The Channings by Ellen Wood (page 11)

panted poor Jenkins.

“He would have come off there and then, all by himself: he would, Mr. Galloway, as I am a living sinner!” she hotly continued. “It’s unbeknown how he’d have got here–holding on by the wall, like a snail, or fastening himself on to the tail of a cart; but try at it, in some way, he would! Be quiet, Jenkins! How dare you attempt to interrupt!”

Poor Jenkins had not thought to interrupt; he was only making a movement to pull off his great-coat. Mrs. Jenkins resumed:

“‘No,’ said I to him; ‘if you must go, you shall be conveyed there, but you don’t start without your breakfast.’ So I sat him down in his chair, Mr. Galloway, and gave him his breakfast–such as it was! If there’s one thing that Jenkins is obstinate in, above all others, it’s about eating. Then I sent Lydia for a fly, and wrapped up his throat in my boa–and that he wanted to fight against!–and here he is!”

“I wished to get here, sir, before you did,” cried Jenkins, meekly. “I knew the exertion would set me coughing at first, but, if I had sat awhile before you saw me, I should not have seemed so incapable. I shall be better presently, sir.”

“What are you at with that coat?” tartly asked Mrs. Jenkins. “I declare your hands are never at rest. Your coat’s not to come off, Jenkins. The office is colder than our parlour, and you’ll keep it on.”

Jenkins, humbly obeying, began to turn up the cuffs. “I can do a little writing, sir,” he said to Mr. Galloway, “Is there anything that is in a hurry?”

“Jenkins,” said Mr. Galloway, “I could not suffer you to write; I could not keep you here. Were I to allow you to stop, in the state you are, just to serve me, I should lay a weight upon my conscience.”

Mrs. Jenkins looked up in triumph. “You hear, Jenkins! What did I tell you? I said I’d let you have your way for once–’twas but the cost of the fly; but that if Mr. Galloway kept you here, once he set eyes on your poor creachy body, I’d eat him.”

“Jenkins, my poor fellow!” said Mr. Galloway, gravely, “you must know that you are not in a state to exert yourself. I shall not forget your kindness; but you must go back at once. Why, the very draught from the frequent opening of the door would do you an injury; the exertion of speaking to answer callers would be too much for you.”

“Didn’t I tell you so, Jenkins, just in them very words?” interrupted the lady.

“I am aware that I am not strong, sir,” acknowledged Jenkins to Mr. Galloway, with a deprecatory glance towards his wife to be allowed to speak. “But it is better I should be put to a trifle of inconvenience than that you should, sir. I can sit here, sir, while you are obliged to be out, or occupied in your private room. What could you do, sir, left entirely alone?”

“I don’t know what I can do,” returned Mr. Galloway, with an acidity of tone equal to that displayed by Mrs. Jenkins, for the question recalled all the perplexity of his position. “Sacrifice yourself to me, Jenkins, you shall not. What absurd folly can have taken off Roland Yorke?” he added. “Do you know?”

“No, sir, I don’t. When Mr. Roland came in this morning, and said he was really off, you might have knocked me down with a feather. He would often get talking about Port Natal, but I never supposed it would come to anything. Mr. Roland was one given to talk.”

“He had some tea at our house the other night, and was talking about it then,” struck in Mrs. Jenkins. “He said he was worked to death.”

“Worked to death!” satirically repeated Mr. Galloway.

“I’m afraid, sir, that, through my unfortunate absence, he has found the work heavier, and he grew dissatisfied,” said Jenkins. “It has troubled me very much.”

“You spoilt him, Jenkins; that’s the fact,” observed Mr. Galloway. “You did his work and your own. Idle young dog! He’ll get a sickener at Port Natal.”

“There’s one thing to be thankful for, sir,” said patient Jenkins, “that he has his uncle, the earl, to fall back upon.”

“Hark at him!” interrupted Mrs. Jenkins. “That’s just like him! He’d be ‘thankful’ to hear that his worst enemy had an uncle to fall back upon. That’s Jenkins all over. But now, what is to be the next movement?” she sharply demanded. “I must get back to my shop. Is he to come with me, or to stop here–a spectacle for every one that comes in?”

But at this moment, before the question could be decided–though you may rest assured Mrs. Jenkins would only allow it to be decided in her own way–hasty footsteps were heard in the passage, and the door was thrown open by Arthur Charming.

CHAPTER LII.

A RELIC FROM THE BURIAL-GROUND.

When Hamish Charming joined the breakfast-table at home that morning at nine o’clock, he mentioned his adventure at the station with Lady Augusta Yorke. It was the first intimation they had received of Roland’s departure; indeed, the first that some of them had heard of his intention to depart.

Arthur laid down his knife and fork. To him alone could the full consequences of the step present themselves, as regarded Mr. Galloway.

“Hamish! he cannot actually have gone?”

“That he is actually off by the train to London, I can certify,” was the reply of Hamish. “Whether he will be off to Port Natal, is another thing. He desired me to tell you, Arthur, that he should write his adieu to you from town.”

“He might have come to see me,” observed Arthur, a shade of resentment in his tone. “I never thought he would really go.”

“I did,” said Hamish, “funds permitting him. If Lord Carrick will supply those, he’ll be off by the first comfortable ship that sails. His mind was so completely bent upon it.”

“What can he think of doing at Port Natal?” inquired Constance, wonderingly.

“Making his fortune.” But Hamish laughed as he said it. “Wherever I may have met him latterly, his whole talk has been of Port Natal. Lady Augusta says he is going to take out frying-pans to begin with.”

“Hamish!”

“She said so, Constance. I have no doubt Roland said so to her. I should like to see the sort of cargo he will lay in for the start.”

“What does Mr. Galloway say to it, I wonder?” exclaimed Arthur, that gentleman’s perplexities presenting themselves to his mind above everything else. “I cannot think what he will do.”

“I have an idea that Mr. Galloway is as yet unaware of it,” said Hamish. “Roland assured me that no person whatever knew of his departure, except Jenkins. He called upon him on his way to the station.”

“Unaware of it!” Arthur fell into consternation great as Mr. Galloway’s, as he repeated the words. Was it possible that Roland had stolen a march on Mr. Galloway? He relapsed into silence and thought.

