It almost seemed, to Mr. Channing’s grateful heart, as if the weather
had prolonged its genial warmth on purpose for him. A more charming
autumn had never been known at Borcette, and up to the very hour of
Mr. Channing’s departure, there were no signs of winter. Taking it as a
whole, it had been the same at Helstonleigh. Two or three occasional wet
days, two or three cold and windy ones; but they soon passed over and
people remarked to each other how this fine weather would shorten the
winter.
Never did November turn out a more lovely day than the one that was to
witness Mr. Channing’s return. The sun shone brightly; the blue sky was
without a cloud. All Nature seemed to have put on a smiling face to give
him welcome. And yet--to what was he returning?
For once in his life, Hamish Channing shrank from meeting his father and
mother. How should he break the news to them? They were arriving full of
joy, of thankfulness at the restoration to health of Mr. Channing: how
could Hamish mar it with the news regarding Charles? Told it must be;
and he must be the one to do it. In good truth, Hamish was staggered at
the task. His own hopeful belief that Charley would some day “turn
up,” was beginning to die out; for every hour that dragged by, without
bringing him, certainly gave less and less chance of it. And even if
Hamish had retained hope himself, it was not likely he could impart it
to Mr. or Mrs. Channing.
“I shall get leave from school this afternoon,” Tom suddenly exclaimed
that morning at breakfast.
“For what purpose?” inquired Hamish.
“To go up to the station and meet them.”
“No, Tom. You must not go to the station.”
“Who says so?” sharply cried Tom.
“I do,” replied Hamish.
“I dare say! that’s good!” returned Tom, speaking in his hasty spirit.
“You know you are going yourself, Hamish, and yet you would like to
deprive me of the same pleasure. Why, I wouldn’t miss being there for
anything! Don’t say, Hamish, that you are never selfish.”
Hamish turned upon him with a smile, but his tone changed to sadness.
“I wish with all my heart, Tom, that you or some one else, could go and
meet them, instead of myself, and undertake what I shall have to do.
I can tell you I never had a task imposed upon me that I found so
uncongenial as the one I must go through this day.”
Tom’s voice dropped a little of its fierce shade. “But, Hamish, there’s
no reason why I should not meet them at the station. That will not make
it the better or the worse for you.”
“I will tell you why I think you should not,” replied Hamish; “why
it will be better that you should not. It is most desirable that they
should be home, here, in this house, before the tidings are broken to
them. I should not like them to hear of it in the streets, or at the
station; especially my mother.”
“Of course not,” assented Tom.
“And, were you at the station,” quietly went on Hamish to him, “the
first question would be, ‘Where’s Charley?’ If Tom Channing can get
leave of absence from school, Charley can.”
“I could say--”
“Well?” said Hamish, for Tom had stopped.
“I don’t know what I could say,” acknowledged Tom.
“Nor I. My boy, I have thought it over, and the conclusion I come to, if
you appear at the station, is this: either that the tidings must be told
to them, then and there, or else an evasion, bordering upon an untruth.
If they do not see you there, they will not inquire particularly after
Charles; they will suppose you are both in school.”
“I declare I never set my mind upon a thing but something starts in to
frustrate it!” cried Tom, in vexation. But he relinquished his intention
from that moment.
Chattering Annabel threw up her head. “As soon as papa and mamma come
home, we shall put on mourning, shall we not? Constance was talking
about it with Lady Augusta.”
“Do not talk of mourning, child,” returned Hamish. “_I_ can’t give him
up, if you do.”
Afternoon came, and Hamish proceeded alone to the station. Tom,
listening to the inward voice of reason, was in school, and Arthur
was occupied in the cathedral; the expected hour of their arrival was
towards the close of afternoon service. Hamish had boasted that he
should _walk_ his father through Helstonleigh for the benefit of
beholders, if happily he came home capable of walking; but, like poor
Tom and _his_ plan, that had to be relinquished. In the first half-dozen
paces they would meet half a dozen gossipers, and the first remark from
each, after congratulations, would be, “What a sad thing this is about
your little Charles!” Hamish lived in doubt whether it might not, by
some untoward luck, come out at the station, in spite of his precaution
in keeping away Tom.
