Rejecting all offers of refreshment--the meal which Constance had
planned, and Judith prepared, both with so much loving care--Mr.
Channing resolved to seek out Butterby at once. In his state of
suspense, he could neither wait, nor eat, nor remain still; it would be
a satisfaction only to see Butterby, and hear his opinion.
Mr. Huntley accompanied him; scarcely less proud than Hamish would have
been, to walk once more arm in arm with Mr. Channing. But, as there is
not the least necessity for our going to the police-station, for Mr.
Butterby could tell us no more than we already know; we will pay a short
visit to Mr. Stephen Bywater.
That gentleman stood in the cloisters, into which he had seduced old
Jenkins, the bedesman, having waited for the twilight hour, that he
might make sure no one else would be there. Ever since the last day you
saw old Jenkins in the cathedral, he had been laid up in his house, with
a touch of what he called his “rheumatiz.” Decrepit old fellows were all
the bedesmen, monopolizing enough “rheumatiz” between them for half the
city. If one was not laid up, another would be, especially in winter.
However, old Jenkins had come out again to-day, to the gratification of
Mr. Bywater, who had been wanting him. The cloisters were all but dark,
and Mr. Ketch must undoubtedly be most agreeably engaged, or he would
have shut up before.
“Now then, old Jenkins!” Bywater was saying. “You show me the exact
spot, and I’ll give you sixpence for smoke.”
Old Jenkins hobbled to one of the mullioned windows near to the college
entrance, and looked over into the dim graveyard. “‘Twas about four or
five yards off here,” said he.
“But I want to know the precise spot,” returned Bywater. “Get over, and
show me!”
The words made old Jenkins laugh. “Law, sir! me get over there! You
might as well ask me to get over the college. How am I to do it?”
“I’ll hoist you up,” said Bywater.
“No, no,” answered the man. “My old bones be past hoisting now. I should
never get back alive, once I were propelled over into that graveyard.”
Bywater felt considerably discomfited. “What a weak rat you must be, old
Jenkins! Why, it’s nothing!”
“I know it ain’t--for you college gents. ‘Twouldn’t have been much for
me when I was your age. Skin and clothes weren’t of much account to me,
then.”
“Oh, it’s that, is it?” returned Bywater, contemptuously. “Look here,
old Jenkins! if your things come to grief, I’ll get my uncle to look you
out some of his old ones. I’ll give you sixpence for baccy, I say!”
The old bedesman shook his head. “If you give me a waggin load of baccy,
I couldn’t get over there. You might just as good put a babby in arms on
the ground, and tell it to walk!”
“Here! get out of the way for an old muff!” was Bywater’s rejoinder;
and in a second he had mounted the window-frame, and dropped into the
burial-ground. “Now then, old Jenkins, I’ll go about and you call out
when I come to the right spot.”
By these means, Bywater arrived at a solution of the question, where the
broken phial was found; old Jenkins pointing out the spot, to the best
of his ability. Bywater then vaulted back again, and alighted safe and
sound in the cloisters. Old Jenkins asked for his sixpence.
“Why, you did not earn it!” said Bywater. “You wouldn’t get over!”
“A sixpence is always useful to me,” said the old man; “and some of you
gents has ‘em in plenty. I ain’t paid much; and Joe, he don’t give me
much. ‘Tain’t him; he’d give away his head, and always would--it’s her.
Precious close she is with the money, though she earns a sight of it,
I know, at that shop of her’n, and keeps Joe like a king. Wine, and all
the rest of it, she’s got for him, since he was ill. ‘There’s a knife
and fork for ye, whenever ye like to come,’ she says to me, in her tart
way. But deuce a bit of money will she give. If it weren’t for one and
another friend giving me an odd sixpence now and then, Master Bywater, I
should never hardly get any baccy!”
“There; don’t bother!” said Bywater, dropping the coin into his hand.
“Why, bless my heart, who’s this, a prowling in the cloisters at this
hour?” exclaimed a well-known cracked voice, advancing upon them with
shuffling footsteps. “What do you do here, pray?”
“You would like to know, wouldn’t you, Mr. Calcraft?” said Bywater.
“Studying architecture. There!”
Old Ketch gave a yell of impotent rage, and Bywater decamped, as fast as
his legs would carry him, through the west door.
Arrived at his home, or rather his uncle’s, where he lived--for
Bywater’s paternal home was in a far-away place, over the sea--he went
straight up to his own room, where he struck a match, and lighted a
candle. Then he unlocked a sort of bureau, and took from it the phial
found by old Jenkins, and a smaller piece which exactly fitted into the
part broken. He had fitted them in ten times before, but it appeared to
afford him satisfaction, and he now sat down and fitted them again.