“What makes you so sad?” Constance asked of Arthur later, when they were dispersing to their several occupations.

“I am not sad, Constance; only thoughtful. I have been carrying on an inward battle,” he added, half laughingly.

“With your conscience?”

“With my spirit. It is a proud one yet, in spite of all I have had to tame it; a great deal more rebellious than I like it to be.”

“Why, what is the matter, Arthur?”

“Constance, I think I ought to come forward and help Mr. Galloway out of this strait. I think my duty lies in doing it.”

“To return to his office, you mean?”

“Yes; until he can see his way out of the wood. But it goes against the grain.”

“Arthur dear, I know you will do it,” she gently said. “Were our duty always pleasant to us, where would be the merit in fulfilling it?”

“I shall do it,” he answered. “To that I have made up my mind. The difficulty is, Constance, to do it with a good grace.”

She looked at him with a loving smile. “Only try. A firm will, Arthur, will conquer even a rebellious spirit.”

Arthur knew it. He knew how to set about it. And a little later, he was on his way to Close Street, with the best grace in the world. Not only in appearance, mind you, but inwardly. It is a GREAT thing, reader, to conquer the risings of a proud spirit! To bring it from its haughty, rebellious pedestal, down to cordiality and love. Have you learnt the way?

Some parchments under his arm, for he had stayed to collect them together, Arthur bounded in to Mr. Galloway’s. The first object his eyes fell on was that shadowy form, coughing and panting. “Oh, Jenkins!” he involuntarily uttered, “what do you do out of your house?”

“Anxiety for me has brought him out,” said Mr. Galloway. “How can I scold him?”

“I could not rest, sir, knowing my master was alone in his need,” cried Jenkins to Arthur. “What is to become of the office, sir, with no one in it?”

“But he is not alone,” said Arthur; and, if he had wanted a reward for coming forward, that moment would have supplied it, in satisfying poor Jenkins. “If you will allow me, sir,” Arthur added, turning frankly to Mr. Galloway, “I will take my place here, until you shall be suited.”

“Thank you,” emphatically replied Mr. Galloway. “It will relieve me from a serious embarrassment.”

Arthur went to his old desk, and sat down on his old stool, and began settling the papers and other things on it, just as though he had not been absent an hour. “I must still attend the cathedral as usual, sir,” he observed to Mr. Galloway; “but I can give you the whole of my remaining time. I shall be better for you than no one.”

“I would rather have you here than any one else, Channing; he”–laying his hand on Jenkins’s shoulder–“excepted. I offered that you should return before.”

“I know you did, sir,” replied Arthur, in a brief tone–one that seemed to intimate he would prefer not to pursue the subject.

“And now are you satisfied?” struck in Mrs. Jenkins to her husband.

“I am more than satisfied,” answered Jenkins, clasping his hands. “With Mr. Arthur in the office, I shall have no fear of its missing me, and I can go home in peace, to die.”

“Please just to hold your tongue about dying,” reprimanded Mrs. Jenkins. “Your business is to get well, if you can. And now I am going to see after a fly. A pretty dance I should have had here, if he had persisted in stopping, bringing him messes and cordials every half-hour! Which would have worn out first, I wonder–the pavement or my shoes?”

“Channing,” said Mr. Galloway, “let us understand each other. Have you come here to do anything there may be to do–out of doors as well as in? In short, to be my clerk as heretofore?”

“Of course I have, sir; until”–Arthur spoke very distinctly–you shall be able to suit yourself; not longer.”

“Then take this paper round to Deering’s office, and get it signed. You will have time to do it before college.”

Arthur’s answer was to put on his hat, and vault away with the paper. Jenkins turned to Mr. Galloway as soon as they were alone. “Oh, sir, keep him in your office!” he earnestly said. “He will soon be of more value to you than I have ever been!”

“That he will not, Jenkins. Nor any one else.”

“Yes, he will, sir! He will be able to replace you in the chapter house upon any emergency, and I never could do that, you know, sir, not being a gentleman. When you have him to yourself alone, sir, you will see his value; and I shall not be missed. He is steady and thoughtful beyond his years, sir, and every day will make him older.”

You forget the charge against him, Jenkins. Until he shall be cleared of that–if he can be cleared of it–he will not be of great value to any one; certainly not to me.”

“Sir,” said Jenkins, raising his wan face, its hectic deepening, find his eye lighting, while his voice sunk to a whisper, so deep as to savour of solemnity, “that time will come! He never did it, and he will as surely be cleared, as that I am now saying it! Sir, I have thought much about this accusation; it has troubled me in sleep; but I know that God will bring the right to light for those who trust in Him. If any one ever trusted in God, it is Mr. Arthur Channing. I lie and think of all this, sir. I seem to be so near God, now,” Jenkins went on dreamily, “that I know the right must come to light; that it will come in God’s own good time. And I believe I shall live to see it!”

“You have certainly firm faith in his innocence, Jenkins. How then do you account for his very suspicious manner?”

“It does not weigh with me, sir. I could as soon believe a good wholesome apple-tree would bring forth poison, as that Mr. Arthur would be guilty of a deliberately bad action. Sometimes I have thought, sir, when puzzling over it, that he may be screening another. There’s no telling how it was. I hear, sir, that the money has been returned to you.”

“Yes. Was it he who told you?”

“It was Mr. Roland Yorke who told me, sir. Mr. Roland is another, sir, who has had firm faith in his innocence from the first.”

“Much his faith goes for!” ejaculated Mr. Galloway, as he came back from his private room with a letter, which he handed to Jenkins, who was skilled in caligraphy. “What do you make of it?” he asked. “It is the letter which came with the returned money.”

“It is a disguised hand, sir–there’s no doubt of that,” replied Jenkins, when he had surveyed it critically. “I do not remember to have seen any person write like it.”

Mr. Galloway took it back to his room, and presently a fly drove up with Mrs. Jenkins inside it. Jenkins stood at the office door, hat in hand, his face turned upon the room. Mrs. Jenkins came up and seized his arm, to marshal him to the fly.

