indeed! you do not know the
mischief it might do.”
“Mischief to what?--to whom?” exclaimed Mr. Huntley.
Constance buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The next
moment she had raised it, and taken Mr. Huntley’s hand between hers.
“You are papa’s friend! You would do us good and not harm--is it not
so?” she beseechingly said.
“My dear child,” he exclaimed, quite confounded by her words--her
distress: “you know that I would not harm any of you for the world.”
“Then _pray_ do not seek to dive into that unhappy story,” she
whispered. “It must not be too closely looked into.”
And Mr. Huntley quitted Constance, as a man who walks in a dream, so
utterly amazed was he. What did it all mean?
As he was going through the cloisters--his nearest way to the
town--Roland Yorke came flying up. With his usual want of ceremony,
he passed his arm within Mr. Huntley’s. “Galloway’s come in now,” he
exclaimed, “and I am off to the bank to pay in a bag of money for him.
Jenkins told him you had called. Just hark at that clatter!”
The clatter, alluded to by Mr. Roland, was occasioned by the tramp of
the choristers on the cloister flags. They were coming up behind, full
speed, on their way from the schoolroom to enter the cathedral, for the
bell had begun for service.
“And here comes that beautiful relative of mine,” continued Roland, as
he and Mr. Huntley passed the cathedral entrance, and turned into the
west quadrangle of the cloisters. “Would you credit it, Mr. Huntley,
that he has turned out a sneak? He has. He was to have married Constance
Channing, you know, and, for fear Arthur should have touched the note,
he has declared off it. If I were Constance, I would never allow the
fellow to speak to me again.”
Apparently it was the course Mr. Roland himself intended to observe.
As the Rev. Mr. Yorke, who was coming in to service, drew near, Roland
strode on, his step haughty, his head in the air, which was all the
notice he vouchsafed to take. Probably the minor canon did not care very
much for Mr. Roland’s notice, one way or the other; but his eye lighted
with pleasure at the sight of Mr. Huntley, and he advanced to him, his
hand outstretched.
But Mr. Huntley--a man given to show in his manner his likes and
dislikes--would not see the hand, would not stop at all, but passed Mr.
Yorke with a distant bow. That gentleman had fallen pretty deeply in his
estimation, since he had heard of the rupture with Constance Channing.
Mr. Yorke stood for a moment as if petrified, and then strode on his way
with a step as haughty as Roland’s.
Roland burst into a glow of delight. “That’s the way to serve him, Mr.
Huntley! I hope he’ll get cut by every good man in Helstonleigh.”