Not Charley’s shadow--not Charley’s ghost--but Charley himself, in real
flesh and blood. One knew him, if the rest did not; and that was Judith.
She seized upon him with sobs and cries, and sat down on the hall
bench and hugged him to her. But Charley had seen some one else, and he
slipped from Judith to the arms that were held out to shelter him, his
warm tears breaking forth. “Mamma! mamma!”
Mrs. Channing’s tears fell fast as she received him. She strained him
to her bosom, and held him there; and they had to hold _her_, for her
emotion was great. It is of no use endeavouring to describe this sort
of meeting. When the loved who have been thought dead, are restored to
life, all description must fall short of reality, if it does not utterly
fail. Charley, whom they had mourned as lost, was with them again:
traces of sickness, of suffering were in his face, in his attenuated
form; but still he was in life. You must imagine what it was. Mr. and
Mrs. Channing, Lady Augusta, Constance, the servants, and the Bishop of
Helstonleigh: for no less a personage than that distinguished prelate
had been the visitor to Mr. Channing, come to congratulate him on his
cure and his return.
The woman who had accompanied Charley stood apart--a hard-featured
woman, in a clean cotton gown, and clean brown apron, whose face
proclaimed that she lived much in the open air. Perhaps she lived
so much in it as to disdain bonnets, for she wore none--a red cotton
handkerchief, fellow to the one on Charley’s head, being pinned over her
white calico cap.
Many unexpected meetings take place in this life. A casual acquaintance
whom we have met years ago, but whom we never expected to see again,
may come across our path to-morrow. You, my reader, did not, I am sure,
expect to meet that woman again, whom you saw hanging up linen in a
boat, as it glided beneath the old cathedral walls, under the noses of
Bywater and a few more of his tribe, the morning they were throwing away
those unlucky keys, which they fondly thought were never to be fished
up again. But here is that very woman before you now, come to pay these
pages as unexpected a visit as the keys paid to the college boys. Not
more unlooked for, and not more strange than some of our meetings in
actual life.
“Mamma, I have been ill; I have been nearly dying; and she has nursed me
through it, and been kind to me.”
Mrs. Channing leaned forward and grasped the woman’s hand, gratitude
shining in her wet eyes. Mr. Channing and Judith had a fight which
should grasp the other. Lady Augusta laid hold of her behind, Sarah
assailed her in front. There appeared to be no room left for Constance
and the Bishop, or they might have assisted at the demonstration--as the
French say.
It was soon explained. That same barge had been passing down stream
again that night, when Charley fell into the water. The man heard the
splash, called to his horse to stop, leaped overboard, and saved him. A
poor little boy, with a wound in his head, quite senseless, it proved to
be, when they had him on board and laid him on the bench for inspection.
Meanwhile the docile horse went on of its own accord, and before the
knotty question was decided as to whether the man should bring-to, and
get him on shore, and try and discover to whom he belonged, the barge
was clear of the town, for the current was strong. It had been nearly
clear of it when it passed the cathedral wall, and the splash occurred.
The man thought it as well that it was so; his voyage, this journey,
was being made against time, and he dared not linger. Had the boat-house
keeper’s mother not put her head under the bed-clothes and kept it
there, she might possibly have heard sounds of the rescue.
So they kept Charley on board. He had evidently struck his head against
something which had caused the wound, and stunned him. It may have been,
it is just possible that it may have been, against the projecting wall
of the boat-house, as he turned the corner in his fright and hurry. If
so, that, no doubt, caused his fall and his stumble into the water.