“I was but taking a farewell of things, sir,” he observed to Mr. Galloway. “I shall never see the old spot again.”

Arthur arrived just as Jenkins was safely in. He put his hand over the door. “Make yourself easy, Jenkins; it will all go on smoothly here. Good-bye, old fellow! I’ll come and see you very soon.”

“How he breaks, does he not, sir?” exclaimed Arthur to Mr. Galloway.

“Ay! he’s not long for this world!”

The fly proceeded on its way; Mrs. Jenkins, with her snappish manner, though really not unkind heart, lecturing Jenkins on his various shortcomings until it drew up at their own door. As Jenkins was being helped down from it, one of the college boys passed at a great speed; a railroad was nothing to it. It was Stephen Bywater. Something, legitimate or illegitimate, had detained him, and now the college bell was going.

He caught sight of Jenkins, and, hurried as he was, much of punishment as he was bargaining for, it had such an effect upon him, that he pulled up short. Was it Jenkins, or his ghost? Bywater had never been so struck with any sight before.

The most appropriate way in which it occurred to him to give vent to his surprise, was to prop his back against the shop door, and indulge in a soft, prolonged whistle. He could not take his eyes from Jenkins’s face. “Is it you, or your shadow, Jenkins?” he asked, making room for the invalid to pass.

“It’s myself, sir, thank you. I hope you are well, sir.”

“Oh, I’m always jolly,” replied Bywater, and then he began to whistle again.

He followed Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins into the shop with his eyes; that is, they followed Jenkins. Bywater had heard, as a matter of necessity, of Jenkins’s illness, and had given as much thought to it as he would have done if told Jenkins had a headache; but to fancy him like _this_ had never occurred to Bywater.

Now somewhere beneath Bywater’s waistcoat, there really was a little bit of heart; and, as he thus looked, a great fear began to thump against it. He followed Jenkins into the parlour. Mrs. Jenkins, after divesting Jenkins of his coat, and her boa, planted him right before the fire in his easy-chair, with a pillow at his back, and was now whisking down into the kitchen, regardless of certain customers waiting in the shop to be served.

Bywater, unasked, sat himself in a chair near to poor Jenkins and his panting breath, and indulged in another long stare. “I say, Jenkins,” said he, “what’s the matter with you?”

Jenkins took the question literally. “I believe it may be called a sort of decline, sir. I don’t know any other name for it.”

“Shan’t you get well?”

“Oh no, sir! I don’t look for that, now.”

The fear thumped at Bywater’s heart worse than before. A past vision of locking up old Ketch in the cloisters, through which pastime Jenkins had come to a certain fall, was uncomfortably present to Bywater just then. He had been the ringleader.

“What brought it on?” asked he.

“Well, sir, I suppose it was to come,” meekly replied Jenkins. “I have had a bad cough, spring and autumn, for a long while now, Master Bywater. My brother went off just the same, sir, and so did my mother.”

Bywater pushed his honest, red face, forward; but it did not look quite so impudent as usual. “Jenkins,” said he, plunging headlong into the fear, “DID–THAT–FALL–DO–IT?”

“Fall, sir! What fall?”

“That fall down from the organ loft. Because that was my fault. I had the most to do with locking up the cloisters, that night.”

“Oh, bless you, sir, no! Never think that. Master Bywater”–lowering his voice till it was as grave as Bywater’s–“that fall did me good–good, sir, instead of harm.”

“How do you make out that?” asked Bywater, drawing his breath a little easier.

“Because, sir, in the few days’ quiet that I had in bed, my thoughts seemed in an unaccountable manner to be drawn to thinking of heaven. I can’t rightly describe, sir, how or why it could have been. I remember his lordship, the bishop, talked to me a little bit in his pleasant, affable way, about the necessity of always, being prepared; and my wife’s Bible lay on the drawers by my bed’s head, and I used to pick up that. But I don’t think it was either of those causes much; I believe, sir, that it was God Himself working in my heart. I believe He sent the fall in His mercy. After I got up, I seemed to know that I should soon go to Him; and–I hope it is not wrong to say it–I seemed to wish to go.”

Bywater felt somewhat puzzled. “I am not speaking about your heart and religion, and all that, Jenkins. I want to know if the fall helped to bring on this illness?”

“No, sir; it had nothing to do with it. The fall hurt my head a little–nothing more; and I got well from it directly. This illness, which has been taking me off, must have been born with me.”

“Hoo–” Bywater’s shout, as he tossed up his trencher, was broken in upon by Mrs. Jenkins. She had been beating up an egg with sugar and wine, and now brought it in in a tumbler.

“My dear,” said Jenkins, “I don’t feel to want it.”

“Not want it!” said Mrs. Jenkins resolutely. And in two seconds she had taken hold of him, and it was down his throat. “I can’t stop parleying here all day, with my shop full of customers.” Bywater laughed, and she retreated.

“If I could eat gold, sir, she’d get it for me,” said Jenkins; “but my appetite fails. She’s a good wife, Master Bywater.”

“Stunning,” acquiesced Bywater. “I wouldn’t mind a wife myself, if she’d feed me up with eggs and wine.”

“But for her care, sir, I should not have lasted so long. She has had great experience with the sick.”

Bywater did not answer. Rising to go, his eyes had fixed themselves upon some object on the mantelpiece as pertinaciously as they had previously been fixed upon Jenkins’s face. “I say, Jenkins, where did you get this?” he exclaimed.

“That, sir? Oh, I remember. My old father brought it in yesterday. He had cut his hand with it. Where now did he say he found it? In the college burial-ground, I think, Master Bywater.”

It was part of a small broken phial, of a peculiar shape, which had once apparently contained ink; an elegant shape, it may be said, not unlike a vase. Bywater began turning it about in his fingers; he was literally feasting his eyes upon it.

“Do you want to keep it, Jenkins?”

“Not at all, sir. I wonder my wife did not throw it away before this.”

“I’ll take it, then,” said Bywater, slipping it into his pocket. “And now I’m off. Hope you’ll get better, Jenkins.”

“Thank you, sir. Let me put the broken bottle in paper, Master Bywater. You will cut your fingers if you carry it loose in your pocket.”

