The echoes of lamentation were dying away in the high roof of the
college school. Hamish Channing, pale, but calm and self-controlled,
stood perfectly ready to investigate the account brought by the
boat-house keeper of the drowning of Charles. The feelings of those
who had had a hand in the work may be imagined, perhaps, but certainly
cannot be described. Bill Simms choked and sobbed, and pulled his lanky
straw-coloured hair, and kicked his legs about, and was altogether
beside himself. The under-masters looked on with stern countenances and
lowering brows; while old Ketch never had had such a disappointment in
all his life (the one grand disappointment of last night excepted) as he
was feeling now, at the deferred flogging.
Diggs, the boat-house keeper, was a widower, with one child, a girl of
ten years old. His mother lived with him--an aged woman, confined to
her bed, of late, with rheumatic fever, from which she was slowly
recovering. On the previous night Diggs was out, and the girl had been
sent on an errand, Mrs. Diggs being left in the house alone. She was
lying quietly, still as was the air outside, when sudden sounds broke
that stillness, and smote upon her ear. Footsteps--young steps, they
seemed--were heard to come tearing down on the outside gravel, from
the direction of the cathedral, and descend the steps. Then there was a
startling cry and a plunge into the river.
The old woman echoed the cry; but there were none to hear it, and she
was powerless to aid. That a human soul was struggling in the water was
certain; and she called and called, but called in vain. She was shut up
in the house, unable to move; and there were none outside to hear her.
In her grief and distress she at length pulled the bed-clothes over her
ears, that she might hear no more (if more was to be heard) of the death
agony.
Twenty minutes or so, and then the girl came in. The old woman brought
her head from under the clothes, and stated what had occurred, and the
girl went and looked at the river. But it was flowing along peacefully,
showing no signs that anything of the sort had happened. Not a creature
was on the path on either side, so far as her eyes could see in the
moonlight; and she came to the conclusion that her grandmother must have
been mistaken. “She has odd fancies,” said the child to herself, “and
thinks she hears things that nobody else never hears.”
At ten o’clock Diggs came home. Now, this man had a propensity for
yielding to an infirmity to which many others also yield--that of
drinking too freely. It is true that this did not often occur; but
when it did happen, it was usually at a time when his services were
especially required. It is very much the case in this world: we often do
things, whether good ones or bad ones, just at the wrong moment. Diggs
arrived at home, stupid. His old mother called him to her room, and told
him what she had heard; but she could make little impression upon him.
As his young daughter had done, he took a survey of the river, but only
from the windows of his house--the girl had gone on to the bank--and
then he tumbled into bed, and slept heavily until the morning.
Up betimes, he remembered what had been told to him, and went out of
doors, half expecting possibly to see something floating on the surface.
“I was detained out last night on an errand,” explained he to some three
or four stragglers who had gathered round him, “and when I got in, my
old mother told me a cock-and-bull story of a cry and a splash, as if
somebody had fallen into the river. It don’t look much like it, though.”
“A dead dog, maybe,” suggested one of the idlers. “They’re always
throwing rubbish into this river on the sly.”
“Who is?” sharply asked Diggs. “They had better let me catch ‘em at it!”
“Lots of folks,” was the response. “But if it was a dead dog, it
couldn’t well have cried out.”
Diggs went indoors to his mother’s chamber. “What time was it, this tale
of yours?” asked he.
“It was about half-past seven,” she answered. “The half-hour chimed out
from the college, just before or just after, I forget which.” And then
she related again what she knew he could not clearly comprehend over
night: the fact of the fleet-sounding footsteps, and that they appeared
to be young footsteps. “If I didn’t know the cloisters were shut at that
hour, I should have thought they come direct from the west door--”
The words were interrupted by a call from below; and the man hastened
down. A boy’s cap--known, from its form, to belong to one of the
collegiate scholars--had just been found under the lower bank, lodged in
the mud. Then some one had been drowned! and it was a college boy.
Where does a crowd collect from? I don’t believe any one can tell. Not
three minutes after that trencher was picked up, people were gathering
thick and threefold, retired though the spot was; and it was at this
time that Mr. Bill Simms had passed, and heard the tale which turned his
heart sick and his face white.
Some time given to supposition, to comments, and to other gossip,
indigenous to an event of the sort, and then Mr. Diggs started for the
college school with the cap. Another messenger ran to the Channings’
house, the name in the cap proving to whom it had belonged. Diggs
related the substance of this to the master, suppressing certain little
points bearing upon himself.
