by Ellen Wood
Arthur made no reply.
“What can I do for you?” repeated Hamish.
“You can leave me to myself, Hamish. That’s about the kindest thing you can do for me to-night.”
Hamish did not take the hint immediately. “We must have the accusation quashed at all hazards,” he went on. “But my father thinks Galloway will withdraw it. Yorke says he’ll not leave a stone unturned to make Helstonleigh believe the money was lost in the post-office.”
“Yorke believes so himself,” reproachfully rejoined Arthur.
“I think most people do, with the exception of Butterby. Confounded old meddler! There would have been no outcry at all, but for him.”
A pause. Arthur did not seem inclined to break it. Hamish had caught up a bit of whalebone, which happened to be lying on the drawers, and was twisting it about in his fingers, glancing at Arthur from time to time. Arthur leaned against the chimneypiece, his hands in his pockets, and, in like manner, glanced at him. Not the slightest doubt in the world that each was wishing to speak out more freely. But some inward feeling restrained them. Hamish broke the silence.
“Then you have nothing to say to me, Arthur?”
“Not to-night.”
Arthur thought the “saying” should have been on the other side. He had cherished some faint hope that Hamish would at least acknowledge the trouble he had brought upon him. “I could not help it, Arthur; I was driven to my wit’s end; but I never thought the reproach would fall upon you,” or words to that effect. No: nothing of the sort.
Constance was ascending the stairs as Hamish withdrew. “Can I come in, Arthur?” she asked.
For answer, he opened the door and drew her inside. “Has Hamish spoken of it?” she whispered.
“Not a word — as to his own share in it. He asked, in a general way, if he could serve me. Constance,” he feverishly added, “they do not suspect downstairs, do they?”
“Suspect what?”
“That it was Hamish.”
“Of course they do not. They suspect you. At least, papa does. He cannot make it out; he never was so puzzled in all his life. He says you must either have taken the money, or connived at its being taken: to believe otherwise, would render your manner perfectly inexplicable. Oh, Arthur, he is so grieving! He says other troubles have arisen without fault on our part; but this, the greatest, has been brought by guilt.”
“There is no help for it,” wailed Arthur. “I could only clear myself at the expense of Hamish, and it would be worse for them to grieve for him than for me. Bright, sunny Hamish! whom my mother has, I believe in her heart, loved the best of all of us. Thank you, Constance, for keeping my counsel.”
“How unselfish you are, Arthur!”
“Unselfish! I don’t see it as a merit. It is my simple duty to be so in this case. If I, by a rash word, directed suspicion to Hamish, and our home in consequence got broken up, who would be the selfish one then?”
“There’s the consideration which frightens and fetters us. Papa must have been thinking of that when he thanked God that the trouble had not fallen upon Hamish.”
“Did he do that?” asked Arthur, eagerly.
“Yes, just now. ‘Thank God that the cloud did not fall upon Hamish!’ he exclaimed. ‘It had been far worse for us then.’”
Arthur listened. Had he wanted anything to confirm him in the sacrifice he was making, those words of his father’s would have done it. Mr. Channing had no greater regard for one son than for the other; but he knew, as well as his children, how much depended upon Hamish.
The tears were welling up into the eyes of Constance. “I wish I could speak comfort to you!” she whispered.
“Comfort will come with time, I dare say, darling. Don’t stay. I seem quite fagged out to-night, and would be alone.”
Ay, alone. Alone with his grief and with God.
To bed at last, but not to sleep; not for hours and for hours. His anxiety of mind was intense, chiefly for Hamish; though he endured some on his own score. To be pointed at as a thief in the town, stung him to the quick, even in anticipation; and there was also the uncertainty as to the morrow’s proceedings; for all he knew, they might end in the prosecution being carried on, and his committal for trial. Towards morning he dropped into a heavy slumber; and, to awake from that, was the worst of all; for his trouble came pressing upon his brain with tenfold poignancy.