“Oh, that be bothered!” answered Bywater. “Who cares for cut fingers?”

He pushed himself through Mrs. Jenkins’s customers, with as little ceremony as Roland Yorke might have used, and went flying towards the cathedral. The bell ceased as he entered. The organ pealed forth; and the dean and chapter, preceded by some of the bedesmen, were entering from the opposite door. Bywater ensconced himself behind a pillar, until they should have traversed the body, crossed the nave, and were safe in the choir. Then he came out, and made his way to old Jenkins the bedesman.

The old man, in his black gown, stood near the bell ropes, for he had been one of the ringers that day. Bywater noticed that his left hand was partially tied up in a handkerchief.

“Holloa, old Jenkins,” said he, _sotte voce_, “what have you done with your hand?”

“I gave it a nasty cut yesterday, sir, just in the ball of the thumb. I wrapped my handkerchief round it just now, for fear of opening it again, while I was ringing the bell. See,” said he, taking off the handkerchief and showing the cut to Bywater.

“What an old muff you must be, to cut yourself like that!”

“But I didn’t do it on purpose,” returned the old man. “We was ordered into the burial-ground to put it a bit to rights, and I fell down with my hand on a broken phial. I ain’t as active as I was. I say, though, sir, do you know that service has begun?”

“Let it begin,” returned careless Bywater. “This was the bottle you fell over, was it not? I found it on Joe’s mantelpiece, just now.”

“Ay, that was it. It must have laid there some time. A good three months, I know.”

Bywater nodded his head. He returned the bottle to his pocket, and went to the vestry for his surplice. Then he slid into college under the severe eyes of the Reverend Mr. Pye, which were bent upon him from the chanting-desk, and ascended, his stall just in time to take his part in the _Venite, exultemus Domino_.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE RETURN HOME.

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.”

CHAPTER LIV.

“THE SHIP’S DROWNED.”

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.

CHAPTER LV.

NEWS FROM ROLAND.

You will like to look over Arthur’s shoulder, as he reads the letter just received from Roland Yorke.

“DEAR OLD CHUM,”

“By the time you get this letter, I shall be ploughing the waves of the briny deep, in the ship _Africa_. You will get the letter on Wednesday night. That is, you ought to get it; for I have desired Carrick to post it accordingly, and I’m sure he’ll do it if he does not forget. And old Galloway will get a letter at the same time, and Lady Augusta will get one. _I_ shall have been off more than twenty-four hours, for we leave Gravesend on Tuesday at noon. Carrick has behaved like a trump. He has bought me all the things I asked him, and paid my passage-money, and given me fifty pounds in my pocket to land with; so I am safe to get on. The only thing he stood out about was the frying-pans. He couldn’t see of what use they’d be, he said. So we made a compromise, and I am taking out only four-and-twenty, instead of the forty dozen that I had thought of. I could not find Bagshaw’s list, and the frying-pans are about all I am taking, in the shape of utensils, except a large tool-chest, which they palmed off upon Carrick, for it was as dear as fire’s hot.”

“I dare say you have been vowing vengeance upon me, for not coming round to see you before I started; but I stopped away on purpose, for I might have let out something that I did not care to let out then; and that’s what I am writing for.”

“Old fellow, I have been fit to kill myself. All that bother that they laid upon you about the bank-note ought to have fallen upon me, for it was I who took it. There! the confession’s made. And now explode at me for ten minutes, with all your energy and wrath, before you read on. It will be a relief to your feelings and to mine. Perhaps if you’d go out of the way to swear a bit, it mightn’t be amiss.”

It was at this juncture that Arthur had started up so wildly, causing Annabel to exclaim that the “ship was drowned.” In his access of bewilderment, the first shadowy thought that overpowered him was a dreadful feeling of grief, for Roland’s sake. He had liked Roland; with all his faults, he had liked him much; and it was as if some cherished statue had fallen, and been dashed to pieces. Wild, joyful beatings of relief, that Hamish was innocent, were mingling with it, thumping against his heart, soon to exclude all else and fill it to bursting. But as yet this was indistinct; and the first clear idea that came to him was–Was Roland telling truth, or was he only playing a joke upon him? Arthur read on.

“I was awfully hard up for money. I was worse than Hamish, and he was pretty hard up then; though he seems to have staved off the fellows since–he best knows how. I told him one day I should like to borrow the receipt, and he laughed and said he’d give it to me with all the pleasure in life if it were transferable. Ask him if he remembers saying it. When Galloway was sending the money that day to the cousin Galloway, I thought what a shame it was, as I watched him slip the bank-note into the letter. That cousin Galloway was always having money sent him, and I wished Galloway would give it me instead. Then came that row with Mad Nance; and as you and Galloway turned to see what was up, I just pulled open the envelope, that instant wet and stuck down, took out the money, pressed the gum down again, and came and stood at your back, at the window, leaning out. It did not take me half a minute; and the money was in my pocket, and the letter was empty! But now, look here!–I never meant to steal the note. I am not a Newgate thief, yet. I was in an uncommon fix just then, over a certain affair; and if I could not stop the fellow’s mouth, there’d have been the dickens to pay. So I took the money for _that_ stop-gap, never intending to do otherwise than replace it in Galloway’s desk as soon as I could get it. I knew I should be having some from Lord Carrick. It was all Lady Augusta’s fault. She had turned crusty, and would not help me. I stopped out all that afternoon with Knivett, if you remember, and that placed me beyond suspicion when the stir came, though it was not for that reason I stayed, for I never had a thought that the row would fall upon us in the office. I supposed the loss would be set down to the letter-carriers–as of course it ought to have been. I stayed out, the bank-note burning a hole all the while in my waistcoat pocket, and sundry qualms coming over me whether I should not put it back again. I began to wonder how I could get rid of it safely, not knowing but that Galloway might have the number, and I think I should have put it back, what with that doubt and my twitchings of conscience, but for a thing that happened. After I parted with Knivett, I ran home for something I wanted, and Lady Augusta heard me and called me into her bedroom. ‘Roland,’ said she, ‘I want you to get me a twenty-pound note from the bank; I have occasion to send one to Ireland.’ Now, Arthur, I ask you, was ever such encouragement given to a fellow in wrong-doing? Of course, my note, that is, Galloway’s note, went to Ireland, and a joyful riddance it seemed; as thoroughly _gone_ as if I had despatched it to the North Pole. Lady Augusta handed me twenty sovereigns, and I made believe to go to the bank and exchange them for a note. She put it into a letter, and I took it to the post-office at once. No wonder you grumbled at my being away so long!”