Mr. Pye took the cap in his hand, and looked inside. The name, “C.
Channing,” was in Mrs. Channing’s writing; and, in the sprawling hand of
one of the schoolboys--it looked like Bywater’s--“Miss” had been added.
Charley had scratched the addition over with strokes from a pen, but the
word might still be read.
“The river must be dragged, Diggs,” said Hamish Channing.
“The drags are being got ready now, sir. They’ll be in, by the time I
get back.”
Hamish strode to the door. Tom came up from his desk, showing some
agitation, and looked at the master. “You will allow me to go, sir? I
can do no good at my lessons in this suspense.”
“Yes,” replied the master. He was going himself.
The school rose with one accord. The under-masters rose. To think
of study, in this excitement, was futile; and, in defiance of all
precedent, the boys were allowed to leave the room, and troop down to
the river. It was a race which should get there first; masters and
boys ran together. The only one who walked pretty soberly was the
head-master, who had to uphold his dignity.
The drags were already in the river, and the banks were lined; police,
friends, spectators, gentlemen, mob, and college boys, jostled each
other. Arthur Channing, pale and agitated, came running from his home.
The old vergers and bedesmen came; some of the clergy came; Judy came;
and the dean came. Hamish, outwardly self-possessed, and giving his
orders with quiet authority, was inwardly troubled as he had never been.
The boy had been left to his charge, and how should he answer for this
to his father and mother?
He went in and saw the old woman; as did the renowned Mr. Butterby,
who had appeared with the rest. She related to them she had heard the
previous night. “I could have told, without having heard it now, that it
was the steps of a college boy,” she said. “I don’t listen so often to
‘em that I need mistake. He seemed to be coming from the west door o’
the cloisters--only that the cloisters are shut at night; so he may
have come round by the front o’ the college. Desperate quick he ran, and
leapt down the steps; and, a minute after, there was a cry and a splash,
and the footsteps were heard no more. One might fancy that in turning
the corner to run along the towing-path he had turned too quick, and so
fell over the bank.”
“Did you hear no noise afterwards?” questioned Hamish.
“I didn’t. I called out, but nobody came nigh to answer it: and then I
hid my ears. I was afraid, ye see.”
They left the old woman’s bedside, and returned to the crowd on the
bank. The dean quietly questioned Hamish about the facts, and shook his
head when put in possession of them. “I fear there is little hope,” he
said.
“Very little. My father and mother’s absence makes it the more
distressing. I know not, Mr. Dean, how--”
Who was this, pushing vehemently up, to the discomfiture of every one,
elbowing the dean with as little ceremony as he might have elbowed
Ketch, thrusting Hamish aside, and looking down on the river with
flashing eyes? Who should it be, but Roland Yorke? For that was his
usual way of pushing through a crowd; as you have heard before.
“Is it true?” he gasped. “Is Charles Channing in the water!--sent there
through the tricks of the college boys--of Tod?”
“There is little doubt of its truth, Roland,” was the answer of Hamish.
Roland said no more. Off went his coat, off went his waistcoat, off went
other garments, leaving him nothing but his drawers and his shirt;
and in he leaped impetuously, before any one could stop him, and dived
below, searching after Charles, paying no heed to the shouts that the
drags would get hold of him.
But neither drags nor Roland could find Charles. The drags were
continued, but without result. Very few had expected that there would be
any result, the probability being that the current had carried the
body down the stream. Hamish had been home to soothe the grief of his
sisters--or rather to attempt to soothe it--and then he came back again.
Roland, his ardour cooled, had likewise been home to exchange his wet
things for dry ones. This done, he was flying out again, when he came
upon the Reverend William Yorke, who was hastening down to the scene, in
some agitation.
“Is the boy found, Roland, do you know? How did it happen? Did he fall
in?”
“Considering the light in which you regard the family, William Yorke,
I wonder you should waste your breath to ask about it,” was Roland’s
touchy answer, delivered with as much scorn as he could call up.
Mr. Yorke said no more, but quickened his pace towards the river. Roland
kept up with him and continued talking.
“It’s a good thing all the world’s not of your opinion, William Yorke!
You thought to put a slight upon Constance Channing, when you told her
she might go along, for you. It has turned out just the best luck that
could have happened to her.”
“Be silent, sir,” said Mr. Yorke, his pale cheek flushing. “I have
already told you that I will not permit you to mention Miss Channing’s
name to me. You have nothing to do with her or with me.”
“_You_ have nothing to do with her, at any rate,” cried aggravating
Roland. “She’ll soon belong to your betters, William Yorke.”