He rose and dressed, in some perplexity — perplexity as to the immediate present. Ought he, or ought he not, to go as usual to Mr. Galloway’s? He really could not tell. If Mr. Galloway believed him guilty — and there was little doubt of that, now — of course he could no longer be tolerated in the office. On the other hand, to stop away voluntarily, might look like an admission of guilt.
He determined to go, and did so. It was the early morning hour, when he had the office to himself. He got through his work — the copying of a somewhat elaborate will — and returned home to breakfast. He found Mr. Channing had risen, which was not usual. Like Arthur, his night had been an anxious one, and the bustle of the breakfast-room was more tolerable than bed. I wonder what Hamish’s had been! The meal passed in uncomfortable silence.
A tremendous peal at the hall bell startled the house, echoing through the Boundaries, astonishing the rooks, and sending them on the wing. On state occasions it pleased Judith to answer the door herself; her helpmate, over whom she held undisputed sway, ruling her with a tight hand, dared not come forward to attempt it. The bell tinkled still, and Judy, believing it could be no one less than the bishop come to alarm them with a matutinal visit, hurried on a clean white apron, and stepped across the hall.
Mr. Roland Yorke. No one more formidable. He passed Judith with an unceremonious nod, and marched into the breakfast-room.
“Good morning all! I say, old chap, are you ready to come to the office? It’s good to see you down at this early hour, Mr. Channing.”
He was invited to take a seat, but declined; it was time they were at Galloway’s, he said. Arthur hesitated.
“I do not know whether Mr. Galloway will expect me,” he observed.
“Not expect you!” flashed Roland, lapsing into his loud, excited manner. “I can tell you what, Arthur: if he doesn’t expect you, he shan’t expect me. Mr. Channing, did you ever know anything so shamefully overbearing and unjust as that affair yesterday?”
“Unjust, if it be unfounded,” replied Mr. Channing.
“Unfounded!” uttered Roland. “If that’s not unfounded, there never was an unfounded charge brought yet. I’d answer for Arthur with my own life. I should like to sew up that Butterby! I hope, sir, you’ll bring an action against him.”
“You feel it strongly, Roland.”
“I should hope I do! Look you, Mr. Channing: it is a slur on our office; on me, and on Jenkins, and on Galloway himself. Yes, on Galloway. I say what I mean, and nobody shall talk me down. I’d rather believe it was Galloway did it than Arthur. I shall tell him so.”
“This sympathy shows very kind feeling on your part, Ro—”
“I declare I shall go mad if I hear that again!” interrupted Roland, turning red with passion. “It makes me wild. Everybody’s on with it. ‘You — are — very — kind — to — take — up — Arthur Channing’s — cause!’ they mince out. Incorrigible idiots! Kind! Why, Mr. Channing, if that cat of yours there, were to be accused of swallowing down a mutton chop, and you felt morally certain that she did not do it, wouldn’t you stand up for her against punishment?”
Mr. Channing could not forbear a smile at Roland and his hot championship. “To be ‘morally certain’ may do when cats are in question, Mr. Roland; but the law, unfortunately, requires something more for us, the superior animal. No father living has had more cause to put faith in his children than I. The unfortunate point in this business is, that the loss appears to have occurred so mysteriously, when the letter was in Arthur’s charge.”
“Yes, if it had occurred that way; but who believes it did, except a fe
w pates with shallow brains?” retorted Roland. “The note is burning a hole in the pocket of some poor, ill-paid wight of a letter-carrier; that’s where the note is. I beg your pardon, Mr. Channing, but it’s of no use to interrupt me with arguments about old Galloway’s seal. They go in at one ear and out at the other. What more easy than to put a penknife under the seal, and unfasten it?”
“You cannot do this where gum is used as well: as it was to that letter.”
“Who cares for the gum!” retorted Mr. Roland. “I don’t pretend to say, sir, how it was accomplished, but I know it must have been done somehow. Watch a conjuror at his tricks! You can’t tell how he gets a shilling out of a box which you yourself put in — all you know is, he does get it out; or how he exhibits some receptacle, crammed full, which you could have sworn was empty. Just so with the letter. The bank-note did get out of it, but we can’t tell how, except that it was not through Arthur. Come along, old fellow, or Galloway may be blowing us up for arriving late.”