“Next came the row. And when I found that suspicion fell upon _you_, I was nearly mad. If I had not parted with the money, I should have gone straight to Galloway and said, ‘Here it is; I took it.’ Not a soul stood up for you as they ought! Even Mr. Channing fell into the suspicion, and Hamish seemed indifferent and cool as a cucumber. I have never liked Galloway since; and I long, to this day, to give Butterby a ducking. How I kept my tongue from blurting out the truth, I don’t know: but a gentleman born does not like to own himself a thief. It was the publicity given to it that kept me silent; and I hope old Galloway and Butterby will have horrid dreams for a week to come, now they know the truth! I was boiling over always. I don’t know how I managed to live through it; and that soft calf of a Jenkins was always defending Galloway when I flew out about him. Nobody could do more than I did to throw the blame upon the post-office–and it was the most likely thing in the world for the post-office to have done?–but the more I talked, the more old Galloway brought up that rubbish about his ‘seals!’ I hope he’ll have horrid dreams for a month to come! I’d have prosecuted the post-office if I had had the cash to do it with, and that might have turned him.”

“Well, old chap, it went on and on–you lying under the cloud, and I mad with every one. I could do nothing to clear you (unless I had confessed), except sending back the money to Galloway’s, with a letter to say you did not do it. It was upon my mind night and day. I was always planning how to accomplish it; but for some time I could not find the money. When Carrick came to Helstonleigh he was short himself, and I had to wait. I told him I was in an awful mess for the want of twenty pounds. And that was true in more senses than one, for I did not know where to turn to for money for my own uses. At last Carrick gave it me–he had given me a trifle or two before, of five pounds or so, of no use–and then I had to wait an opportunity of sending it to London to be posted. Carrick’s departure afforded that. I wrote the note to Galloway with my _left_ hand, in print sort of letters, put the money into it, and Carrick promised to post it in London. I told him it was a _Valentine_ to old Galloway, flattering him on his youthful curls, and Carrick laughed till he was hoarse, at the notion. Deuce take his memory! he had been pretty nearly a week in London before he thought of the letter, and then putting his hand into his pocket he found it. I had given it up by that time, and thought no one in the world ever had such luck as I. At last it came; and all I can say is, I wish the post-office had taken that, before it ever did come. Of all the crying shames, that was the worst! The old carp got the money, and _yet_ would not clear you! I shall never forgive Galloway for that! and when I come back from Port Natal, rolling in wealth, I’ll not look at him when I pass him in the street, which will cork him uncommonly, and I don’t care if you tell him so. Had I wavered about Port Natal before, that would have decided me. Clear you I would, and I saw there was no way to do it but by telling the truth, which I did not care to do while I was in Helstonleigh. And now I am off, and you know the truth, and Galloway knows it, for he’ll have his letter when you have yours (and I hope it will be a pill for him), and all Helstonleigh will know it, and you are cleared, dear old Arthur!”

“The first person that I shall lavish a little of my wealth upon, when I return, will be poor Jenkins, if he should be still in the land of the living. We all know that he has as much in him as a gander, and lets that adorable Mrs. J. (I wish you could have seen her turban the morning I took leave!) be mistress and master, but he has done me many a good turn: and, what’s more, he _stood up for you_. When Galloway, Butterby, and Co. were on at it, discussing proofs against you, Jenkins’s humble voice would be heard, ‘I am sure, gentlemen, Mr. Arthur never did it!’ Many a time I could have hugged him! and he shall have some of my good luck when I reach home. You shall have it too, Arthur! I shall never make a friend to care for half as much as I care for you, and I wish you would have been persuaded to come out with me and make your fortune; but as you would not, you shall share mine. Mind! I should have cleared you just the same, if you had come.”

“And that’s all I have to tell. And now you see why I did not care to say ‘Good-bye,’ for I don’t think I could have said it without telling all. Remember me to the folks at your house, and I hope Mr. Channing will come home stunning. I shall look to you for all the news, mind! If a great wind blows the cathedral down, or a fire burns the town up, it’s you who must write it; no one else will. Direct to me–Post-office, Port Natal, until I send you an address, which I shall do the first thing. Have you any news of Charley?”

“I had almost forgotten that bright kinsman of mine, the chaplain of Hazledon. Pray present my affectionate compliments to him, and say he has not the least idea how very much I revere him. I should like to see his face when he finds it was I who was the delinquent. Constance can turn the tables on him now. But if she ever forgives him, she’ll deserve to be as henpecked as Jenkins is; and tell her I say so.”

“I meant to have told you about a spree I have had since I came to London, but there’s no room, so I’ll conclude sentimentally, as a lady does,”

“Yours for ever and ever,”

“ROLAND YORKE.”

You must not think that Arthur Channing read this letter deliberately, as you have been able to read it. He had only skimmed it–skimmed it with straining eye and burning brow; taking in its general sense, its various points; but of its words, none. In his overpowering emotion–his perplexed confusion–he started up with wild words: “Oh, father! he is innocent! Constance, he is innocent! Hamish, Hamish! forgive–forgive me! I have been wicked enough to believe you guilty all this time!”

To say that they stared at him–to say that they did not understand him–would be weak words to express the surprise that fell upon them, and seemed to strike them dumb. Arthur kept on reiterating the words, as if he could not sufficiently relieve his overburdened heart.

“Hamish never did it! Constance, we might have known it. Constance, what could so have blinded our reason? He has been innocent all this time.”

Mr. Huntley was the first to find his tongue. “Innocent of what?” asked he. “What news have you received there?” pointing to the letter.

“It is from Roland Yorke. He says”–Arthur hesitated, and lowered his voice–“that bank-note lost by Mr. Galloway–“

“Well?” they uttered, pressing round him.

