Constance Channing sat, her forehead buried in her hands. _How God was
trying them!_ The sentence, wrung from her in the bitterness of her
heart, but expressed the echo of surrounding things. Her own future
blighted; Arthur’s character gone; Tom lost the seniorship; Charley not
heard of, dead or alive! There were moments, and this was one of them,
when Constance felt almost beyond the pale of hope. The college school,
meanwhile existed in a state of constant suspense, the sword of terror
ever hanging over its head. Punishment for the present was reserved;
and what the precise punishment would be when it came, none could tell.
Talkative Bywater was fond of saying that it did not matter whether Miss
Charley turned up or not, so far as their backs were concerned: _they_
would be made to tingle, either way.
Arthur, after communicating to Constance the strange fact of the return
of the money to Mr. Galloway, shut himself up in the study to pursue
his copying. Tea-time arrived, and Sarah brought in the tea-things. But
neither Hamish nor Tom had come in, and Constance sat alone, deep in
unpleasant thoughts.
That it was Hamish who had now returned the money to Mr. Galloway,
Constance could not entertain the slightest doubt. It had a very
depressing effect upon her. It could not render worse what had
previously happened, indeed, it rather mended it, insomuch as that
it served to show some repentance, some good feeling; but it made the
suspicion against Hamish a certainty; and there had been times when
Constance had been beguiled into thinking it only a suspicion. And now
came this new fear of Mr. Butterby again!
Hamish’s own footstep in the hall. Constance roused herself. He came in,
books under his arm, as usual, and his ever-gay face smiling. There were
times when Constance almost despised him for his perpetual sunshine.
The seriousness which had overspread Hamish at the time of Charley’s
disappearance had nearly worn away. In his sanguine temperament, he
argued that not finding the body was a proof that Charley was yet alive,
and would come forth in a mysterious manner one of these days.
“Have I kept you waiting tea, Constance?” began he. “I came home by way
of Close Street, and was called into Galloway’s by Roland Yorke, and
then got detained further by Mr. Galloway. Where’s Arthur?”
“He has undertaken some copying for Mr. Galloway, and is busy with it,”
replied Constance in a low tone. “Hamish!” raising her eyes to his face,
as she gathered resolution to speak of the affair: “have you heard what
has happened?”
“That some good fairy has forwarded a bank-note to Galloway on the wings
of the telegraph? Roland Yorke would not allow me to remain in ignorance
of that. Mr. Galloway did me the honour to ask whether I had sent it.”
“You!” uttered Constance, regarding the avowal only from her own point
of view. “He asked whether _you_ had sent it?”
“He did.”
She gazed at Hamish as if she would read his very soul. “And what
did--what did you answer?”
“Told him I wished a few others would suspect me of the same, and count
imaginary payments for real ones.”
“Hamish!” she exclaimed, the complaint wrung from her: “how can you be
so light, so cruel, when our hearts are breaking?”
Hamish, in turn, was surprised at this. “I, cruel! In what manner,
Constance? My dear, I repeat to you that we shall have Charley back
again. I feel sure of it; and it has done away with my fear. Some inward
conviction, or presentiment--call it which you like--tells me that we
shall; and I implicitly trust to it. We need not mourn for him.”
“It is not for Charley: I do not speak of Charley now,” she sadly
reiterated. “You are straying from the point. Hamish, have you _no_ love
left for Arthur?”
“I have plenty of love for every one,” said Mr. Hamish.
“Then _how_ can you behave like this? Arthur is not guilty; you know he
is not. And look what he has to bear! I believe you would laugh at
the greatest calamity! Sending back this money to Mr. Galloway
has--has--sadly distressed me.”
Hamish turned his smiling eyes upon her, but his tone was grave. “Wait
until some great calamity occurs, Constance, and then see whether
I laugh. Did I laugh that dreadful night and day that succeeded to
Charley’s loss? Sending back the money to Mr. Galloway is not a cause
for sadness. It most certainly exonerates Arthur.”
“And you are gay over it!” She would have given anything to speak more
plainly.
“I am particularly gay this afternoon,” acknowledged Hamish, who could
not be put out of temper by any amount of reproach whatever. “I have had
great news by the post, Constance.”
“From Germany?” she quickly cried.
“Yes, from Germany,” he answered, taking a letter from his pocket, and
spreading it open before Constance.