Twitching Tom’s hair as he passed him, treading on the cat’s tail, and tossing a branch of sweetbriar full of thorns at Annabel, Mr. Roland Yorke made his way out in a commotion. Arthur, yielding to the strong will, followed. Roland passed his arm within his, and they went towards Close Street.
“I say, old chum, I haven’t had a wink of sleep all night, worrying over this bother. My room is over Lady Augusta’s, and she sent up this morning to know what I was pacing about for, like a troubled ghost. I woke at four o’clock, and I could not get to sleep after; so I just stamped about a bit, to stamp the time away.”
In a happier mood, Arthur might have laughed at his Irish talk, “I am glad you stand by me, at any rate, Yorke. I never did it, you know. Here comes Williams. I wonder in what light he will take up the affair? Perhaps he will turn me from my post at the organ.”
“He had better!” flashed Roland. “I’d turn him!”
Mr. Williams appeared to “take up the affair” in a resentful, haughty sort of spirit, something like Roland, only that he was quieter over it. He threw ridicule upon the charge. “I am astonished at Galloway!” he observed, when he had spoken with them some moments. “Should he go on with the case, the town will cry shame upon him.”
“Ah, but you see it was that meddling Butterby, not Galloway,” returned Yorke. “As if Galloway did not know us chaps in his office better than to suspect us!”
“I fancy Butterby is fonder of meddling than he need be,” said the organist. “A certain person in the town, living not a hundred miles from this very spot, was suspected of having made free with a ring, which disappeared from a dressing-table, where she was paying an evening visit; and I declare if Butterby did not put his nose into it, and worm out all the particulars!”
“That she had not taken it?”
“That she had. But it produced great annoyance; all parties concerned, even those who had lost the ring, would rather have buried it in silence. It was hushed up afterwards. Butterby ought to understand people’s wishes, before he sets to work.”
“I wish press-gangs were in fashion!” emphatically uttered Roland. “What a nice prize he’d make!”
“I suppose I can depend upon you to take the duty at College this morning?” Mr. Williams said to Arthur, as he was leaving them.
“Yes, I shall be out in time for the examination at the Guildhall. The hour fixed is half-past eleven.”
“Old villains the magistrates must have been, to remand it at all!” was the concluding comment of Mr. Roland Yorke.
CHAPTER XXVI. — CHECKMATED.
Constance Channing proceeded to her duties as usual at Lady Augusta Yorke’s. She drew her veil over her face, only to traverse the very short way that conveyed her thither, for the sense of shame was strong upon her; not shame for Arthur, but for Hamish. It had half broken Constance’s heart.
There are times in our every-day lives when all things seem to wear a depressing aspect, turn which way we will. They were wearing it that day to Constance. Apart from home troubles, she felt particularly discouraged in the educational task she had undertaken. You heard the promise made to her by Caroline Yorke, to be up and ready for her every morning at seven. Caroline kept it for two mornings and then failed. This morning and the previous morning Constance had been there at seven, and returned home without seeing either of the children. Both were ready for her when she entered now.
“How am I to deal with you?” she said to Caroline, in a sad but affectionate tone. “I do not wish to force you to obey me; I would prefer that you should do it cheerfully.”
“It is tiresome to get up early,” responded Caroline. “I can’t wake when Martha comes.”
“Whether Martha goes to you at seven, or at eight, or at nine, she has the same trouble to get you up.”
“I don’t see any good in getting up early,” cried Caroline.
“Do you see any good in acquiring good habits, instead of bad ones?” asked Constance.
“But, Miss Channing, why need we learn to get up early? We are ladies. It’s only the poor who need get up at unreasonable hours — those who have their living to earn.”
“Is it only the poor who are accountable to God for waste of time, Caroline?”
Caroline paused. She did not like to give up her argument. “It’s so very low-lived to get up with the sun. I don’t think real ladies ever do it.”