“It was Roland who took it!”

Then arose a Babel of voices: questions to Arthur, references to the letter, and explanations. Mr. Channing, amidst his deep thankfulness, gathered Arthur to him with a fond gesture. “My boy, there has been continual conflict waging in my heart,” he said; “appearances _versus_ my better judgment. But for your own doubtful manner, I should have spurned the thought that you were guilty. Why did you not speak out boldly?”

“Father, how could I–believing that it was Hamish? Hamish, dear Hamish, say you forgive me!”

Hamish was the only one who had retained calmness. Remarkably cool was he. He gazed upon them with the most imperturbable self-possession–rather inclined to be amused than otherwise. “Suspect me!” cried he, raising his eyebrows.

“We did, indeed!”

“_Bien oblige_,” responded Mr. Hamish. “Perhaps _you_ shared the honour of the doubt?” he mockingly added, turning to Mr. Huntley.

“I did,” replied that gentleman. “Ellen did not,” he added, losing his seriousness in a half laugh. “Miss Ellen and I have been at daggers-drawn upon the point.”

Hamish actually blushed like a schoolgirl. “Ellen knows me better,” was all he said, speaking very quietly. “I should have thought some of the rest of you had known me better, also.”

“Hamish,” said Mr. Huntley, “I think we were all in for a host of blunders.”

Mr. Channing had listened in surprise, Mrs. Channing in indignation. Her brave, good Hamish! her best and dearest!

“I cannot see how it was possible to suspect Hamish,” observed Mr. Channing.

But, before any more could be said, they were interrupted by Mr. Galloway, an open letter in his hand. “Here’s a pretty repast for a man!” he exclaimed. “I go home, expecting to dine in peace, and I find this pill upon my plate!” Pill was the very word Roland had used.

They understood, naturally, what the pill was. Especially Arthur, who had been told by Roland himself, that he was writing to Mr. Galloway. “You see, sir,” said Arthur with a bright smile, “that I was innocent.”

“I do see it,” replied Mr. Galloway, laying his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Why could you not speak openly to my face and tell me so?”

“Because–I am ashamed, sir, now to confess why. We were all at cross-purposes together, it seems.”

“He suspected that it was all in the family, Mr. Galloway,” cried Hamish, in his gay good humour. “It appears that he laid the charge of that little affair to _me_.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Galloway.

“We both did,” exclaimed Constance, coming forward with tears in her eyes. “Do you think that the mere fact of suspicion being cast upon him, publicly though it was made, could have rendered us as cowardly miserable as it did? Hamish, how shall we atone to you?”

“The question is, how shall I atone to you, my old friend, for the wrong done your son?” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, seizing Mr. Channing’s hand. “Arthur, you and I shall have accounts to make up together.”

“If reparation for unjust suspicion is to be the order of the day, I think I ought to have some of it,” said laughing Hamish, with a glance at Mr. Huntley.

A sudden thought seemed to strike Mr. Channing. “Huntley,” he impulsively cried, “was this the cause of displeasure that you hinted had been given you by Hamish?”

“That, and nothing else,” was Mr. Huntley’s answer. “I suppose I must take him into favour again–‘make reparation,’ as he says.”

A saucy smile crossed the lips of Hamish. It as good as said, “I know who will, if you don’t.” But Mr. Galloway was interrupting.

“The most extraordinary thing of the whole is,” he observed, with unwonted emphasis, “that we never suspected Roland Yorke, knowing him as we did know him. It will be a caution to me as long as I live, never to go again by appearances. Careless, thoughtless, impulsive, conscienceless Roland Yorke! Of course! Who else would have been likely to help themselves to it? I wonder what scales were before our eyes?”

Mr. Channing turned to his son Tom, who had been seated astride on the arm of a sofa, in a glow of astonishment, now succeeded by satisfaction. “Tom, my boy! There’ll be no particular hurry for leaving the college school, will there?”

Tom slid off his perch and went straight up to Arthur. “Arthur, I beg your pardon heartily for the harsh words and thoughts I may have given you. I was just a fool, or I should have known you could not be guilty. Were you screening Roland Yorke?”

“No,” said Arthur, “I never suspected him for a moment. As to any one’s begging _my_ pardon, I have most cause to do that, for suspecting Hamish. You’ll be all right now, Tom.”

But now, in the midst of this demonstration from all sides, I will leave you to judge what were the feelings of that reverend divine, William Yorke. You may remember that he was present. He had gone to Mr. Channing’s house ostensibly to welcome Mr. Channing home and congratulate him on his restoration. Glad, in truth, was he to possess the opportunity to do that; but Mr. Yorke’s visit also included a purpose less disinterested. Repulsed by Constance in the two or three appeals he had made to her, he had impatiently awaited the return of Mr. Channing, to solicit his influence. Remembering the past, listening to this explanation of the present, you may imagine, if you can, what his sensations must have been. He, who had held up his head, in his haughty Yorke spirit, ready to spurn Arthur for the suspicion cast upon him, ready to believe that he was guilty, resenting it upon Constance, had now to stand and learn that the guilt lay in his family, not in theirs. No wonder that he stood silent, grave, his lips drawn in to sternness.

Mr. Galloway soon departed again. He had left his dinner untouched upon his table. Mr. Huntley took the occasion to leave with him; and, in the earnestness of discussion, they all went out with them to the hall, except Constance. This was Mr. Yorke’s opportunity. His arms folded, his pale cheek flushed to pain, he moved before her, and stood there, drawn to his full height, speaking hoarsely.

“Constance, will it be possible for you to forgive me?”

What a fine field it presented for her to play the heroine! To go into fierce declamations that she never could, and never would forgive him, but would hold herself aloof from him for ever and a day, condemning him to bachelorhood! Unfortunately for these pages, Constance Channing had nothing of the heroine in her composition. She was only one of those simple, truthful, natural English girls, whom I hope you often meet in your every-day life. She smiled at William Yorke through her glistening eye-lashes, and drew closer to him. Did he take the hint? He took _her_; took her to that manly breast that would henceforth be her shelter for ever.

“Heaven knows how I will strive to atone to you, my darling.”

