“A pretty time o’ day this is to deliver the letters. It’s eleven o’clock!”
“I can’t help it. The train broke down, and was three hours behind its
time.”
“I dare say! You letter-men want looking up: that’s what it is. Coming
to folks’s houses at eleven o’clock, when they have been waiting and
looking ever since breakfast-time!”
“It’s not my fault, I say. Take the letter.”
Judith received it with a grunt, for it was between her and the postman
that the colloquy had taken place. A delay had occurred that morning
in the delivery, and Judith was resenting it, feeling half inclined
to reject the letter, now that it had come. The letters from Germany
arrived irregularly; sometimes by the afternoon post at four, sometimes
by the morning; the only two deliveries in Helstonleigh. A letter had
been fully expected this morning, and when the time passed over, they
supposed there was none.
It was directed to Miss Channing. Judith, who was quite as anxious about
her master’s health as the children were, went off at once with it to
Lady Augusta Yorke’s, just as she was, without the ceremony of putting
on a bonnet. Though she did wear a mob-cap and a check apron, she looked
what she was--a respectable servant in a respectable family; and the
Boundaries so regarded her, as she passed through them, letter in
hand. Martha, Lady Augusta’s housemaid, answered the door, presenting a
contrast to Judith. Martha wore a crinoline as big as her lady’s, and
a starched-out muslin gown over it, with flounces and frillings,
for Martha was “dressed” for the day. Her arms, red and large, were
displayed beneath her open sleeves, and something that looked like a bit
of twisted lace was stuck on the back of her head. Martha called it a
“cap.” Judith was a plain servant, and Martha was a fashionable one; but
I know which looked the better of the two.
Judith would not give in the letter. She asked for the young mistress,
and Constance came to her in the hall. “Just open it, please, Miss
Constance, and tell me how he is,” said she anxiously; and Constance
broke the seal of the letter.
“_Borcette. Hotel Rosenbad, September, 18--_.”
“My Dear Child,--Still better and better! The improvement, which I told
you in my last week’s letter had begun to take place so rapidly as to
make us fear it was only a deceitful one, turns out to have been real.
Will you believe it, when I tell you that your papa can _walk_! With the
help of my arm, he can walk across the room and along the passage; and
to-morrow he is going to try to get down the first flight of stairs.
None but God can know how thankful I am; not even my children. If this
change has taken place in the first month (and it is not yet quite
that), what may we not expect in the next--and the next? Your papa is
writing to Hamish, and will confirm what I say.”
This much Constance read aloud. Judith gave a glad laugh. “It’s just
as everybody told the master,” said she. “A fine, strong, handsome man,
like him, wasn’t likely to be laid down for life like a baby, when he
was hardly middle-aged. These doctors here be just so many muffs. When I
get too old for work, I’ll go to Germany myself, Miss Constance, and ask
‘em to make me young again.”
Constance smiled. She was running her eyes over the rest of the letter,
which was a long one. She caught sight of Arthur’s name. There were
some loving, gentle messages to him, and then these words: “Hamish says
Arthur applied at Dove and Dove’s for a clerk’s place, but did not come
to terms with them. We are glad that he did not. Papa says he should not
like to have one of his boys at Dove and Dove’s.”
“And here’s a little bit for you, Judith,” Constance said aloud.
“Tell Judith not to be over-anxious in her place of trust; and not to
over-work herself, but to let Sarah take her full share. There is no
hurry about the bed-furniture; Sarah can do it in an evening at her
leisure.”
Judith received the latter portion of the message with scorn. “‘Tisn’t
me that’s going to let _her_ do it! A fine do it would be, Miss
Constance! The first thing I shall see, when I go back now, will be her
head stretched out at one of the windows, and the kidney beans left to
string and cut themselves in the kitchen!”
Judith turned to depart. She never would allow any virtues to her
helpmate Sarah, who gave about the same trouble to her that young
servants of twenty generally give to old ones. Constance followed her to
the door, saying something which had suddenly occurred to her mind about
domestic affairs, when who should she meet, coming in, but the Rev.
William Yorke! He had just left the Cathedral after morning prayers, and
was calling at Lady Augusta’s.
Both were confused; both stopped, face to face, in hesitation. Constance
grew crimson; Mr. Yorke pale. It was the first time they had met since
the parting. There was an angry feeling against Constance in the mind
of Mr. Yorke; he considered that she had not treated him with proper
confidence; and in his proud nature--the Yorke blood was his--he was
content to resent it. He did not expect to _lose_ Constance eventually;
he thought that the present storm would blow over some time, and that
things would come right again. We are all too much given to trust to
that vague “some time.” In Constance’s mind there existed a soreness
against Mr. Yorke. He had doubted her; he had accepted (if he had not
provoked) too readily her resignation of him. Unlike him, she saw no
prospect of the future setting matters right. Marry him, whilst the
cloud lay upon Arthur, she would not, after he had intimated his opinion
and sentiments: and that cloud could only be lifted at the expense of
another.