Mr. Yorke turned his flashing eye upon him, plainly asking the
explanation that he would not condescend to ask in words. It gave Roland
an advantage, and he went on swimmingly with his mischief.
“Lord Carrick has seen the merits of Constance, if you have not; and--I
don’t mind telling it you in confidence--has resolved to make her his
wife. He says she’s the prettiest girl he has seen for ages.”
“It is not true,” said Mr. Yorke, haughtily.
“Not true!” returned Roland. “You’ll see whether it’s true or not, when
she’s Countess of Carrick. Lady Augusta was present when he made her the
offer. He was half afraid to make it for some time, he told us, as he
was getting on in years, and had grey hair. Halloa! you are turning
pale, William Yorke. She can’t be anything to you! You threw her away,
you know.”
William Yorke, vouchsafing no reply, broke away from his tormentor. He
probably did look pale; certainly he felt so. Roland indulged in a quiet
laugh. He had been waiting for this opportunity, ever since he became
cognizant of what had taken place between the earl and Constance. The
earl had made no secret of his intention and its defeat. “I’ll have some
fun over it with Mr. William,” had been Roland’s thought.
A sudden noise! Cries and shouts on the banks of the river, and the
dense crowd swayed about with excitement. Mr. Yorke and Roland set off
at a run, each from his own point, and the cries took a distinct sound
as they neared them.
“They have found the body!”
It was being laid upon the bank. Those who could get near tried
to obtain a glimpse of it. The college boys, with white faces and
terror-stricken consciences, fought for a place; Roland Yorke fought for
it; the head-master fought for it: I am not sure that the bishop--who
had seen the commotion from his palace windows, and came up to know what
it meant--did not fight for it.
A false alarm, so far as the present object was concerned. A little lad,
who had been drowned more than a week before, had turned up now. He had
incautiously climbed the parapet of the bridge, whence he fell into the
water, and their search for him had hitherto been fruitless. He was
not a pleasant sight to look upon, as he lay there; but the relief to
certain of the college boys, when they found it was not Charles, was
immeasurable. Bywater’s spirits went up to some of their old impudence.
“In looking for one thing you find another,” quoth he.
Very true, Mr. Bywater! Sometimes we find more than we bargain for. The
drags were thrown in again, and the excited crowd jostled each other as
before, their faces hanging over the brink. Hush! Hark! Another prize!
What is it, coming up now?
A rare prize, this time! The drags pulled and tugged, and the men
cried, “Heave-ho!” and a hundred and one voices echoed it: “Heave-ho!
heave-ho!” Hush! Hush--sh--sh! A breathless moment of suspense, and up
it comes. Amidst straw and tangled weeds and mud, and the odds and ends
that a river will collect, something hard and clanking was thrown upon
the bank, and wondering eyes and faces peered over it.
Nothing but two keys. A pair of large rusty keys, tied together with
string. Bywater, and Hurst, and young Galloway, and one or two more,
cast significant glances together, and were nearly choking with fright
and suppressed laughter. One, standing there, conspicuous for his dress,
which amongst other items comprised an apron, turned a significant
glance on _them_. Bold Bywater met it, and looked a little less bold
than usual. But the prelate had kept counsel, and meant to keep it; and
he looked away again.
Once more were the drags thrown into the water. Once more the mob,
gentle and simple, crowded its brink. When the college bell tolled out
for morning prayers, those, whose duty it was to attend the cathedral,
drew themselves away unwillingly. Arthur Channing was one of them.
Whatever might be his grief and suspense, engagements must be fulfilled.
Later in the day, when the search was over--for it was thought useless
to continue it--and when hope was over, a council was held at Mr.
Channing’s house. Mr. and Mrs. Channing must be acquainted with this sad
business; but how was it to be done? By letter? by telegraph? or by a
special messenger? Constance had suggested writing, and silently hoped
that Hamish would take the task upon himself, for she felt unequal to
it, in her dire distress. Mr. Galloway, who had been in and out all
the morning, suggested the telegraph. Hamish approved of neither, but
proposed to despatch Arthur, to make the communication in person.
“I cannot leave Helstonleigh myself,” he said; “therefore it must
devolve upon Arthur. Of course his journey will be an expense; but there
are times when expense must not be regarded. I consider this one of
them.”
“A letter would go more quickly,” said Mr. Galloway.