But, so far, all went well. The train came in to its time, and Hamish,
his face lighted with excitement, saw his father once more in possession
of his strength, descending without assistance from the carriage,
walking alone on the platform. Not in the full strength and power of
old; that might never be again. He stooped slightly, and moved slowly,
as if his limbs were yet stiff, limping a little. But that he was now
in a sound state of health was evident; his face betrayed it. Hamish did
not know whose hands to clasp first; his, or his mother’s.
“Can you believe that it is myself, Hamish?” asked Mr. Channing, when
the first few words of thankful greeting had passed.
“I should hide my head for ever as a false prophet if it could be any
one else,” was the reply of Hamish. “You know I always said you would so
return. I am only in doubt whether it is my mother.”
“What is the matter with me, Hamish?” asked Mrs. Channing. “Because you
would make about two of the thin, pale, careworn Mrs. Channing who went
away,” cried he, turning his mother round to look at her, deep love
shining out from his gay blue eyes. “I hope you have not taken to rouge
your cheeks, ma’am, but I am bound to confess they look uncommonly like
it.”
Mrs. Channing laughed merrily. “It has done me untold good, Hamish, as
well as papa; it seems to have set me up for years to come. Seeing
him grow better day by day would have effected it, without any other
change.”
Mr. Channing had actually gone himself to see after the luggage. How
strange it seemed! Hamish caught him up. “If you can give yourself
trouble now, sir, there’s no reason that you should do so, while you
have your great lazy son at your elbow.”
“Hamish, boy, I am proud of doing it.”
It was soon collected. Hamish hastily, if not carelessly, told a porter
to look to it, took Mr. Channing’s arm, and marched him to the fly,
which Mrs. Channing had already found. Hamish was in lively dread of
some officious friend or other coming up, who might drop a hint of the
state of affairs.
“Shall I help you in, father!”
“I can help myself now, Hamish. I remember you promised me I should have
no fly on my return. You have thought better of it.”
“Yes, sir, wishing to get you home before bed-time, which might not be
the case if you were to show yourself in the town, and stop at all the
interruptions.”
Mr. Channing stepped into the fly. Hamish followed, first giving the
driver a nod. “The luggage! The luggage!” exclaimed Mrs. Channing, as
they moved off.
“The porter will bring it, mother. He would have been a month putting it
on to the fly.”
How could they suppose anything was the matter? Not a suspicion of it
ever crossed them. Never had Hamish appeared more light-hearted. In
fact, in his self-consciousness, Hamish a little overdid it. Let him get
them home before the worst came!
“We find you all well, I conclude!” said Mrs. Channing. “None of them
came up with you! Arthur is in college, I suppose, and Tom and Charles
are in school.”
“It was Arthur’s hour for college,” remarked Hamish, ignoring the rest
of the sentence. “But he ought to be out now. Arthur is at Galloway’s
again,” he added. “He did not write you word, I believe, as you were so
shortly expected home.”
Mr. Channing turned a glance on his son, quick as lightning. “Cleared,
Hamish?”
“In my opinion, yes. In the opinion of others, I fear not much more than
he was before.”
“And himself?” asked Mr. Channing. “What does he say now?”
“He does not speak of it to me.”
Hamish put his head out at the window, nodding to some one who was
passing. A question of Mr. Channing’s called it in again.
“Why has he gone back to Galloway’s?”
Hamish laughed. “Roland Yorke took an impromptu departure one fine
morning, for Port Natal, leaving the office and Mr. Galloway to do
the best they could with each other. Arthur buried his grievances and
offered himself to Mr. Galloway in the emergency. I am not quite sure
that I should have been so forgiving.”
“Hamish! He has nothing to forgive Mr. Galloway. It is on the other
side.”
“I am uncharitable, I suppose,” remarked Hamish. “I cannot like Mr.
Galloway’s treatment of Arthur.”
“But what is it you say about Roland Yorke and Port Natal?” interposed
Mrs. Channing. “I do not understand.”