They exchanged a confused greeting; neither of them conscious how it
passed. Mr. Yorke’s attention was then caught by the open letter in
her hand--by the envelope bearing the foreign post-marks. “How is Mr.
Channing?” he asked.
“So much better that it seems little short of a miracle,” replied
Constance. “Mamma says,” glancing at the letter, “that he can walk,
leaning on her arm.”
“I am so glad to hear it! Hamish told me last week that he was
improving. I trust it may go on to a cure.”
“Thank you,” replied Constance. And she made him a pretty little state
curtsey as she turned away, not choosing to see the hand he would fain
have offered her.
Mr. Yorke’s voice brought a head and shoulders out at the breakfast-room
door. They belonged to Lord Carrick. He and Lady Augusta were positively
at breakfast at that hour of the day. His lordship’s eyes followed the
pretty form of Constance as she disappeared up the staircase on
her return to the schoolroom. William Yorke’s were cast in the same
direction. Then their eyes--the peer’s and the clergyman’s--met.
“Ye have given her up, I understand, Master William?”
“Master William” vouchsafed no reply. He deemed it a little piece of
needless impertinence.
“Bad taste!” continued Lord Carrick. “If I were only twenty years
younger, and she’d not turn up her nose at me for a big daft of an
Irishman, _you’d_ not get her, me lad. She’s the sweetest little thing I
have come across this many a day.”
To which the Rev. William Yorke condescended no answer, unless a haughty
gesture expressive of indignation might be called one, as he brushed
past Lord Carrick into the breakfast-room.
At that very hour, and in a breakfast-room also--though all signs of the
meal had long been removed--were Mr. Huntley and his daughter. The same
praise, just bestowed by Lord Carrick upon Constance Channing, might
with equal justice be given to Ellen Huntley. She was a lovely girl,
three or four years older than Harry, with pretty features and soft dark
eyes. What is more, she was a good girl--a noble, generous-hearted girl,
although (you know no one is perfection) with a spice of self-will. For
the latter quality I think Ellen was more indebted to circumstances than
to Nature. Mrs. Huntley was dead, and a maiden sister of Mr. Huntley’s,
older than himself, resided with them and ruled Ellen; ruled her with a
tight hand; not a kind one, or a judicious one; and that had brought
out Miss Ellen’s self-will. Miss Huntley was very starched, prim, and
stiff--very unnatural, in short--and she wished to make Ellen the same.
Ellen rebelled, for she much disliked everything artificial. She was
truthful, honest, straightforward; not unlike the character of Tom
Channing. Miss Huntley complained that she was too straightforward to
be ladylike; Ellen said she was sure she should never be otherwise than
straightforward, so it was of no use trying. Then Miss Huntley would
take offence, and threaten Ellen with “altering her will,” and that
would vex Ellen more than anything. Young ladies rarely care for money,
especially when they have plenty of it; and Ellen Huntley would have
that, from her father. “As if I cared for my aunt’s money!” she would
say. “I wish she may not leave it to me.” And she was sincere in the
wish. Their controversies frequently amused Mr. Huntley. Agreeing in
heart and mind with his daughter, he would yet make a playful show of
taking his sister’s part. Miss Huntley knew it to be show--done to laugh
at her--and would grow as angry with him as she was with Ellen.
Mr. Huntley was not laughing, however, this morning. On the contrary,
he appeared to be in a very serious, not to say solemn mood. He slowly
paced the room, as was his custom when anything disturbed him, stopping
at moments to reflect, buried in thought. Ellen sat at a table by the
window, drawing. The house was Mr. Huntley’s own--a white villa with
a sloping lawn in front. It was situated outside the town, on a gentle
eminence, and commanded a view of the charming scenery for which the
county was famous.
Ellen, who had glanced up two or three times, concerned to see the
very stern, perplexed look on her father’s face, at length spoke, “Is
anything the matter, papa?”
Mr. Huntley did not answer. He was standing close to the table then,
apparently looking at Ellen, at her white morning dress and its blue
ribbons: it, and she altogether, a fair picture. Probably he saw neither
her nor her dress--he was too deeply absorbed.
“You are not ill, are you, papa?”