It was a happy evening, chequered, though it necessarily must be, with thoughts of Charles. And Mr. Channing, in the midst of his deep grief and perplexity, thanked God for His great mercy in restoring the suspected to freedom. “My boy!” he exclaimed to Arthur, “how bravely you have borne it all!”

“Not always very bravely,” said Arthur, shaking his head. “There were times when I inwardly rebelled.”

“It could not have been done without one thing,” resumed Mr. Channing: “firm trust in God.”

Arthur’s cheek kindled. That had ever been present with him. “When things would wear their darkest aspect, I used to say to myself, ‘Patience and hope; and trust in God!’ But I never anticipated this bright ending,” he added. “I never thought that I and Hamish should both be cleared.”

“I cannot conceive how you could have suspected Hamish!” Mr. Channing repeated, after a pause. Of all the wonders, that fact seemed to have taken most hold of his mind.

Arthur made a slight answer, but did not pursue the topic. There were circumstances connected with it, regarding Hamish, not yet explained. He could not speak of them to Mr. Channing.

Neither were they to be explained, as it seemed to Arthur. At any rate, not at present. When they retired to rest, Hamish came into his room; as he had done that former night, months ago, when suspicion had just been thrown upon Arthur. They went up together, and Hamish, instead of turning into his own room, followed Arthur to his. He set down the candle on the table, and turned to Arthur with his frank smile.

“How is it that we can have been playing at these cross-purposes, Arthur? Why did you not tell me at the time that you were innocent?”

“I think I did tell you so, Hamish: if my memory serves me rightly.”

“Well, I am not sure; it may have been so; but in a very undemonstrative sort of manner, if you did at all. That sort of manner from you, Arthur, would only create perplexity.”

Arthur smiled. “Don’t you see? believing that you had taken it, I thought you must know whether I was innocent or guilty. And, for your sake, I did not dare to defend myself to others. Had only a breath of suspicion fallen upon you, Hamish, it might have cost my father his post.”

“What induced you to suspect me? Surely not the simple fact of being alone for a few minutes with the letter in Galloway’s office?”

“Not that. That alone would have been nothing; but, coupled with other circumstances, it assumed a certain weight. Hamish, I will tell you. Do you remember the trouble you were in at the time–owing money in the town?”

A smile parted Hamish’s lips; he seemed half inclined to make fun of the reminiscence. “I remember it well enough. What of that?”

“You contrived to pay those debts, or partially pay them, at the exact time the note was taken; and we knew you had no money of your own to do it with. We saw you also with gold in your purse-through Annabel’s tricks, do you remember?–and we knew that it could not be yours–legitimately yours, I mean.”

Hamish’s smile turned into a laugh. “Stop a bit, Arthur. The money with which I paid up, and the gold you saw, _was_ mine; legitimately mine. Don’t speak so fast, old fellow.”

“But where did it come from, Hamish?”

“It did not come from Galloway’s office, and it did not drop from the skies,” laughed Hamish. “Never mind where else it came from. Arthur boy, I wish you had been candid, and had given me a hint of your suspicion.”

“We were at cross purposes, as you observe,” repeated Arthur. “Once plunge into them, and there’s no knowing when enlightenment will come; perhaps never. But you were not very open with me.”

“I was puzzled,” replied Hamish. “You may remember that my seeing a crowd round the Guildhall, was the first intimation I received of the matter. When they told me, in answer to my questions, that my brother, Arthur Channing, was taken up on suspicion of stealing a bank-note, and was then under examination, I should have laughed in their faces, but for my inclination to knock them down. I went into that hall, Arthur, trusting in your innocence as implicitly as I trusted in my own, boiling over with indignation against all who had dared to accuse you, ready to stand up for you against the world. I turned my eyes upon you as you stood there, and your gaze met mine. Arthur, what made you look so? I never saw guilt–or perhaps I would rather say shame, conscious shame–shine out more palpably from any countenance than it did from yours then. It startled me–it _cowed_ me; and, in that moment, I did believe you guilty. Why did you look so?”

“I looked so for your sake, Hamish. Your countenance betrayed your dismay, and I read it for signs of your own guilt and shame. Not until then did I fully believe you guilty. We were at cross-purposes, you see, throughout the piece.”

“Cross-purposes, indeed!” repeated Hamish.

“Have you believed me guilty until now?”

“No,” replied Hamish. “After a few days my infatuation wore off. It was an infatuation, and nothing less, ever to have believed a Channing guilty. I then took up another notion, and that I have continued to entertain.”

“What was it?”

“That you were screening Roland Yorke.”

Arthur lifted up his eyes to Hamish.

“I did indeed. Roland’s excessive championship of you, his impetuous agitation when others brought it up against you, first aroused my suspicions that he himself must have been guilty; and I came to the conclusion that you also had discovered his guilt, and were generously screening him. I believed that you would not allow a stir be made in it to clear yourself, lest it should bring it home to him. Cross purposes again, you will say.”

“Ah, yes. Not so much as an idea of suspecting Roland Yorke ever came across me. All my fear was, that he, or any one, should suspect you.”

Hamish laughed as he placed his hands upon Arthur’s shoulders. “The best plan for the future will be, to have no secrets one from the other; otherwise, it seems hard to say what labyrinths we may not get into. What do you say, old fellow?”

“You began the secrets first, Hamish.”

“Did I? Well, let us thank Heaven that the worst are over.”

Ay, thank Heaven! Most sincerely was Arthur Channing doing that. The time to give thanks had come.

Meanwhile Mr. Huntley had proceed home. He found Miss Huntley in the stiffest and most uncompromising of moods; and no wonder, for Mr. Huntley had kept dinner waiting, I am afraid to say how long. Harry, who was to have dined with them that day, had eaten his, and flown off to the town again, to keep some appointment with the college boys. Miss Huntley now ate hers in dignified displeasure; but Mr. Huntley, sitting opposite to her, appeared to be in one of his very happiest moods. Ellen attributed it to the fact of Mr. Channing’s having returned home well. She asked a hundred questions about them–of their journey, their arrival–and Mr. Huntley never seemed tired of answering.