“Roland is really gone, mother. He has been in London these ten days,
and it is expected that every post will bring news that he has sailed.
Roland has picked up a notion somewhere that Port Natal is an enchanted
land, converting poor men into rich ones; and he is going to try what it
will do for him, Lord Carrick fitting him out. Poor Jenkins is sinking
fast.”
“Changes! changes!” remarked Mr. Channing. “Go away only for two or
three months, and you must find them on return. Some gone; some dying;
some--”
“Some restored, who were looked upon as incurable,” interrupted Hamish.
“My dear father, I will not have you dwell on dark things the very
moment of your arrival; the time for that will come soon enough.”
Judy nearly betrayed all; and Constance’s aspect might have betrayed it,
had the travellers been suspicious. She, Constance, came forward in the
hall, white and trembling. When Mrs. Channing shook hands with Judy,
she put an unfortunate question--“Have you taken good care of your boy?”
Judy knew it could only allude to Charles, and for answer there went
up a sound, between a cry and a sob, that might have been heard in the
far-off college schoolroom. Hamish took Judy by the shoulders, bidding
her go out and see whether any rattletraps were left in the fly, and so
turned it off.
They were all together in the sitting-room--Mr. and Mrs. Channing,
Hamish, Constance, Arthur, and Annabel; united, happy, as friends are
and must be when meeting after a separation; talking of this and of
that, giving notes of what had occurred on either side. Hamish showed
himself as busy as the rest; but Hamish felt all the while upon a bed of
thorns, for the hands of the timepiece were veering on for five, and
he must get the communication over before Tom came in. At length
Mrs. Channing went up to her room, accompanied by Constance; Annabel
followed. And now came Hamish’s opportunity. Arthur had gone back to
Mr. Galloway’s, and he was alone with his father. He plunged into it at
once; indeed, there was no time for delay.
“Father!” he exclaimed, with deep feeling, his careless manner changing
as by magic: “I have very grievous news to impart to you. I would not
enter upon it before my mother: though she must be told of it also, and
at once.”
Mr. Channing was surprised; more surprised than alarmed. He never
remembered to have seen Hamish betray so much emotion. A thought crossed
his mind that Arthur’s guilt might have been brought clearly to light.
“Not that,” said Hamish. “It concerns--Father, I do not like to enter
upon it! I shrink from my task. It is very bad news indeed.”
“You, my children, are all well,” cried Mr. Channing, hastily speaking
the words as a fact, not as a question. “What other ‘very bad’ news can
be in store for me?”
“You have not seen us all,” was Hamish’s answer. And Mr. Channing,
alarmed, now looked inquiringly at him. “It concerns Charles. An--an
accident has happened to him.”
Mr. Channing sat down and shaded his eyes. He was a moment or two before
he spoke. “One word, Hamish; is he dead?”
Hamish stood before his father and laid his hand affectionately upon his
shoulder. “Father, I _wish_ I could have prepared you better for it!” he
exclaimed, with emotion. “We do not know whether he is dead or alive.”
Then he explained--explained more in summary than in detail--touching
lightly upon the worst features of the case, enlarging upon his own
hopeful view of it. Bad enough it was, at the best, and Mr. Channing
found it so. _He_ could feel no hope. In the revulsion of grief, he
turned almost with resentment upon Hamish.
“My son, I did not expect this treatment from you.”
“I have taken enough blame to myself; I know he was left in my charge,”
sadly replied Hamish; “but, indeed, I do not see how I could have helped
it. Although I was in the room when he ran out of it, I was buried in my
own thoughts, and never observed his going. I had no suspicion anything
was astir that night with the college boys. Father, I would have saved
his life with my own!”
“I am not blaming you for the fact, Hamish; blame is not due to you. Had
I been at home myself, I might no more have stopped his going out than
you did. But you ought to have informed me of this instantly. A whole
month, and I to be left in ignorance!”
“We did it for the best. Father, I assure you that not a stone has been
left unturned to find him; alive, or--or dead. You could not have done
more had you hastened home; and it has been so much suspense and grief
spared to you.”