“Yes,” soliloquized he, as he nursed one of his legs--his favourite
attitude--“it’s as sure as eggs. And I’d have had it out before, if that
helpless old muff of a Jenkins had been forthcoming. I knew it was safe
to be somewhere near the college gates; but it was as well to ask.”
He turned the phial over and over between his eye and the candle, and
resumed;
“And now I’ll give Mr. Ger a last chance. I told him the other day that
if he’d only speak up like a man to me, and say it was an accident, I’d
drop it for good. But he won’t. And find it out, I will. I have said I
would from the first, just for my own satisfaction: and if I break my
word, may they tar and feather me! Ger will only have himself to thank;
if he won’t satisfy me in private, I’ll bring it against him in public.
I suspected Mr. Ger before; not but that I suspected another; but since
Charley Channing----Oh! bother, though! I don’t want to get thinking of
_him_!”
Bywater locked up his treasures, and descended to his tea. That over,
he had enough lessons to occupy him for a few hours, and keep him out of
mischief.
Meanwhile Mr. Channing’s interview with the renowned Mr. Butterby had
brought forth nothing, and he was walking back home with Mr. Huntley.
Mr. Huntley strove to lead his friend’s thoughts into a different
channel: it seemed quite a mockery to endeavour to whisper hope for
Charley.
“You will resume your own place in Guild Street at once?” he observed.
“To-morrow, please God.”
They walked a few steps further in silence; and then Mr. Channing
entered upon the very subject which Mr. Huntley was hoping he would not
enter upon. “I remember, you spoke, at Borcette, of having something in
view for Hamish, should I be able to attend to business again. What is
it?”
“I did,” said Mr. Huntley; “and I am sorry that I did. I spoke
prematurely.”
“I suppose it is gone?”
“Well--no; it is not gone,” replied Mr. Huntley, who was above
equivocation. “I do not think Hamish would suit the place.”
Mr. Channing felt a little surprised. There were few places that Hamish
might not suit, if he chose to exercise his talents. “You thought he
would suit then?” he remarked.
“But circumstances have since induced me to alter my opinion,” said Mr.
Huntley. “My friend,” he more warmly added to Mr. Channing, “you will
oblige me by allowing the subject to drop. I candidly confess to you
that I am not so pleased with Hamish as I once was, and I would rather
not interfere in placing him elsewhere.”
“How has he offended you? What has he done?”
“Nay, that is all I will say. I could not help giving you a hint, to
account for what you might have thought caprice. Hamish has not pleased
me, and I cannot take him by the hand. There, let it rest.”
Mr. Channing was content to let it rest. In his inmost heart he
entertained no doubt that the cause of offence was in some way connected
with Mr. Huntley’s daughter. Hamish was poor: Ellen would be rich;
therefore it was only natural that Mr. Huntley should consider him an
ineligible _parti_ for her. Mr. Channing did not quite see what that had
to do with the present question; but he could not, in delicacy, urge it
further.
They found quite a levee when they entered: the Reverend Mr. Pye, Mr.
Galloway--who had called in with Arthur upon leaving the office for the
night--and William Yorke. All were anxious to welcome and congratulate
Mr. Channing; and all were willing to tender a word of sympathy
respecting Charles. Possibly Mr. Yorke had also another motive: if so,
we shall come to it in due time.
Mr. Pye stayed only a few minutes. He did not say a word about the
seniorship, neither did Mr. Channing to him. What, indeed, could either
of them say? The subject was unpleasant on both sides; therefore it was
best avoided. Tom, however, thought differently.
“Papa!” he exclaimed, plunging into it the moment Mr. Pye’s back was
turned, “you might have taken the opportunity to tell him that I shall
leave the school. It is not often he comes here.”
“But you are not going to leave the school,” said Mr. Channing.
“Yes, I am,” replied Tom, speaking with unmistakable firmness. “Hamish
made me stay on, until you came home; and I don’t know how I have done
it. It is of no use, papa! I cannot put up with the treatment--the
insults I receive. It was bad enough to lose the seniorship, but that is
as nothing to the other. And to what end should I stop, when my chance
of the exhibition is gone?”
“It is not gone, Tom. Mr. Huntley--as word was written to me at
Borcette--has declined it for his son.”
“It is not the less gone for me, papa. Let me merit it as I will, I
shall not be allowed to receive it, any more than I did the seniorship.
I am out of favour, both with master and boys; and you know what that
means, in a public school. If you witnessed the way I am served by the
boys, you would be the first to say I must leave.”
“What do they do?” asked Mr. Channing.
“They do enough to provoke my life out of me,” said Tom, falling into a
little of his favourite heat. “Were it myself only that they attacked,
I might perhaps stop and brave it out; but it is not so. They go on
against Arthur in a way that would make a saint mad.”
