by Ellen Wood
The last was addressed to a crowd, who had followed upon their heels from the court, staring, with that innate delicacy for which the English are remarkable. They had seen Arthur Channing a thousand times before, every one of them, but, as he had been arrested, they must look at him again. Yorke’s scornful reproach and fierce face somewhat scattered them.
“If it had been Galloway’s doings, I’d never have put my foot inside his confounded old office again!” went on Roland. “No! and my lady might have tried her best to force me. Lugging a fellow up for a pitiful, paltry sum of twenty pounds! — who is as much a gentleman as himself! — who, as his own senses might tell him, wouldn’t touch it with the end of his finger! But it was that Butterby’s handiwork, not Galloway’s.”
“Galloway must have given Butterby his instructions,” observed Hamish.
“He didn’t, then,” snapped Roland. “Jenkins says he knows he did not, by the remarks Galloway made to him this morning. And Galloway has been away ever since eleven o’clock, we can’t tell where. It is nobody but that evil, mischief-making Butterby, and I’d give a crown out of my pocket to have a good duck at him in the river!”
With regard to Mr. Galloway’s knowing nothing of the active proceedings taken against Arthur, Roland was right. Mr. Butterby had despatched a note to Mr. Galloway’s office at one o’clock, stating what he had done, and requesting him to be at the office at two, for the examination — and the note had been lying there ever since.
It was being opened now. Now — at the exact moment that Mr. Roland Yorke was giving vent to that friendly little wish, about the river and Mr. Butterby. Mr. Galloway had met a friend in the town, and had gone with him a few miles by rail into the country, on unexpected business. He had just returned to find the note, and to hear Jenkins’ account of Arthur’s arrest.
“I am vexed at this,” he exclaimed, his tone betraying excessive annoyance. “Butterby has exceeded his orders.”
Jenkins thought he might venture to put in a word for Arthur. He had been intensely surprised, indeed grieved, at the whole affair; and not the less so that he feared what he had unconsciously repeated, about a twenty-pound note paying Arthur’s debts, might have helped it on.
“I feel as sure as can be, sir, that it was not Mr. Arthur Channing,” he deferentially said. “I have not been in this office with him for more than twelve months without learning something of his principles.”
“The principles of all the Channings are well known,” returned Mr. Galloway. “No; whatever may be the apparent proofs, I cannot bring myself to think it could be Arthur Channing. Although—” Mr. Galloway did not say although what, but changed the topic abruptly. “Are they in court now?”
“I expect so, sir. Mr. Yorke is not back yet.”
Mr. Galloway walked to the outer door, deliberating what his course should be. The affair grieved him more than he could express; it angered him; chiefly for his old friend Mr. Channing’s sake. “I had better go up to the Guildhall,” he soliloquized, “and see if—”
There they were, turning the corner of the street; Roland Yorke, Hamish, and Arthur; and the followers behind. Mr. Galloway waited till they came up. Hamish did not enter, or stop, but went straight home. “They will be so anxious for news,” he exclaimed. Not a word had been exchanged between the brothers. “No wonder that he shuns coming in!” thought Arthur. Roland Yorke threw his hat from him in silence, and sat down in his place at the desk. Mr. Galloway touched Arthur with his finger, motioned him towards the private room, and stood there facing him, speaking gravely.
“Tell me the truth, as before God. Are you innocent or guilty? What you say shall not be used against you.”
Quick as lightning, in all solemn earnestness, the word “innocent” was on Arthur’s lips. It had been better for him, perhaps, that he had spoken it. But, alas! that perplexity, as to how far he might venture to assert his own innocence, was upon him still. What impression could this hesitation, coupled with the suspicious circumstances, make upon the mind of Mr. Galloway?
“Have you no answer?” emphatically asked Mr. Galloway.
“I am not guilty, sir.”
Meanwhile, what do you suppose were the sensations of Mr. Channing? We all know that anguish of mind is far more painful to bear when the body is quiescent, than when it is in motion. In any great trouble, any terrible suspense, look at our sleepless nights! We lie, and toss, and turn; and say, When will the night be gone? In the day we can partially shake it off, walking hither and thither; the keenness of the anguish is lost in exertion.