Barely was the cloth removed, when Miss Huntley rose. Mr. Huntley crossed the room to open the door for her, and bow her out. Although he was her brother, she would never have forgiven him, had he omitted that little mark of ceremony. Ellen was dutifully following. She could not always brave her aunt. Mr. Huntley, however, gave Ellen a touch as she was passing him, drew her back, and closed the door upon his sister.

“Ellen, I have been obliged to take Mr. Hamish into favour again.”

Ellen’s cheeks became glowing. She tried to find an answer, but none came.

“I find Hamish had nothing to do with the loss of the bank-note.”

Then she found words. “Oh, papa, no! How could you ever have imagined such a thing? You might have known the Channings better. They are above suspicion.”

“I did know them better at one time, or else you may be sure, young lady, Mr. Hamish would not have been allowed to come here as he did. However, it is cleared up; and I suppose you would like to tell me that I was just a donkey for my pains.”

Ellen shook her head and laughed. She would have liked to ask whether Mr. Hamish was to be allowed to come again on the old familiar footing, had she known how to frame the question. But it was quite beyond her courage.

“When I told him this evening that I had suspected him–“

She clasped her hands and turned to Mr. Huntley, her rich colour going and coming. “Papa, you _told_ him?”

“Ay. And I was not the only one to suspect him, or to tell him. I can assure you that, Miss Ellen.”

“What did he say? How did he receive it?”

“Told us he was much obliged to us all. I don’t think Hamish _could_ be put out of temper.”

“Then you do not dislike him now, papa?” she said, timidly.

“I never have disliked him. When I believed what I did of him, I could not dislike him even then, try as I would. There, you may go to your aunt now.”

And Ellen went, feeling that the earth and air around her had suddenly become as Eden.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE BROKEN PHIAL.

That broken phial, you have heard of, was burning a hole in Bywater’s pocket, as Roland Yorke had said the bank-note did in his. He had been undecided about complaining to the master; strangely so for Bywater. The fact was, he had had a strong suspicion, from the very first, that the boy who did the damage to the surplice was Pierce senior. At least, his suspicions had been divided between that gentleman and Gerald Yorke. The cause of suspicion against Pierce need not be entered into, since it was misplaced. In point of fact, Mr. Pierce was, so far as that feat went, both innocent and unconscious. But Bywater could not be sure that he was, and he did not care to bring the accusation publicly against Gerald, should he be innocent.

You saw Bywater, a chapter or two back, fitting the broken pieces together in his bedroom. On the following morning–it was also the morning following the arrival of the important letter from Roland Yorke–Bywater detained Gerald Yorke when the boys tore down the schoolroom steps after early school.

“I say, Yorke, I said I’d give you a last chance, and now I am doing it,” he began. “If you’ll acknowledge the truth to me about that surplice affair, I’ll let it drop. I will, upon my honour. I’ll never say another word about it.”

Gerald flew into a rage. “Now look you here, Mr. Bywater,” was his angry retort. “You bother me again with that stale fish, and I’ll put you up for punishment. It’s–“

Gerald stopped. Tom Channing was passing close to them, and Mr. Gerald had never cared to be heard, when talking about the surplice. At that moment a group of boys, who were running out of the cloisters, the opposite road to Tom Channing, turned round and hissed him, Tod Yorke adding some complimentary remark about “stolen notes.” As usual, it was a shaft launched at Arthur. Not as usual did Tom receive it. There was nothing of fierce defiance now in his demeanour; nothing of half-subdued rage. Tom halted; took off his trencher with a smile of suavity that might have adorned Hamish, and thanked them with as much courtesy as if it had been real, especially Tod. Gerald Yorke and Bywater looked on with surprise. They little dreamt of the great secret that Tom now carried within him. He could afford to be calm.

“Why, it’s four months, good, since that surplice was damaged,” resumed Gerald, in a tone of irritation, to Bywater, as soon as they were alone again. “One would think it was of rare value, by your keeping up the ball in this way. Every now and then you break out afresh about that surplice. Was it made of gold?”

“It was made of Irish linen,” returned Bywater, who generally contrived to retain his coolness, whoever might grow heated. “I tell you that I have a fresh clue, Yorke; one I have been waiting for. I thought it would turn up some time. If you say you did it, by accident or how you like, I’ll let it drop. If you don’t, I’ll bring it before Pye after breakfast.”

“Bring it,” retorted Gerald.

“Mind you, I mean what I say. I shall bring the charge against you, and I have the proofs.”

“Bring it, I say!” fiercely repeated Gerald. “Who cares for your bringings? Mind your bones afterwards, that’s all!”

He pushed Bywater from him with a haughty gesture, and raced home to breakfast, hoping there would be something good to assuage his hunger.

But Bywater was not to be turned from his determination. Never a boy in the school less likely than he. He went home to _his_ breakfast, and returned to school to have his name inscribed on the roll, and then went into college with the other nine choristers, and took his part in the service. And the bottle, I say, was burning a hole in his pocket. The Reverend William Yorke was chanting, and Arthur Channing sat at the organ. Would the Very Reverend the Dean of Helstonleigh, standing in his stall so serenely placid, his cap resting on the cushion beside him, ever again intimate a doubt that Arthur was not worthy to take part in the service? But the dean did not know the news yet.

Back in the school-room, Bywater lost no time. He presented himself before the master, and entered upon his complaint, schoolboy fashion.

“Please, sir, I think I have found out who inked my surplice.”

The master had allowed the occurrence to slip partially from his memory. At any rate, it was some time since he had called it up. “Oh, indeed!” said he somewhat cynically, to Bywater, after a pause given to revolving the circumstances. “Think you have found out the boy, do you?”

“Yes, sir; I am pretty sure of it. I think it was Gerald Yorke.”

“Gerald Yorke! One of the seniors!” repeated the master, casting a penetrating gaze upon Bywater.

The fact was, Mr. Pye, at the time of the occurrence, had been somewhat inclined to a secret belief that the real culprit was Bywater himself. Knowing that gentleman’s propensity to mischief, knowing that the destruction of a few surplices, more or less, would be only fun to him, he had felt an unpleasant doubt upon the point. “Did you do it