“Scarcely, in these days of travelling,” was Hamish’s reply. “But that
is not the question. A letter, let it be ever so explanatory, will
only leave them in suspense. As soon as they have read it, five hundred
questions will suggest themselves that they will wish to ask; and,
to wait to have them satisfied, will be intolerable, especially to my
mother. Arthur’s going will obviate this. He knows as much as we know,
and can impart his knowledge to them.”
“There is a great deal in what you say,” mused Mr. Galloway.
“I am sure there is,” spoke Constance through her tears, “though it did
not strike me before. In mamma’s anxiety and suspense, she might start
for home, to learn further details.”
“And I think it is what she would do,” said Hamish: “if not my father
also. It will be better that Arthur should go. He can tell them all they
would learn if they returned; and so far as it is possible, that would
be satisfactory.”
They were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Huntley and his daughter.
Ellen had begged her father, when she found he was going to the
Channings’, to allow her to accompany him, and see Constance in her
distress. Mr. Huntley readily acquiesced. The drowning of poor Charley
was a serious affliction, in contemplation of which he forgot the
inexpediency of her meeting Hamish.
Hamish did not appear to perceive any inexpediency in the matter. He was
the first to take Ellen’s hand in his, and bend upon her his sweet smile
of welcome. Knowing what Ellen knew of Mr. Huntley’s sentiments, and
that he was looking on, it rendered her manner confused and her cheeks
crimson. She was glad to turn to Constance, and strive to say a few
words of sympathy. “Had Harry been one of those wicked, thoughtless
boys to join in this ghost trick, I could never have forgiven him!” she
impulsively exclaimed, hot tears running down her cheeks.
The subject under consideration was referred to Mr. Huntley, and his
opinion requested: more as a form of courtesy than anything else, for
Hamish had made up his mind upon the point. A thoroughly affectionate
and dutiful son was Hamish Channing; and he believed that the tidings
could be rendered more bearable to his father and mother by a messenger,
than by any other mode of communication. The excuse that Constance and
Arthur had, throughout, found for Hamish in their hearts was, that
he had taken the bank-note out of latent affection to Mr. and Mrs.
Channing.
“You are wrong, every one of you,” said Mr. Huntley, when he had
listened to what they had to say. “You must send neither letter nor
messenger. It will not do.”
Hamish looked at him. “Then what can we send, sir?
“Don’t send at all.”
“Not send at all!” repeated Hamish.
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Huntley. “You have no positive proof as yet
that the child is dead. It will be alarming them unnecessarily.”
“Mr. Huntley!” said Constance. “Is it possible that you see any ground
for hope?”
“Honestly, my dear, I do not see much ground for hope,” he replied.
“But, on the other hand, there are no positive grounds for despair. So
long as these grounds are not furnished, I say keep it from Mr. and
Mrs. Channing. Answer me one thing: What good end would it serve to tell
them?”
“Is it not a duty?”
“I do not see it,” said Mr. Huntley. “Were the poor boy’s fate known,
beyond uncertainty, it would be a different matter. If you send to them,
what would come of it? The very suspense, the doubt, would have a bad
effect upon Mr. Channing. It might bring him home; and the good already
effected might be destroyed--his time, purse, hopes, all that he has
given to the journey, wasted. On the other hand, allowing that he still
remained, the news might delay his cure. No: my strong advice to you
is: Suffer them for the present to remain in ignorance of what has
happened.”
Hamish began to think Mr. Huntley might be right.
“I know I am right,” said Mr. Huntley. “If putting them in possession
of the facts could produce any benefit to themselves, to you, or to
Charles, I would go off myself with Arthur this hour. But it could
effect nothing; and, to them, it might result in great evil. Until we
know something more certain ourselves, let us keep it from them.”
“Yes, I see it,” said Hamish, warmly. “It will be best so.”
Constance felt her arm touched, and coloured with emotion when she found
it was Mr. William Yorke. In this day of distress, people seemed to come
in and go out without ceremony. Mr. Yorke had entered with Tom Channing.
He completely accepted the new view of the matter, and strongly
advised that it should not be allowed to reach the ears of Mr. and Mrs.
Channing.
Mr. Galloway, when he was departing, beckoned Constance into the hall.
It was only to give her a word of friendly sympathy, of advice--not to
be overwhelmed, but to cling to hope. She thanked him, but it was with
an aching heart, for Constance could not feel this hope.
“Will you grant me the favour of a minute’s private interview?” asked
Mr. Yorke stiffly, meeting her in the hall.
Constance hesitated a moment. He was asking what she felt he had no
right to ask. She coloured, bowed, and stepped towards the drawing-room.