“Pooh, pooh!” interposed Mr. Galloway, who was standing by. “If I am
content to accept Arthur’s innocence, surely the college school may be.”
Mr. Channing turned to the proctor. “Do you now believe him innocent?”
“I say I am content to accept his innocence,” was the reply of Mr.
Galloway; and Arthur, who was within hearing, could only do as he had
had to do so many times before--school his spirit to patience. “Content
to accept,” and open exculpation, were essentially different things.
“Let me speak with you a minute, Galloway,” said Mr. Channing, taking
the proctor’s arm and leading him across the hall to the drawing-room.
“Tom,” he added, looking back, “you shall tell me of these grievances
another time.”
The drawing-room door closed upon them, and Mr. Channing spoke with
eagerness. “Is it possible that you still suspect Arthur to have been
guilty?”
“Channing, I am fairly puzzled,” returned Mr. Galloway, “His own manner,
relating to it, has not changed, and that manner is not compatible with
innocence, You made the same remark yourself, at the time.”
“But you have had the money returned to you, I understand.”
“I know I have.”
“Well, that surely is a proof that the thief could not have been
Arthur.”
“Pardon me,” replied Mr. Galloway, “It may be a proof as much against
him as for him: it may have come from himself.”
“Nay, where was Arthur to find twenty pounds to send to you?”
“There are two ways in which he might find it. But”--Mr. Galloway broke
off abruptly--“I do not like to urge these things on you; they can only
inflict pain.”
“Not greater pain than I have already undergone,” was Mr. Channing’s
answer. “Tell me, I pray you, all your thoughts--all you suspect: just
as though you were speaking to any indifferent friend. It is right that
I should know it. Yes, come in, Huntley,” Mr. Channing added, for Mr.
Huntley at that moment opened the door, unconscious that any private
conference was going forward. “I have no secrets from you. Come in. We
are talking of Arthur.”
“I was observing that there are two means by which the money could have
come from Arthur,” resumed Mr. Galloway, when Mr. Huntley had entered.
“The one, by his never having used the note originally taken; the other,
by getting a friend to return it for him. Now, my opinion is, that he
did not pursue the first plan, I believe that, if he took the note,
he used it. I questioned him on the evening of its arrival, and at the
first moment his manner almost convinced me that he was innocent. He
appeared to be genuinely surprised at the return of the money, and
ingenuously confessed that he had not possessed any to send. But his
manner veered again--suddenly, strangely--veered round to all its old
unsatisfactory suspiciousness; and when I hinted that I should recall
Butterby to my counsels, he became agitated, as he had done formerly. My
firm belief,” Mr. Galloway added, laying his hand impressively upon Mr.
Channing--“my firm belief is, that Arthur did get the money sent back to
me through a friend.”
“But what friend would be likely to do such a thing for him?” debated
Mr. Channing, not in the least falling in with the argument. “I know of
none.”
“I think”--and Mr. Galloway dropped his voice--“that it came from
Hamish.”
“From Hamish!” was Mr. Channing’s echo, in a strong accent of dissent.
“That is nonsense. Hamish would never screen guilt. Hamish has not
twenty pounds to spare.”
“He might spare it in the cause of a brother; and for a brother’s sake
he might even screen guilt,” pursued Mr. Galloway. “Honourable and open
as Hamish is, I must still express my belief that the twenty pounds came
from him.”
“Honourable and open as Hamish is!” the words grated on Mr. Huntley, and
a cynical expression rose to his face. Mr. Channing observed it. “What
do you think of it?” he involuntarily asked.
“I have never had any other opinion but that the money did come from
Hamish,” drily remarked Mr. Huntley. And Mr. Channing, in his utter
astonishment, could not answer.
“Hamish happened to call in at my office the afternoon that the money
was received,” resumed Mr. Galloway. “It was after I had spoken to
Arthur. I had been thinking it over, and came to the conclusion that
if it had come from Arthur, Hamish must have done it for him. In the
impulse of the moment, I put the question to him--Had he done it to
screen Arthur? And Hamish’s answer was a mocking one.”
“A mocking one!” repeated Mr. Channing. “A mocking, careless answer; one
that vexed me, I know, at the time. The next day I told Arthur, point
blank, that I believed the money came from Hamish. I wish you could have
seen his flush of confusion! and, deny it, he did not. Altogether, my
impression against Arthur was rather confirmed, than the contrary, by
the receipt of the money; though I am truly grieved to have to say it.”
“And _you_ think the same!” Mr. Channing exclaimed to Mr. Huntley.
“Never mind what I think,” was the answer. “Beyond the one opinion I
expressed, I will not be drawn into the discussion. I did not intend to
say so much: it was a slip of the tongue.”