“Ill!” he answered, rousing himself. “No, Ellen, I am not ill.”
“Then you have had something to vex you, papa?”
“I have,” emphatically replied Mr. Huntley. “And the worst is, that my
vexation will not be confined to myself, I believe. It may extend to
you, Ellen.”
Mr. Huntley’s manner was so serious, his look so peculiar as he gazed at
her, that Ellen felt a rush of discomfort, and the colour spread itself
over her fair face. She jumped to the conclusion that she had been
giving offence in some way--that Miss Huntley must have been complaining
of her.
“Has my aunt been telling you about last night, papa? Harry had two of
the college boys here, and I unfortunately laughed and talked with them,
and she said afterwards I had done it on purpose to annoy her. But I
assure you, papa--”
“Never mind assuring me, child,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “Your aunt has
said nothing to me; and if she had, it would go in at one ear and out
at the other. It is worse business than any complaint that she could
bring.”
Ellen laid down her pencil, and gazed at her father, awe-struck at his
strange tone. “What is it?” she breathed.
But Mr. Huntley did not answer. He remained perfectly still for a few
moments, absorbed in thought: and then, without a word of any sort to
Ellen, turned round to leave the room, took his hat as he passed through
the hall, and left the house.
Can you guess what it was that was troubling Mr. Huntley? Very probably,
if you can put, as the saying runs, this and that together.
Convinced, as he was, that Arthur Channing was not, could not be guilty
of taking the bank-note, yet puzzled by the strangely tame manner in
which he met the charge--confounded by the behaviour both of Arthur and
Constance relating to it--Mr. Huntley had resolved, if possible, to dive
into the mystery. He had his reasons for it. A very disagreeable, a very
improbable suspicion, called forth by the facts, had darted across his
mind; _therefore_ he resolved to penetrate to it. And he set to work. He
questioned Mr. Galloway, he questioned Butterby, he questioned Jenkins,
and he questioned Roland Yorke. He thus became as thoroughly conversant
with the details of the transaction as it was possible for any one,
except the actual thief, to be; and he drew his own deductions. Very
reluctantly, very slowly, very cautiously, were they drawn, but very
surely. The behaviour of Arthur and Constance could only have one
meaning: they were screening the real culprit. And that culprit must be
Hamish Channing.
Unwilling as Mr. Huntley was to admit it, he had no resource but to do
so. He grew as certain of it as he was of his own life. He had loved and
respected Hamish in no measured degree. He had observed the attachment
springing up between him and his daughter, and he had been content to
observe it. None were so worthy of her, in Mr. Huntley’s eyes, as Hamish
Channing, in all respects save one--wealth; and, of that, Ellen would
have plenty. Mr. Huntley had known of the trifling debts that were
troubling Hamish, and he found that those debts, immediately on the loss
of the bank-note, had been partially satisfied. That the stolen money
must have been thus applied, and that it had been taken for that
purpose, he could not doubt.
Hamish! It nearly made Mr. Huntley’s hair stand on end. That he must
be silent over it, as were Hamish’s own family, he knew--silent for Mr.
Channing’s sake. And what about Ellen?
_There_ was the sad, very sad grievance. Whether Hamish went wrong,
or whether Hamish went right, it was not of so much consequence to Mr.
Huntley; but it might be to Ellen--in fact, he thought it would be. He
had risen that morning resolved to hint to Ellen that any particular
intimacy with Hamish must cease. But he was strangely undecided about
it. Now that the moment was come, he almost doubted, himself, Hamish’s
guilt. All the improbabilities of the case rose up before him in marked
colours; he lost sight of the condemning facts; and it suddenly occurred
to him that it was scarcely fair to judge Hamish so completely without
speaking to him. “Perhaps he can account to me for the possession of the
money which he applied to those debts,” thought Mr. Huntley. “If so, in
spite of appearances, I will not deem him guilty.”
He went out, on the spur of the moment, straight down to the office
in Guild Street. Hamish was alone, not at all busy, apparently. He was
standing up by the fireplace, his elbow on the mantelpiece, a letter
from Mr. Channing (no doubt the one alluded to in Mrs. Channing’s letter
to Constance) in his hand. He received Mr. Huntley with his cordial,
sunny smile; spoke of the good news the letter brought, spoke of the
accident which had caused the delay of the mail, and finally read out
part of the letter, as Constance had to Judith.
It was all very well; but this only tended to embarrass Mr. Huntley.
He did not like his task, and the more confidential they grew over Mr.