It contained the bravest news: great news, as Hamish expressed it. It
was from Mr. Channing himself, and it told them of his being so far
restored that there was no doubt now of his ability to resume his
own place at his office. They intended to be home the first week in
November. The weather at Borcette continued warm and charming, and they
would prolong their stay there to the full time contemplated. It had
been a fine autumn everywhere. There was a postscript added to the
letter, as if an afterthought had occurred to Mr. Channing. “When you
see Mr. Huntley, tell him how well I am progressing. I remember, by the
way, that he hinted at being able to introduce you to something, should
I no longer require you in Guild Street.”
In the delight that the news brought, Constance partially lost sight
of her sadness. “It is not all gloom,” she whispered to herself. “If we
could only dwell on God’s mercies as we do on His chastisement; if we
could only feel more trust, we should see the bright side of the cloud
oftener than we do.”
But it _was_ dark; dark in many ways, and Constance was soon to be
reminded again of it forcibly. She had taken her seat at the tea-table,
when Tom came in. He looked flushed--stern; and he flung his Gradus,
and one or two other books in a heap, on the side table, with more force
than was necessary; and himself into a chair, ditto.
“Constance, I shall leave the school!”
Constance, in her dismay, dropped the sugar-tongs into the sugar. “What,
Tom?”
“I shall leave the school!” he repeated, his tone as fiery as his face.
“I wouldn’t stop in it another month, if I were bribed with gold. Things
are getting too bad there.”
“Oh, Tom, Tom! Is this your endurance?”
“Endurance!” he exclaimed. “That’s a nice word in theory, Constance; but
just you try it in practice! Who has endured, if I have not? I thought
I’d go on and endure it, as you say; at any rate, until papa came home.
But I can’t--I can’t!”
“What has happened more than usual?” inquired Hamish.
“It gets worse and worse,” said Tom, turning his blazing face upon his
brother. “I wouldn’t wish a dog to live the life that I live in the
college school. They call me a felon, and treat me as one; they send
me to Coventry; they won’t acknowledge me as one of their seniors. My
position is unbearable.”
“Live it down, Tom,” said Hamish quietly.
“Haven’t I been trying to live it down?” returned the boy, suppressing
his emotion. “It has lasted now these two months, and I have borne it
daily. At the time of Charley’s loss I was treated better for a day
or two, but that has worn away. It is of no use your looking at me
reproachfully, Constance; I must complain. What other boy in the world
has ever been put down as I? I was head of the school, next to Gaunt;
looking forward to be the head; and what am I now? The seniorship
taken from me in shame; Huntley exalted to my place; my chance of the
exhibition gone--”
“Huntley does not take the exhibition,” interrupted Constance.
“But Yorke will. _I_ shan’t be allowed to take it. Now I know it,
Constance, and the school knows it. Let a fellow once go down, and he’s
kept down: every dog has a fling at him. The seniorship’s gone, the
exhibition is going. I might bear that tamely, you may say; and of
course I might, for they are negative evils; but what I can’t and won’t
bear, are the insults of every-day life. Only this afternoon they--”
Tom stopped, for his feelings were choking him; and the complaint he was
about to narrate was never spoken. Before he had recovered breath and
calmness, Arthur entered and took his seat at the tea-table. Poor Tom,
allowing one of his unfortunate explosions of temper to get the better
of him, sprang from his chair and burst forth with a passionate reproach
to Arthur, whom he regarded as the author of all the ill.
“Why did you do it? Why did you bring this disgrace upon us? But for
you, I should not have lost caste in the school.”
“Tom!” interposed Hamish, in a severe tone.
Mr. Tom, brave college boy that he was--manly as he coveted to
be thought--actually burst into tears. Tears called forth, not by
contrition, I fear; but by remembered humiliation, by vexation, by
the moment’s passion. Never had Tom cast a reproach openly to Arthur;
whatever he may have felt he buried it within himself; but that his
opinion vacillated upon the point of Arthur’s guilt, was certain.
Constance went up to him and laid her hand gently and soothingly upon
his shoulder.
“Tom, dear boy, your troubles are making you forget yourself. Do not be
unjust to Arthur. He is innocent as you.”
“Then if he is innocent, why does he not speak out like a man, and
proclaim his innocence?” retorted Tom, sensibly enough, but with rather
too much heat. “That’s what the school cast in my teeth, more than
anything again. ‘Don’t preach up your brother’s innocence to us!’
they cry; ‘if he did not take it, wouldn’t he say so?’ Look at Arthur
now”--and Tom pointed his finger at him--“he does not, even here, to me,
assert that he is innocent!”