“You think ‘real ladies’ wait until the sun has been up a few hours and warmed the earth for them?”
“Y — es,” said Caroline. But it was not spoken very readily, for she had a suspicion that Miss Channing was laughing at her.
“May I ask where you have acquired your notions of ‘real ladies,’ Caroline?”
Caroline pouted. “Don’t you call Colonel Jolliffe’s daughters ladies, Miss Channing?”
“Yes — in position.”
“That’s where we went yesterday, you know. Mary Jolliffe says she never gets up until half-past eight, and that it is not lady-like to get up earlier. Real ladies don’t, Miss Channing.”
“My dear, shall I relate to you an anecdote that I have heard?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Caroline, her listless mood changing to animation; anecdotes, or anything of that desultory kind, being far more acceptable to the young lady than lessons.
“Before I begin, will you tell me whether you condescend to admit that our good Queen is a ‘real lady’?”
“Oh, Miss Channing, now you are laughing at me! As if any one, in all England, could be so great a lady as the Queen.”
“Very good. When she was a little girl, a child of her own age, the daughter of one of the nobility, was brought to Kensington Palace to spend the day with her. In talking together, the Princess Victoria mentioned something she had seen when out of doors that morning at seven o’clock. ‘At seven o’clock!’ exclaimed the young visitor; ‘how early that is to be abroad! I never get out of bed until eight. Is there any use in rising so early?’ The Duchess of Kent, who was present, took up the answer: ‘My daughter may be called to fill the throne of England when she shall be grown up; therefore, it is especially necessary that she should learn the full value of time.’ You see, Caroline, the princess was not allowed to waste her mornings in bed, although she was destined to be the first lady in the land. We may be thankful to her admirable mother for making her in that, as in many other things, a pattern to us.”
“Is it a true anecdote, Miss Channing?”
“It was related to my mother, many years ago, by a lady who was, at that time, very much at Kensington Palace. I think there is little doubt of its truth. One fact we all know, Caroline: the Queen retains her early habits, and implants them in her children. What do you suppose would be her Majesty’s surprise, were one of her daughters — say, the Princess Helena, or the Princess Louise — to decline to rise early for their morning studies with their governess, Miss Hildyard, on the plea that it was not ‘lady-like’?”
Caroline’s objection appeared to be melting away
under her. “But it is a dreadful plague,” she grumbled, “to be obliged to get up from one’s nice warm bed, for the sake of some horrid old lessons!”
“You spoke of ‘the poor’ — those who ‘have their living to earn’ — as the only class who need rise early,” resumed Constance. “Put that notion away from you at once and for ever, Caroline; there cannot be a more false one. The higher we go in the scale of life, the more onerous become our duties in this world, and the greater is our responsibility to God. He to whom five talents were intrusted, did not make them other five by wasting his days in idleness. Oh, Caroline! — Fanny, come closer and listen to me — your time and opportunities for good must be used — not abused or wasted.”
“I will try and get up,” said Caroline, repentantly. “I wish mamma had trained me to it when I was a child, as the Duchess of Kent trained the princess! I might have learned to like it by this time.”
“Long before this,” said Constance. “Do you remember the good old saying, ‘Do what you ought, that you may do what you like’? Habit is second nature. Were I told that I might lie in bed every morning until nine or ten o’clock, as a great favour, I should consider it a great punishment.”
“But I have not been trained to get up, Miss Channing; and it is nothing short of punishment to me to do so.”
“The punishment of self-denial we all have to bear, Caroline. But I can tell you what will take away half its sting.”
“What?” asked Caroline, eagerly.
Constance bent towards her. “Jesus Christ said, ‘If any will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.’ When once we learn HOW to take it up cheerfully, bravely, for His sake, looking to Him to be helped, the sting is gone. ‘No cross, no crown,’ you know, my children.”
“No cross, no crown!” Constance had sufficient cross to carry just then. In the course of the morning Lady Augusta came into the room boisterously, her manner indicative of great surprise.