Channing’s health, the worse it made it for him to enter upon. As chance
had it, Hamish himself paved the way. He began telling of an incident
which had taken place that morning, to the scandal of the town. A young
man, wealthy but improvident, had been arrested for debt. Mr. Huntley
had not yet heard of it.
“It stopped his day’s pleasure,” laughed Hamish. “He was going along
with his gun and dogs, intending to pop at the partridges, when he got
popped upon himself, instead. Poor fellow! it was too bad to spoil his
sport. Had I been a rich man, I should have felt inclined to bail him
out.”
“The effect of running in debt,” remarked Mr. Huntley. “By the way,
Master Hamish, is there no fear of a similar catastrophe for you?” he
added, in a tone which Hamish might, if he liked, take for a jesting
one.
“For me, sir?” returned Hamish.
“When I left Helstonleigh in June, a certain young friend of mine was
not quite free from a suspicion of such liabilities,” rejoined Mr.
Huntley.
Hamish flushed rosy red. Of all people in the world, Mr. Huntley was the
one from whom he would, if possible, have kept that knowledge, but he
spoke up readily.
“I did owe a thing or two, it can’t be denied,” acknowledged he. “Men,
better and wiser and richer than I, have owed money before me, Mr.
Huntley.”
“Suppose they serve you as they have served Jenner this morning?”
“They will not do that,” laughed Hamish, seeming very much inclined to
make a joke of the matter. “I have squared up some sufficiently to be on
the safe side of danger, and I shall square up the rest.”
Mr. Huntley fixed his eyes upon him. “How did you get the money to do
it, Hamish?”
Perhaps it was the plain, unvarnished manner in which the question was
put; perhaps it was the intent gaze with which Mr. Huntley regarded him;
but, certain it is, that the flush on Hamish’s face deepened to crimson,
and he turned it from Mr. Huntley, saying nothing.
“Hamish, I have a reason for wishing to know.”
“To know what, sir?” asked Hamish, as if he would temporize, or avoid
the question.
“Where did you obtain the money that you applied to liquidate, or
partially to liquidate, your debts?”
“I cannot satisfy you, sir. The affair concerns no one but myself. I did
get it, and that is sufficient.”
Hamish had come out of his laughing tone, and spoke as firmly as Mr.
Huntley; but, that the question had embarrassed him, was palpably
evident. Mr. Huntley said good morning, and left the office without
shaking hands. All his doubts were confirmed.
He went straight home. Ellen was where he had left her, still alone. Mr.
Huntley approached her and spoke abruptly. “Are you willing to give up
all intimacy with Hamish Channing?”
She gazed at him in surprise, her complexion changing, her voice
faltering. “Oh, papa! what have they done?”
“Ellen, did I say ‘they!’ The Channings are my dear friends, and I hope
ever to call them such. They have done nothing unworthy of my friendship
or of yours. I said Hamish.”
Ellen rose from her seat, unable to subdue her emotion, and stood with
her hands clasped before Mr. Huntley. Hamish was far dearer to her than
the world knew.
“I will leave it to your good sense, my dear,” Mr. Huntley whispered,
glancing round, as if not caring that even the walls should hear. “I
have liked Hamish very much, or you may be sure he would not have been
allowed to come here so frequently. But he has forfeited my regard now,
as he must forfeit that of all good men.”
She trembled excessively, almost to impede her utterance, when she would
have asked what it was that he had done.
“I scarcely dare breathe it to you,” said Mr. Huntley, “for it is a
thing that we must hush up, as the family are hushing it up. When that
bank-note was lost, suspicion fell on Arthur.”
“Well, papa?” wonderingly resumed Ellen.
“It was not Arthur who took it. It was Hamish. And Arthur is bearing the
stigma of it for his father’s sake.”
Ellen grew pale. “Papa, who says it?”
“No one _says_ it, Ellen. But the facts leave no room for doubt.
Hamish’s own manner--I have just left him--leaves no room for it. He is
indisputably guilty.”
Then Ellen’s anger, her _straightforwardness_, broke forth. She clasped
her hands in pain, and her face grew crimson. “He is _not_ guilty, papa.
I would answer for it with my own life. How dare they accuse him! how
dare they asperse him? Is he not Hamish Channing?”
“Ellen! _Ellen_!”
Ellen burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Forgive me, papa. If
he has no one else to take his part, I will do it. I do not wish to be
undutiful; and if you bid me never to see or speak to Hamish Channing
again, I will implicitly obey you; but, hear him spoken of as guilty, I
will not. I wish I could stand up for him against the world.”
“After that, Miss Ellen Huntley, I think you had better sit down.”
Ellen sat down, and cried until she was calm.