Mr. Channing could not take this exertion. Lying there always, his days were little better to him than nights, and this strange blow, which had fallen so suddenly and unexpectedly, nearly overwhelmed him. Until that afternoon he would have confidently said that his son might have been trusted with a room full of untold gold. He would have said it still, but for Arthur’s manner: it was that which staggered him. More than one urgent message had been despatched for Mr. Galloway, but that gentleman was unable to go to him until late in the evening.
“My friend,” said Mr. Galloway, bending over the sofa, when they were alone, “I am more grieved at this than you can be.”
Mr. Channing clasped his hand. “Tell me what you think yourself; the simple truth; I ask it, Galloway, by our long friendship. Do you think him innocent or guilty?”
There might be no subterfuge in answer to words so earnest, and Mr. Galloway did not attempt any. He bent lower, and spoke in a whisper. “I believe him to be guilty.”
Mr. Channing closed his eyes, and his lips momentarily moved. A word of prayer, to be helped to bear, was going up to the throne of God.
“But, never think that it was I who instituted these proceedings against him,” resumed Mr. Galloway. “When I called in Butterby to my aid this morning, I had no more notion that it was Arthur Channing who was guilty, than I had that it was that sofa of yours. Butterby would have cast suspicion to him then, but I repelled it. He afterwards acted upon his own responsibility while my back was turned. It is as I say often to my office people: I can’t stir out for a few hours but something goes wrong! You know the details of the loss?”
“Ay; by heart,” replied Mr. Channing. “They are suspicious against Arthur only in so far as that he was alone with the letter. Sufficient time must have been taken, as I conclude, to wet the envelope and unfasten the gum; and it would appear that he alone had that time. This apparent suspicion would have been nothing to my mind, knowing Arthur as I do, had it not been coupled with a suspicious manner.”
“There it is,” assented Mr. Galloway, warmly. “It is that manner which leaves no room for doubt. I had him with me privately when the examination was over, and begged him to tell me, as before God: innocent or guilty. He could not. He stood like a statue, confused, his eyes down, and his colour varying. He is badly constituted for the commission of crime, for he cannot brave it out. One, knowing himself wrongfully accused, would lay his hand upon his heart, with an upright countenance, and say, I am innocent of this, so help me Heaven! I must confess I did not like his manner yesterday, when he heard me say I should place it in the hands of the police,” continued Mr. Galloway. “He grew suddenly agitated, and begged I would not do so.”
“Ay!” cried Mr. Channing, with a groan of pain he could not wholly suppress. “It is an incredible mystery. What could he want with the money? The tale told about his having debts has no foundation in fact; he has positively none.”
Mr. Galloway shook his head; he would not speak out his thoughts. He knew that Hamish was in debt; he knew that Master Roland Yorke indulged in expensive habits whenever he had the opportunity, and he now thought it likely that Arthur, between the two examples, might have been drawn in. “I shall not allow my doubts of him to go further than you,” he said aloud. “And I shall put a summary stop to the law proceedings.”
“How will you do that, now that they are publicly entered upon?” asked Mr. Channing.
“I�
�ll manage it,” was the reply. “We’ll see which is strongest, I or Butterby.”
When they were gathering together for the reading, that night, Arthur took his place as usual. Mr. Channing looked at him sternly, and spoke sternly — in the presence of them all. “Will your conscience allow you to join in this?”
How it stung him! Knowing himself innocent; seeing Hamish, the real culprit, basking there in their love and respect, as usual; the unmerited obloquy cast upon him was almost too painful to bear. He did not answer; he was battling down his rebellious spirit; and the gentle voice of Mrs. Channing rose instead.
“James, there is all the more need for him to join in it, if things are as you fear.” And Mr. Channing applied himself to the reading.
“My son, if thou come to serve the Lord, prepare thy soul for temptation. Set thy heart aright, and constantly endure, and make not haste in time of trouble.”