Mr. Huntley was about to leave the room as he spoke, perhaps lest he
should make other “slips;” but Mr. Channing interposed and drew him
back. “Stay, Huntley,” he said, “we cannot rest in this uncertainty.
Oblige me by remaining one instant, while I call Hamish.”
Hamish entered in obedience. He appeared somewhat surprised to see them
assembled in conclave, looking so solemn; but he supposed it related to
Charles. Mr. Channing undeceived him.
“Hamish, we are speaking of Arthur. Both these gentlemen have expressed
a belief--”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “I said that I should be
obliged if you would leave me out of the discussion.”
“What does it signify?” returned Mr. Channing, his tone one of haste.
“Hamish, Mr. Galloway has expressed to me a belief that you have so far
taken part with Arthur in that unhappy affair, as to send back the money
to him.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Hamish; and his manner was precisely what Mr.
Galloway had described it to have been at the time; light, mocking,
careless. “Mr. Galloway did me the honour to express something of the
same belief, I remember.”
“Did you send it, Hamish?” asked his father, a severe look crossing his
face.
“No, sir, I did not,” emphatically replied Hamish. And Mr. Huntley
turned and bent his keen eye upon him. In his heart of hearts he
believed it to be a deliberate falsehood.
“I did not send the money, and I do not know who did send it,” went on
Hamish. “But, as we are upon the subject, perhaps I may be allowed to
express my opinion that, if there were as much labour taken to establish
Arthur’s innocence, as it seems to me there is to prove him guilty, he
might have been cleared long ago.”
That the remark was aimed at Mr. Galloway, there was no doubt. Mr.
Huntley answered it; and, had they been suspicious, they might have
detected a covert meaning in his tone.
“You, at any rate, must hold firm faith in his innocence.”
“Firm and entire faith,” distinctly assented Hamish. “Father,” he added,
impulsively turning to Mr. Channing, “put all notion of Arthur’s guilt
from you, at once and for ever. I would answer for him with my life.”
“Then he must be screening some one,” cried Mr. Galloway. “It is one
thing or the other. Hamish, it strikes me you know. Who is it?”
A red flush mounted to Hamish’s brow, but he lapsed into his former
mocking tone. “Nay,” said he, “I can tell nothing about that.”
He left the room as he spoke, and the conference broke up. It appeared
that no satisfactory solution could be come to, if they kept it on till
midnight. Mr. Galloway took leave, and hastened home to dinner.
“I must be going also,” remarked Mr. Huntley. Nevertheless, he returned
with Mr. Channing to the other room.
“You told me at Borcette that you were fully persuaded of Arthur’s
innocence; you were ready to ridicule me for casting a doubt upon it,”
Mr. Channing remarked to him in a low tone, as they crossed the hall.
“I have never been otherwise than persuaded of it,” said Mr. Huntley.
“He is innocent as you, or as I.”
“And yet you join Mr. Galloway in assuming that he and Hamish sent back
the money! The one assertion is incompatible with the other.”
Mr. Huntley laid his hand upon Mr. Channing’s shoulder. “My dear friend,
all that you and I can do, is to let the matter rest. We should only
plunge into shoals and quicksands, and lose our way in them, were we to
pursue it.”
They had halted at the parlour door to speak. Judith came bustling up at
that moment from the kitchen, a letter in her hand, looking as if in her
hurry she might have knocked them over, had they not made way for her to
enter.
“Bad luck to my memory, then! It’s getting not worth a button. Here,
Master Arthur. The postman gave it me at the door, just as I had caught
sight of the fly turning the corner with the master and missis. I
slipped it into my pocket, and never thought of it till this minute.”
“So! it has come at last, has it?” cried Arthur, recognising Roland
Yorke’s handwriting.
“Is he really off?” inquired Tom.
“Yes, he is really off,” replied Arthur, opening the letter and
beginning to glance over the contents. “He has sailed in the ship
_Africa_. Don’t talk to me, Tom. What a long letter!”
They left him to read it in peace. Talking together--Mr. and Mrs.
Channing, Mr. Huntley, William Yorke, Hamish, Constance--all were in a
group round the fire, paying no attention to him. No attention, until an
exclamation caused them to turn.
An exclamation half of distress, half of fear. Arthur had risen from
his chair, and stood, the picture of excitement, his face and lips
blanching.
“What is the matter?” they exclaimed.
“Roland--the ship--Roland”--and there Arthur stopped, apparently unable
to say more.
“Oh, it’s drowned! it’s drowned!” cried quick Annabel. “The ship’s
drowned, and Roland with it!” And Arthur sank back in his chair again,
and covered his face with his hands.