The woman--she had children of her own: that great girl whom you saw
scraping potatoes was one, and she had two others still younger--washed
the wound, and tried to bring Charley round. But she could not awaken
him to full consciousness. His mind appeared to be wandering, and ere
another day had passed he was in strong delirium. Whether it was the
blow, or the terrible fright which had preceded it, or--and this was
most probable--both combined, Charles Channing was attacked with brain
fever. The woman nursed him through it; she applied her own simple
remedies. She cut off his hair, and kept wet linen constantly to his
head; and hot bricks, wrapped round with wet steaming flannels, to his
feet; and she gave him a certain herb tea to drink, which, in her firm
belief and experience, had never yet failed to subdue fever. Perhaps
Charley did as well without a doctor as he would have done with one. By
the time they reached their destination the malady was subsiding; but
the young patient was so prostrated and weak that all he could do was to
lie quite still, scarcely opening his eyes, scarcely moving his hands.
When he became able to talk, they were beginning to move up stream
again, as the woman called it. Charley told her all about himself, about
his home, his dear mamma and Judith, his papa’s ill-health, and hopes of
restoration, his college schoolboy life. It was delicious to lie there
in the languor of returning health, and talk of these things. The kindly
woman won his love and confidence; but when she asked him how he came to
fall into the river, he could never remember. In the social atmosphere
of companionship, in the bright sunlight, Charley could look back on the
“ghost” in the cloisters, and draw his own deductions. His good sense
told him it was no ghost; that it was all a trick of Bywater’s and
others of the college boys. The woman’s opinion was, that if they did
do such a thing to frighten him, they ought to be whipped; but she was
inclined to view it as a delusion of Charley’s imagination, a relic left
by the fever.
“Your folks’ll be fine and pleased to see you again, dear,” she would
say to him. “My master’ll moor the barge to the side when we gets to the
place, and I’ll take ye home to ‘um.”
How Charley longed for it, he alone could tell; pleasant as it was, now
he was better, to lie on deck, on a rude bed made of sacks, and glide
peacefully along on the calm river, between the green banks, the blue
sky above, the warm sun shining on him. Had Charley been placed on that
barge in health, he would have thought it the nastiest place he had ever
seen--confined, dirty, monotonous. But waking to it from fever, when he
did not care where he lay, so that he could only lie, he grew reconciled
to it. Indeed, Charley began to like the boat; but he was none the less
eager for the day that would see him leave it.
That day came at last. The barge was brought-to; and here you see
Charley and his protector. Charley’s clothes looked a mile too small for
him, he had so grown in his illness; and Charley was minus a cap, and
the handkerchief did duty for one. But it was Charley, in spite of all;
and I say that you must imagine the meeting. You must imagine their
heartfelt thanks to the woman, and their more substantial recompense.
“Charley, darling, if you could only have written to us, what dreadful
distress you would have saved!” exclaimed Constance.
“_He_ write, miss!” interposed the woman. “He couldn’t have writ to save
his life! And we was a-moving up stream again before he was well enough
to tell us anything about himself. My husband might have writ a word
else; I ain’t no hand at a pen myself. We have got quite used to the
little gentleman, and shall miss him now.”
“Constance, tell her. Is it not true about the ghost? I am sure you must
have heard of it from the boys. She thinks I dreamt it, she says.”
Judith broke out volubly before Constance could answer, testifying that
it was true, and relating the ill-doings of the boys that night rather
more at length than she need have done. She and the woman appeared to be
in perfect accord as to the punishment merited by those gentlemen.
The bishop leaned over Charley. “You hear what a foolish trick it was,”
he said. “Were I you, I would be upon good terms with such ghosts in
future. There are no other sorts of ghosts, my boy.”
“I know there are not,” answered Charles. “Indeed, my lord, I do know
there are not,” he repeated more earnestly. “And I knew it then; only,
somehow I got frightened. I will try and learn to be as brave in the
dark as in the light.”
“That’s my sensible boy!” said the bishop. “For my part, Charley, I
rather like being in the dark. God seems all the nearer to me.”
The woman was preparing to leave, declining all offers that she should
rest and take refreshment. “Our turn both down and up was hurried
this time,” she explained, “and I mayna keep the barge and my master
a-waiting. I’ll make bold, when we are past the town again, to step
ashore, and see how the young gentleman gets on.”