Arthur’s face burnt under the reproach. He turned it upon Hamish, with a
gesture almost as fiery, quite as hasty, as any that had been vouchsafed
them by Tom. Plainly as look could speak, it said, “Will _you_ suffer
this injustice to be heaped upon me?” Constance saw the look, and she
left Tom with a faint cry, and bent over Arthur, afraid of what truth he
might give utterance to.
“Patience yet, Arthur!” she whispered. “Do not let a moment’s anger undo
the work of weeks. Remember how bravely you have borne.”
“Ay! Heaven forgive my pride, Tom!” Arthur added, turning to him calmly.
“I would clear you--or rather clear myself--in the eyes of the school,
if I could: but it is impossible. However, you have less to blame me for
than you may think.”
Hamish advanced. He caught Tom’s arm and drew him to a distant window.
“Now, lad,” he said, “let me hear all about this bugbear. I’ll see if it
can be in any way lightened for you.”
Hamish’s tone was kindly, his manner frank and persuasive, and Tom was
won over to speak of his troubles. Hamish listened with an attentive
ear. “Will you abide by my advice?” he asked him, when the catalogue of
grievances had come to an end.
“Perhaps I will,” replied Tom, who was growing cool after his heat.
“Then, as I said to you before, so I say now--_Live it down_. It is the
best advice I can give you.”
“Hamish, you don’t know what it is!”
“Yes, I do. I can enter into your trials and annoyances as keenly as
if I had to encounter them. I do not affect to disparage them to you: I
know that they are real trials, real insults; but if you will only make
up your mind to bear them, they will lose half their sharpness. Your
interest lies in remaining in the college school; more than that, your
duty lies in it. Tom, don’t let it be said that a Channing shrunk from
his duty because it brought him difficulties to battle with.”
“I don’t think I _can_ stop in it, Hamish. I’d rather stand in a
pillory, and have rotten eggs shied at me.”
“Yes, you can. In fact, my boy, for the present you _must_. Disobedience
has never been a fault amongst us, and I am sure you will not be the one
to inaugurate it. Your father left me in charge, in his place, with full
control; and I cannot sanction any such measure as that of your leaving
the school. In less than a month’s time he will be home, and you can
then submit the case to him, and abide by his advice.”
With all Tom’s faults, he was not rebellious, neither was he
unreasonable; and he made up his mind, not without some grumbling, to do
as Hamish desired him. He drew his chair with a jerk to the tea-table,
which of course was unnecessary. I told you that the young Channings,
admirably as they had been brought up, had their faults; as you have
yours, and I have mine.
It was a silent meal. Annabel, who was wont to keep them alive, whatever
might be their troubles, had remained to take tea at Lady Augusta
Yorke’s, with Caroline and Fanny. Had Constance known that she was
in the habit of thoughtlessly chattering upon any subject that came
uppermost, including poor Charles’s propensity to be afraid of ghosts,
she had allowed her to remain with them more charily. Hamish took a
book and read. Arthur only made a show of taking anything, and soon
left them, to resume his work; Tom did not even make a show of it, but
unequivocally rejected all good things. “How could he be hungry?” he
asked, when Constance pressed him. An unsociable meal it was--almost
as unpleasant as were their inward thoughts. They felt for Tom, in
the midst of their graver griefs; but they were all at cross purposes
together, and they knew it; therefore they could only retain an
uncomfortable reticence one with another. Tom laid the blame to the
share of Arthur; Arthur and Constance to the share of Hamish. To whom
Hamish laid it, was only known to himself.
He, Hamish, rose as the tea-things were carried away. He was preparing
for a visit to Mr. Huntley’s. His visits there, as already remarked, had
not been frequent of late. He had discovered that he was not welcome to
Mr. Huntley. And Hamish Channing was not one to thrust his company upon
any one: even the attraction of Ellen could not induce that. But it
is very probable that he was glad of the excuse Mr. Channing’s letter
afforded him to go there now.
He found Miss Huntley alone; a tall, stiff lady, who always looked as
if she were cased in whalebone. She generally regarded Hamish with some
favour, which was saying a great deal for Miss Huntley.
“You are quite a stranger here,” she remarked to him as he entered.