Mr. Channing relapsed into silence. Hamish glanced uneasily to that
ever-advancing clock. Presently he spoke.
“My mother must be told before Tom comes home. It will be better that
you take the task upon yourself, father. Shall I send her in?”
Mr. Channing looked at Hamish, as if he scarcely understood the meaning
of the words. From Hamish he looked to the clock. “Ay; go and send her.”
Hamish went to his mother’s room, and returned with her. But he did not
enter. He merely opened the door, and shut her in. Constance, with a
face more frightened than ever, came and stood in the hall. Annabel
stood there also. Judy, wringing her hands, and sending off short
ejaculations in an undertone, came to join them, and Sarah stood peeping
out from the kitchen door. They remained gazing at the parlour door,
dreading the effect of the communication that was going on inside.
“If it had been that great big Tom, it wouldn’t matter so much,” wailed
Judith, in a tone of resentment. “The missis would know that _he’d_ be
safe to turn up, some time or other; a strong fellow like him!”
A sharp cry within the room. The door was flung open, and Mrs. Channing
came forth, her face pale, her hands lifted. “It cannot be true! It
cannot be! Hamish! Judith! Where is he?”
Hamish folded her hands in his, and gently drew her in again. They all
followed. No reason why they should not, now that the communication was
made. Almost at the same moment, Mr. Huntley arrived.
Of course, the first thought that had occurred to the minds of Mr. and
Mrs. Channing was, that had _they_ been at home to direct affairs in
the search, Charley would have been found. It is the thought that would
occur to us all: we never give others credit for doing as much as we
should have done. “This might have been tried, and the other might have
been tried.” It makes little difference when told that they _have_ been
tried; for then we fall back upon some other suggestion. Mrs. Channing
reproached Hamish with keeping it from them.
“My dear lady, you must blame me, not him,” interposed Mr. Huntley.
“Left to himself, Hamish would have started Arthur off to you, post
haste. It was I who suggested the desirability of keeping you in
ignorance; it was I who brought Hamish to see it: and I know that, when
the brunt of your grief shall have passed, you will acknowledge that it
was the best, the wisest, and the kindest course.”
“But there are so many things that we could have suggested; that perhaps
none but a father or mother would think of!” urged Mrs. Channing,
lifting her yearning face. They wished they could see her weep.
“You could have suggested nothing that has not been done,” returned
Mr. Huntley. “Believe me, dear Mrs. Channing! We have had many good
counsellors. Butterby has conducted the search.”
Mr. Channing turned to them. He was standing at the far window. “I
should like to see Butterby.”
“He will be here in an hour’s time,” said Hamish. “I knew you would wish
to see him, and I requested him to come.”
“The worst feature of the whole,” put in Judith, with as much acrimony
as ever was displayed by Mr. Ketch, “is that them boys should not have
got their deserts. They have not as much as had a birching; and I say
that the college masters ought to be hooted. I’d ‘ghost’ ‘em!”
“The punishment lies in abeyance for the present,” explained Hamish.
“A different punishment from any the head-master could inflict will be
required, should--should--” Hamish stopped. He did not like to say, in
the presence of his mother, “should the body be found.” “Some of them
are suffering pretty well, as it is,” he continued, after a brief pause.
“Master Bill Simms lay in bed for a week with fright, and they were
obliged to have Mr. Hurst to him. Report goes, that Hurst soundly
flogged his son, by way of commencing his share.”
A pushing open of the outer door, a bang, and hasty footsteps in the
hall. Tom had arrived. Tom, with his sparkling eyes, his glowing face.
They sparkled for his father only in that first moment; his father, who
turned and _walked_ to meet him.
“Oh, papa! What baths those must be!” cried honest Tom. “If ever I get
rich, I’ll go over there and make them a present of a thousand pounds.
To think that nothing else should have cured you!”
“I think something else must have had a hand in curing me, Tom.”
Tom looked up inquiringly. “Ah, papa! You mean God.”
“Yes, my boy. God has cured me. The baths were only instruments in His
hands.”