Charley clung to her. “You shall not go till you promise to stay a whole
day with us!” he cried. “And you must bring the children for mamma to
see. She will be glad to see them.”
The woman laughed. “A whole day! a whole day’s pleasure was na for the
likes of them,” she answered; “but she’d try and spare a bit longer to
stop than she could spare now.”
With many kisses to Charles, with many hand-shakes from all, she took
her departure. The Bishop of Helstonleigh, high and dignified prelate
that he was, and she a poor, hard-working barge-woman, took her hand
into his, and shook it as heartily as the rest. Mr. Channing went out
with her. He was going to say a word of gratitude to the man. The bishop
also went out, but he turned the other way.
As he was entering Close Street, the bishop encountered Arthur. The
latter raised his hat and was passing onwards, but the bishop arrested
him.
“Channing, I have just heard some news from your father. You are at
length cleared from that charge. You have been innocent all this time.”
Arthur’s lips parted with a smile. “Your lordship may be sure that I am
thankful to be cleared at last. Though I am sorry that it should be at
the expense of my friend Yorke.”
“Knowing yourself innocent, you might have proclaimed it more
decisively. What could have been your motive for not doing so?”
The ingenuous flush flew into Arthur’s cheek. “The truth is, my lord, I
suspected some one else. Not Roland Yorke,” he pointedly added. “But--it
was one against whom I should have been sorry to bring a charge. And
so--and so--I went on bearing the blame.”
“Well, Channing, I must say, and I shall say to others, that you have
behaved admirably; showing a true Christian spirit. Mr. Channing may
well be happy in his children. What will you give me,” added the bishop,
releasing Arthur’s hand, which he had taken, and relapsing into his
free, pleasant manner, “for some news that I can impart to you?”
Arthur wondered much. What news could the bishop have to impart which
concerned him?
“The little lost wanderer has come home.”
“Not Charles!” uttered Arthur, startled to emotion. “Charles! and not
dead?”
“Not dead, certainly,” smiled the bishop, “considering that he can talk
and walk. He will want some nursing, though. Good-bye, Channing. This,
take it for all in all, must be a day of congratulation for you and
yours.”
To leap into Mr. Galloway’s with the tidings, to make but a few bounds
thence home, did not take many minutes for Arthur. He found Charles in
danger of being kissed to death--Mrs. Channing, Lady Augusta, Constance,
and Judith, each taking her turn. I fear Arthur only made another.
“Why, Charley, you have grown out of your clothes!” he exclaimed. “How
thin and white you are!”
The remarks did not please Judith. “Thin and white!” she resentfully
repeated. “Did you expect him to come home as red and fat as a
turkey-cock, and him just brought to the edge of the grave with brain
fever? One would think, Master Arthur, that you’d rejoice to see him, if
he had come back a skeleton, when it seemed too likely you’d never see
him at all. And what if he have outgrown his clothes? They can be let
out, or replaced with new ones. I have hands, and there’s tailors in the
place, I hope.”
The more delighted felt Judith, the more ready was she to take up
remarks and convert them into grievances. Arthur knew her, and only
laughed. A day of rejoicing, indeed, as the bishop had said. A day of
praise to God.
Charley had been whispering to his mother. He wanted to go to the
college schoolroom and surprise it. He was longing for a sight of his
old companions. That happy moment had been pictured in his thoughts
fifty times, as he lay in the boat; it was almost as much desired as the
return home. Charley bore no malice, and he was prepared to laugh with
them at the ghost.
“You do not appear strong enough to walk even so far as that,” said Mrs.
Channing.
“Dear mamma, let me go! I could walk it, for that, if it were twice as
far.”
“Yes, let him go,” interposed Arthur, divining the feeling. “I will help
him along.”
Charley’s trencher--the very trencher found on the banks--was brought
forth, and he started with Arthur.
“Mind you bring him back safe this time!” called out Judy in a tone of
command, as she stood at the door to watch them along the Boundaries.
“Arthur,” said the boy, “were they punished for playing me that ghost
trick?”