“I think I am,” replied Hamish. “Mr. Huntley is still in the
dining-room, I hear?”
“Mr. Huntley is,” said the lady, speaking as if the fact did not give
her pleasure, though Hamish could not conceive why. “My niece has chosen
to remain with him,” she added, in a tone which denoted dissatisfaction.
“I am quite _tired_ of talking to her! I tell her this is proper, and
the other is improper, and she goes and mixes up my advice in the most
extraordinary way; leaving undone what she ought to do, and doing what I
tell her she ought not! Only this very morning I read her a sermon upon
‘Propriety, and the fitness of things.’ It took me just an hour--an hour
by my watch, I assure you, Mr. Hamish Channing!--and what is the result?
I retired from the dinner-table precisely ten minutes after the removal
of the cloth, according to my invariable custom; and Ellen, in defiance
of my warning her that it is not lady-like, stays there behind me! ‘I
have not finished my grapes, aunt,’ she says to me. And there she stays,
just to talk with her father. And he encourages her! What will become of
Ellen, I cannot imagine; she will never be a lady!”
“It’s very sad!” replied Hamish, coughing down a laugh, and putting on
the gravest face he could call up.
“Sad!” repeated Miss Huntley, who sat perfectly upright, her hands,
cased in mittens, crossed upon her lap. “It is _grievous_, Mr. Hamish
Channing! She--what do you think she did only yesterday? One of our
maids was going to be married, and a dispute, or some unpleasantness
occurred between her and the intended husband. Would you believe that
Ellen actually wrote a letter for the girl (a poor ignorant thing, who
never learnt to read, let alone to write, but an excellent servant) to
this man, that things might be smoothed down between them? My niece,
Miss Ellen Huntley, lowering herself to write a--a--I can scarcely allow
my tongue to utter the word, Mr. Hamish--a love-letter!”
Miss Huntley lifted her eyes, and her mittens. Hamish expressed himself
inexpressibly shocked, inwardly wishing he could persuade Miss Ellen
Huntley to write a few to him.
“And I receive no sympathy from any one!” pursued Miss Huntley. “None!
I spoke to my brother, and he could not see that she had done anything
wrong in writing: or pretended that he could not. Oh dear! how things
have altered from what they were when I was a young girl! Then--”
“My master says, will you please to walk into the dining-room, sir?”
interrupted a servant at this juncture. And Hamish rose and followed
him.
Mr. Huntley was alone. Hamish threw his glance to the four corners of
the room, but Ellen was not in it. The meeting was not very cordial on
Mr. Huntley’s side. “What can I do for you?” he inquired, as he shook
hands. Which was sufficient to imply coldly, “You must have come to my
house for some particular purpose. What is it?”
But Hamish could not lose his sunny temperament, his winning manner. “I
bring you great news, Mr. Huntley. We have heard from Borcette: and the
improvement in my father’s health is so great, that all doubts as to the
result are over.”
“I said it would be so,” replied Mr. Huntley.
They continued talking some little time, and then Hamish mentioned the
matter alluded to in the postscript of the letter. “Is it correct that
you will be able to help me to something,” he inquired, “when my father
shall resume his own place in Guild Street?”
“It is correct that I told your father so,” answered Mr. Huntley. “I
thought then that I could.”
“And is the post gone? I assume that it was a situation of some sort?”
“It is not gone. The post will not be vacant until the beginning of the
year. Have you heard that there is to be a change in the joint-stock
bank?”
“No,” replied Hamish, looking up with much interest.
“Mr. Bartlett leaves. He is getting in years, his health is failing, and
he wishes to retire. As one of the largest shareholders in the bank, I
shall possess the largest voice in the appointment of a. successor, and
I had thought of you. Indeed, I have no objection to say that there
is not the slightest doubt you would have been appointed; otherwise, I
should not have spoken confidently to Mr. Channing.”
It was an excellent post; there was no doubt of that. The bank was not
an extensive one; it was not the principal bank of Helstonleigh; but
it was a firmly established, thoroughly respectable concern; and
Mr. Bartlett, who had been its manager for many years, enjoyed many
privileges, and a handsome salary. A far larger salary than was Mr.
Channing’s. The house, a good one, attached to the bank, was used as his
residence, and would be, when he left, the residence of his successor.
“I should like it of all things!” cried Hamish.