It was a portion of Scripture rarely chosen, and, perhaps for that reason, it fell upon Arthur with greater force. As he listened, the words brought healing with them; and his sore spirit was soothed, and grew trusting and peaceful as that of a little child.
CHAPTER XXV. — A MORNING CALL.
You may possibly be blaming Arthur Channing for meeting this trouble in so sad a spirit. Were such an accusation cast unjustly upon you, you would throw it off impatiently, and stand up for yourself and your innocence in the broad light of day. Even were you debarred, as he was, from speaking out the whole truth, you would never be cast down to that desponding depth, and thereby give a colouring to the doubt cast upon you. Are you thinking this? But you must remember that it was not for himself that Arthur was so weighed down. Had he possessed no conception as to how the note went, he would have met the charge very differently, bearing himself bravely, and flinging their suspicion to the winds. “You people cannot think me guilty,” he might have said; “my whole previous life is a refutation to the charge.” He would have held up his head and heart cheerfully; waiting, and looking for the time when elucidation should come.
No; his grief, his despondency were felt for Hamish. If Arthur Channing had cherished faith in one living being more than in another, it was in his elder brother. He loved him with a lasting love, he revered him as few revere a brother; and the shock was great. He would far rather have fallen down to guilt himself, than that Hamish should have fallen. Tom Channing had said, with reference to Arthur, that, if he were guilty, he should never believe in anything again; they might tell him that the cathedral was a myth, and not a cathedral, and he should not be surprised. This sort of feeling had come over Arthur. It had disturbed his faith in honour and goodness — it had almost disgusted him with the world. Arthur Channing is not the only one who has found his faith in fellow-men rudely shaken.
And yet, the first shock over, his mind was busy finding excuses for him. He knew that Hamish had not erred from any base self-gratification, but from love. You may be inclined to think this a contradiction, for all such promptings to crime must be base. Of course they are; but as the motives differ, so do the degrees. As surely as though the whole matter had been laid before him, felt Arthur, Hamish had been driven to it in his desperate need, to save his father’s position, and the family’s means of support. He felt that, had Hamish alone been in question, he would not have appropriated a pin that was not his, to save himself from arrest: what he had done he had done in love. Arthur gave him credit for another thing — that he had never cast a glance to the possibility of suspicion falling on Arthur; the post-office would receive credit for the loss. Nothing more tangible than that wide field, where they might hunt for the supposed thief until they were tired.
It was a miserable evening that followed the exposure; the precursor of many and many miserable evenings in days to come. Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Hamish, Constance, and Arthur sat in the usual sitting-room when the rest had retired — sat in ominous silence. Even Hamish, with his naturally sunny face and sunny temper, looked gloomy as the grave. Was he deliberating as to whether he should show that all principles of manly justice were not quite dead within him, by speaking up at last, and clearing his wrongfully accused brother? But then — his father’s post — his mother’s home? all might be forfeited. Who can tell whether this was the purport of Hamish’s thoughts as he sat there in abstraction, away from the light, his head upon his hand. He did not say.
Arthur rose; the silence was telling upon him. “May I say good night to you, father?”
“Have you nothing else to say?” asked Mr. Channing.
“In what way, sir?” asked Arthur, in a low tone.
“In the way of explanation. Will you leave me to go to my restless pillow without it? This is the first estrangement which has come between us.”
What explanation could he give? But to leave his father suffering in body and in mind, without attempt at it, was a pain hard to bear.
“Father, I am innocent,” he said. It was all he could say; and it was spoken all too quietly.
Mr. Channing gazed at him searchingly. “In the teeth of appearances?”
“Yes, sir, in the teeth of appearances.”
“Then why — if I am to believe you — have assumed the aspect of guilt, which you certainly have done?”
Arthur involuntarily glanced at Hamish; the thought of his heart was, “You know why, if no one else does;” and caught Hamish looking at him stealthily, under cover of his fingers. Apparently, Hamish was annoyed at being so caught, and started up.