“They have not been punished yet; they are to be. The master waited to
see how things would turn out.”
You may remember that Diggs, the boat-house keeper, when he took news of
Charles’s supposed fate to the college school, entered it just in time
to interrupt an important ceremony, which was about to be performed
on the back of Pierce senior. In like manner--and the coincidence was
somewhat remarkable--Charles himself now entered it, when that same
ceremony was just brought to a conclusion, only that the back, instead
of being Pierce senior’s, was Gerald Yorke’s. Terrible disgrace for a
senior! and Gerald wished Bywater’s surplice had been at the bottom of
the river before he had meddled with it. He had not done it purposely.
He had fallen in the vestry, ink-bottle in hand, which had broken and
spilt its contents over the surplice. In an unlucky moment, Gerald had
determined to deny all knowledge of the accident, never supposing it
would be brought home to him.
Sullen, angry, and resentful, he was taking his seat again, and the
head-master, rather red and hot with exertion, was locking up the
great birch, when the door was opened, and Arthur Channing made his
appearance; a boy, carrying the college cap, with him.
The school were struck dumb. The head-master paused, birch in hand. But
that he was taller and thinner, and that the bright colour and auburn
curls were gone, they would have said at once it was Charley Channing.
The master let fall the birch and the lid of his desk. “_Channing!_”
he uttered, as the child walked up to him. “Is it really you? What has
become of you all this time? Where have you been?”
“I have been a long way in a barge, sir. The barge-man saved me. And I
have had brain fever.”
He looked round for Tom; and Tom, in the wild exuberance of his delight,
took Charley in his arms, and tears dropped from his eyes as he kissed
him as warmly as Judith could have done. And then brave Tom could have
eaten himself up, in mortification at having been so demonstrative in
sight of the college school.
But the school were not in the humour to be fastidious just then. Some
of them felt more inward relief at sight of Charles than they cared to
tell; they had never experienced anything like it in their lives, and
probably never would again. In the midst of the murmur of heartfelt
delight that was arising, a most startling interruption occurred from
Mr. Bywater. That gentleman sprang from his desk to the middle of the
room, turned a somersault, and began dancing a hornpipe on his head.
“_Bywater_!” uttered the astounded master. “Are you mad?”
Bywater finished his dance, and then brought himself to his feet.
“I am so glad he has turned up all right, sir. I forgot you were in
school.”
“I should think you did,” significantly returned the master. But Charles
interrupted him.
“You will not punish them, sir, now I have come back safe?” he pleaded.
“But they deserve punishment,” said the master.
“I know they have been sorry; Arthur says they have,” urged Charley.
“Please do not punish them now, sir; it is so pleasant to be back
again!”
“Will you promise never to be frightened at their foolish tricks again?”
said the master. “Not that there is much danger of their playing you
any: this has been too severe a lesson. I am surprised that a boy of
your age, Charles, could allow himself to be alarmed by ‘ghosts.’ You do
not suppose there are such things, surely?”
“No, sir; but somehow, that night I got too frightened to think. You
will forgive them, sir, won’t you?”
“Yes! There! Go and shake hands with them,” said Mr. Pye, relaxing his
dignity. “It is worth something, Charley, to see you here again.”
The school seemed to think so; and I wish you had heard the shout that
went up from it--the real, true, if somewhat noisy delight, that greeted
Charles. “Charley, we’ll never dress up a ghost again! We’ll never
frighten you in any way!” they cried, pressing affectionately round him.
“Only forgive us!”
“Why are you sitting in the senior’s place, Tom?” asked Arthur.
“Because it is his own,” said Harry Huntley, with a smile of
satisfaction. “Lady Augusta came in and set things right for you, and
Tom is made senior at last. Hurrah! Arthur cleared, Tom senior, Charley
back, and Gerald flogged! Hurrah!”
“Hurrah! If Pye were worth a dump, he’d give us a holiday!” echoed bold
Bywater.