“So would many a one, young sir, who is in a better position than you,”
drily answered Mr. Huntley. “I thought you might have filled it.”
“Can I not, sir?”
“No.”
Hamish did not expect the answer. He looked inquiringly at Mr. Huntley.
“Why can I not?”
“Because I cannot now recommend you to it,” was the reply.
“But why not?” exclaimed Hamish.
“When I spoke of you as becoming Mr. Bartlett’s successor, I believed
you would be found worthy to fulfil his duties.”
“I can fulfil them,” said Hamish.
“Possibly. But so much doubt has arisen upon that point in my own mind,
that I can no longer recommend you for it. In fact, I could not sanction
your appointment.”
“What have I done?” inquired Hamish.
“Ask your conscience. If that does not tell you plainly enough, I shall
not.”
“My conscience accuses me of nothing that need render me unfit to fill
the post, and to perform my duties in it, Mr. Huntley.”
“I think otherwise. But, to pursue the subject will be productive of
no benefit, so we will let it drop. I would have secured you the
appointment, could I have done so conscientiously, but I cannot; and the
matter is at an end.”
“At least you can tell me why you will not?” said Hamish, speaking with
some sarcasm, in the midst of his respect.
“I have already declined to do so. Ask your own conscience, Hamish.”
“The worst criminal has a right to know his accusation, Mr. Huntley.
Otherwise he cannot defend himself.”
“It will be time enough for you to defend yourself when you are publicly
accused. I shall say no more upon the point. I am sorry your father
mentioned the thing to you, necessitating this explanation, so far;
I have also been sorry for having ever mentioned it to him. My worst
explanation will be with your father, for I cannot enter into cause and
effect, any more than I can to you.”
“I have for some little time been conscious of a change in your manner
towards me, Mr. Huntley.”
“Ay--no doubt.”
“Sir, you _ought_ to tell me what has caused it. I might explain away
any prejudice or wrong impression--”
“There, that will do,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “It is neither prejudice
nor wrong impression that I have taken up. And now I have said the last
word upon the matter that I shall say.”
“But, sir--”
“No more, I say!” peremptorily interrupted Mr. Huntley. “The subject is
over. Let us talk of other things. I need not ask whether you have news
of poor Charley; you would have informed me of that at once. You see, I
was right in advising silence to be kept towards them. All this time of
suspense would have told badly on Mr. Channing.”
Hamish rose to leave. He had done little good, it appeared, by his
visit; certainly, he could not wish to prolong it. “There was an
unsealed scrap of paper slipped inside my father’s letter,” he said. “It
was from my mother to Charley. This is it.”
It appeared to have been written hastily--perhaps from a sudden thought
at the moment of Mr. Channing’s closing his letter. Mr. Huntley took it
in his hand.
“MY DEAR LITTLE CHARLEY,”
“How is it you do not write to mamma? Not a message from you now: not a letter! I am sure you are not forgetting me.”
“Poor boy!” exclaimed Mr. Huntley, handing it back to Hamish. “Poor
mother!”
“I did not show it to Constance,” observed Hamish. “It would only
distress her. Good night, sir. By the way,” added Hamish, turning as he
reached the door: “Mr. Galloway has received that money back again.”
“What money?” cried Mr. Huntley.
“That which was lost. A twenty-pound note came to him in a letter by
this afternoon’s post. The letter states that Arthur, and all others who
may have been accused, are innocent.”
“Oh, indeed!” cried Mr. Huntley, with cutting sarcasm, as the conviction
flashed over him that Hamish, and no other, had been the sender. “The
thief has come to his senses at last, has he? So far as to render lame
justice to Arthur.”
Hamish left the room. The hall had not yet been lighted, and Hamish
could hardly see the outline of a form, crossing it from the staircase
to the drawing-room. _He_ knew whose it was, and he caught it to him.
“Ellen,” he whispered, “what has turned your father against me?”
Of course she could not enlighten him; she could not say to Hamish
Channing, “He suspects you of being a thief.” Her whole spirit would
have revolted from that, as much as it did from the accusation. The
subject was a painful one; she was flurried at the sudden meeting--the
stealthy meeting, it may be said; and--she burst into tears.
I am quite afraid to say what Mr. Hamish did, this being a sober story.
When he left the hall, Ellen Huntley’s cheeks were glowing, and certain
sweet words were ringing changes in her ears.
“Ellen! they shall never take you from me!”