“Good night, mother. I am going to bed.”
They wished him good night, and he left the room. Mr. Channing turned again to Arthur. He took his hand, and spoke with agitation. “My boy, do you know that I would almost rather have died, than live to see this guilt fall upon you?”
“Oh, father, don’t judge me harshly!” he implored. “Indeed I am innocent.”
Mr. Channing paused. “Arthur, you never, as I believe, told me a lie in your life. What is this puzzle?”
“I am not telling a lie now.”
“I am tempted to believe you. But why, then, act as if you were guilty? When those men came here to-day, you knew what they wanted; you resigned yourself, voluntarily, a prisoner. When Mr. Galloway questioned you privately of your innocence, you could not assert it.”
Neither could he now in a more open way than he was doing.
“Can you look me in the face and tell me, in all honour, that you know nothing of the loss of the note?”
“All I can say, sir, is, that I did not take it or touch it.”
“Nay, but you are equivocating!” exclaimed Mr. Channing.
Arthur felt that he was, in some measure, and did not gainsay it.
“Are you aware that to-morrow you may be committed for trial on the charge?”
“I know it,” replied Arthur. “Unless — unless—” he stopped in agitation. “Unless you will interest yourself with Galloway, and induce him to withdraw proceedings. Your friendship with him has been close and long, sir, and I think he would do it for you.”
“Would you ask this if you were innocent?” said Mr. Channing. “Arthur, it is not the punishment you ought to dread, but the consciousness of meriting it.”
“And of that I am not conscious,” he answered, emphatically, in his bitterness. “Father! I would lay down my life to shield you from care! think of me as favourably as you can.”
“You will not make me your full confidant?”
“I wish I could! I wish I could!”
He wrung his father’s hand, and turned to his mother, halting before her. Would she give him her good-night kiss?
Would she? Did a fond mother ever turn against her child? To the prison, to the scaffold, down to the very depths of obloquy and scorn, a loving mother clings to her son. All else may forsake; but she, never, be he what he will. Mrs. Channing drew his face to hers, and burst into sobs as she sheltered it on her bosom.
“You will have faith in me, my darling mother!”
The words
were spoken in the softest whisper. He kissed her tenderly, and hastened from the room, not trusting himself to say good night to Constance. In the hall he was waylaid by Judith.
“Master Arthur, it isn’t true?”
“Of course it is not true, Judith. Don’t you know me better?”
“What an old oaf I am for asking, to be sure! Didn’t I nurse him, and haven’t I watched him grow up, and don’t I know my own boys yet?” she added to herself, but speaking aloud.
“To be sure you have, Judy.”
“But, Master Arthur, why is the master casting blame to you? And when them insolent police came strutting here to-day, as large as life, in their ugly blue coats and shiny hats, why didn’t you hold the door wide, and show ’em out again? I’d never have demeaned myself to go with ’em politely.”
“They wanted me at the town-hall, you know, Judith. I suppose you have heard it all?”
“Then, want should have been their master, for me,” retorted Judith. “I’d never have gone, unless they had got a cord and drawn me. I shouldn’t wonder but they fingered the money themselves.”
Arthur made his escape, and went up to his room. He was scarcely within it when Hamish left his chamber and came in. Arthur’s heart beat quicker. Was he coming to make a clean breast of it? Not he!
“Arthur,” Hamish began, speaking in a kindly, but an estranged tone — or else Arthur fancied it— “can I serve you in any way in this business?”
“Of course you cannot,” replied Arthur: and he felt vexed with himself that his tone should savour of peevishness.
“I am sorry for it, as you may readily believe, old fellow,” resumed Hamish. “When I entered the court to-day, you might have knocked me down with a feather.”
“Ay, I should suppose so,” said Arthur. “You did not expect the charge would be brought upon me.”
“I neither expected it nor believed it when I was told. I inquired of Parkes, the beadle, what unusual thing was going on, seeing so many people about the doors, and he answered that you were under examination. I laughed at him, thinking he was joking.”