Mr. Yorke threw open the door for her, and followed her in.
Then he became agitated. Whatever his pride or his temper may have been,
whether the parting between them was his fault or Constance’s, it was
certain that he loved her with an enduring love. Until that morning he
had never contemplated losing Constance; he had surely looked forward to
some indefinite future when she should be his; and the words spoken by
Roland had almost driven him mad. Which was precisely what Mr. Roland
hoped they would do.
“I would not speak to you to-day, when you are in distress, when you may
deem it an unfitting time for me to speak,” he began, “but I _cannot_
live in this suspense. Let me confess that what brought me here was
to obtain this interview with you, quite as much as this other unhappy
business. You will forgive me?”
“Mr. Yorke, I do not know what you can have to speak about,” she
answered, with dignity. “My distress is great, but I can hear what you
wish to say.”
“I heard--I heard”--he spoke with emotion, and went plunging abruptly
into his subject--“I heard this morning that Lord Carrick was soliciting
you to become his wife.”
Constance could have laughed, but for her own distress, agitated though
he was. “Well, sir?” she coldly said, in a little spirit of mischief.
“Constance, you cannot do it,” he passionately retorted. “You cannot so
perjure yourself!”
“Mr. Yorke! Have you the right to tell me I shall or shall not marry
Lord Carrick?”
“You can’t do it, Constance!” he repeated, laying his hand upon her
shoulder, and speaking hoarsely. “You know that your whole affection
was given to me! It is mine still; I feel that it is. You have not
transferred it to another in this short time. You do not love and forget
so lightly.”
“Is this all you have to say to me?”
“No, it is not all,” he answered, with emotion. “I want you to be
_my_ wife, Constance, not his. I want you to forget this miserable
estrangement that has come between us, and come home to me at Hazledon.”
“Listen, Mr. Yorke,” she said; but it was with the utmost difficulty she
retained her indifferent manner, and kept back her tears: she would have
liked to be taken then to his sheltering arms, never to have left them.
“The cause which led to our parting, was the suspicion that fell upon
Arthur, coupled with something that you were not pleased with in my own
manner relating to it. That suspicion is upon him still; and my course
of conduct would be precisely the same, were it to come over again. I am
sorry you should have reaped up this matter, for it can only end as it
did before.”
“Will you not marry me?” he resumed.
“No. So long as circumstances look darkly on my brother.”
“Constance! that may be for ever!”
“Yes,” she sadly answered, knowing what she did know; “they may never
be brighter than they are now. Were I tempted to become your wife, you
might reproach me afterwards for allying you to disgrace; and that, I
think, would kill me. I _beg_ you not to speak of this again.”
“And you refuse me for Lord Carrick! You will go and marry him!”
exclaimed Mr. Yorke, struggling between reproach, affection, and temper.
“You must allow me to repeat that you have no right to question me,” she
said, moving to the door. “When our engagement was forfeited, that right
was forfeited with it.”
She opened the door to leave the room. Mr. Yorke might have wished
further to detain her, but Judy came bustling up. “Lady Augusta’s here,
Miss Constance.”
Lady Augusta Yorke met Constance in the hall, and seized both her hands.
“I had a bad headache, and lay in bed, and never heard of it until an
hour ago!” she uttered with the same impulsive kindness that sometimes
actuated Roland. “Is it true that he is drowned? Is it true that Tod was
in it?--Gerald says he was. William, are _you_ here?”
Constance took Lady Augusta into the general sitting-room, into the
presence of the other guests. Lady Augusta asked a hundred questions, at
the least; and they acquainted her with the different points, so far as
they were cognizant of them. She declared that Tod should be kept upon
bread and water for a week, and she would go to the school and request
Mr. Pye to flog him. She overwhelmed Constance with kindness, wishing
she and Annabel would come to her house and remain there for a few days.
Constance thanked her, and found some difficulty in being allowed to
refuse.
“Here is his exercise-book,” observed Constance, tears filling her eyes;
“here is the very place in which he laid his pen. Every other moment I
think it cannot be true that he is gone--that it must be all a dream.”
Lady Augusta took up the pen and kissed it: it was her impulsive way of
showing sympathy. Mr. Huntley smiled. “Where’s William gone to?” asked
Lady Augusta.
The Reverend William Yorke had quitted the house, shaking the dust
from his shoes in anger, as he crossed the threshold. Anger as much at
himself, for having ever given her up, as at Constance Channing; and
still most at the Right Honourable the Earl of Carrick.