by Ellen Wood
“It ought not to debar him, even were Arthur guilty,” warmly returned Mr. Huntley.
“In justice to Tom Channing himself, no. But,” and the master dropped his voice to a confidential tone, “it is necessary sometimes to study the prejudices taken up by a school; to see them, and not to appear to see them — if you understand me. Were Tom Channing made head of the school, part of the school would rise up in rebellion; some of the boys would, no doubt, be removed from it. For the peace of the school alone, it could not be done. The boys would not now obey him as senior, and there would be perpetual warfare, resulting we know not in what.”
“Arthur Channing was not guilty. I feel as sure of it as I do of my own life.”
“He is looked upon as guilty by those who must know best, from their familiarity with the details,” rejoined Mr. Pye, “For my own part, I have no resource but to believe him so, I regard it as one of those anomalies which you cannot understand, or would believe in, but that it happens under your own eye; where the moment’s yielding to temptation is at variance with the general character, with the whole past life. Of course, in these cases, the disgrace is reflected upon relatives and connections, and they have to suffer for it. I cannot help the school’s resenting it upon Tom.”
“It will be cruel to deprive Tom of the seniorship upon these grounds,” remonstrated Mr. Huntley.
“To himself individually,” assented the master. “But it is well that one, promoted to a foundation-school’s seniorship, should be free from moral taint. Were there no feeling whatever against Tom Channing in the school, I do not think I could, consistently with my duty and with a due regard to the fitness of things, place him as senior. I am sorry for the boy; I always liked him; and he has been of good report, both as to scholarship and conduct.”
“I know one thing,” said Mr. Huntley: “that you may search the school through, and not find so good a senior as Tom Channing would make.”
“He would have made a very good one, there’s no doubt. Would have ruled the boys well and firmly, though without oppression. Yes, we lose a good senior in Tom Channing.”
There was no more to be said. Mr. Huntley felt that the master was thoroughly decided; and for the other matter, touching Yorke, he had done with it until the time of appointment. As he went musing on, he began to think that Mr. Pye might be right with regard to depriving Tom of the seniorship, however unjust it might appear to Tom himself. Mr. Huntley remembered that not one of the boys, except Gaunt, had mentioned Tom Channing’s name in his recent encounter with them; they had spoken of the injustice of exalting Yorke over Harry Huntley. He had not noticed it at the time.
He proceeded to Lady Augusta’s, and Constance was informed of his visit. She had three pupils at Lady Augusta’s now, for that lady had kindly insisted that Constance should bring Annabel to study with her daughters, during the absence of Mrs. Channing. Constance left them to themselves and entered the drawing-room. Pretty Constance! so fresh, so lovely, in her simple muslin dress, and her braided hair. Mr. Huntley caught her hands, and imprinted a very fatherly kiss upon her fair forehead.
“That is from the absentees, Constance. I told them I should give it to you. And I bring you the bravest news, my dear. Mr. Channing was already finding benefit from his change; he was indeed. There is every hope that he will be restored.”
Constance was radiant with delight. To see one who had met and stayed with her father and mother at their distant sojourn, was almost like seeing her parents themselves.
“And now, my dear, I want a word with you about all those untoward trials and troubles, which appear to have come thickly during my absence,” continued Mr. Huntley. “First of all, as to yourself. What mischief-making wind has been arising between you and William Yorke?”
The expression of Constance’s face changed to sadness, and her cheeks grew crimson.
“My dear, you will not misunderstand me,” he resumed. “I heard of these things at Borcette, and I said that I should undertake to inquire into them in the place of your father: just as he, health permitting him, would have undertaken for me in my absence, did any trouble arise to Ellen. Is it true that you and Mr. Yorke have parted?”
“Yes,” faltered Constance.
“And the cause?”
Constance strove to suppress her tears. “You can do nothing, Mr. Huntley; nothing whatever. Thank you all the same.”
“He has made this accusation upon Arthur the plea for breaking off his engagement?”
“I could not marry him with this cloud upon me,” she murmured. “It would not be right.”
“Cloud upon you!” hastily ejaculated Mr. Huntley. “The accusation against Arthur was the sole cause, then, of your parting?”
“Yes; the sole cause which led to it.”
Mr. Huntley paused, apparently in thought. “He is presented to Hazeldon Chapel, I hear. Did his rupture with you take place after that occurrence?”
“I see what you are thinking,” she impulsively cried, caring too much for Mr. Yorke not to defend him. “The chief fault of the parting was mine. I felt that it would not do to become his wife, being — being—” she hesitated much— “Arthur’s sister. I believe that he also felt it. Indeed, Mr. Huntley, there is no help for it; nothing can be done.”
“Knowing what I do of William Yorke, I am sure that the pain of separation must be keen, whatever may be his pride. Constance, unless I am mistaken, it is equally keen to you.”
Again rose the soft damask blush to the face of Constance. But she answered decisively. “Mr. Huntley, I pray you to allow the subject to cease. Nothing can bring about the renewal of the engagement between myself and Mr. Yorke. It is irrevocably at an end.”
“Until Arthur shall be cleared, you mean?”
“No,” she answered — a vision of Hamish and his guilt flashing across her— “I mean for good.”
“Why does not Arthur assert his innocence to Mr. Yorke? Constance, I am sure you know, as well as I do, that he is not guilty. Has he asserted it?”
She made no answer.
“As I would have wished to serve you, so will I serve Arthur,” said Mr. Huntley. “I told your father and mother, Constance, that I should make it my business to investigate the charge against him; I shall leave not a stone unturned to bring his innocence to light.”
The avowal terrified Constance, and she lost her self-possession. “Oh don’t! don’t!” she uttered. “You must not, indeed! you do not know the mischief it might do.”
“Mischief to what? — to whom?” exclaimed Mr. Huntley.
Constance buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The next moment she had raised it, and taken Mr. Huntley’s hand between hers. “You are papa’s friend! You would do us good and not harm — is it not so?” she beseechingly said.
“My dear child,” he exclaimed, quite confounded by her words — her distress: “you know that I would not harm any of you for the world.”
“Then pray do not seek to dive into that unhappy story,” she whispered. “It must not be too closely looked into.”
And Mr. Huntley quitted Constance, as a man who walks in a dream, so utterly amazed was he. What did it all mean?
As he was going through the cloisters — his nearest way to the town — Roland Yorke came flying up. With his usual want of ceremony, he passed his arm within Mr. Huntley’s. “Galloway’s come in now,” he exclaimed, “and I am off to the bank to pay in a bag of money for him. Jenkins told him you had called. Just hark at that clatter!”
The clatter, alluded to by Mr. Roland, was occasioned by the tramp of the choristers on the cloister flags. They were coming up behind, full speed, on their way from the schoolroom to enter the cathedral, for the bell had begun for service.
“And here comes that beautiful relative of mine,” continued Roland, as he and Mr. Huntley passed the cathedral entrance, and turned into the west quadrangle of the cloisters. “Would you credit it, Mr. Huntley, that he has turned out a sneak? He has. He was
to have married Constance Channing, you know, and, for fear Arthur should have touched the note, he has declared off it. If I were Constance, I would never allow the fellow to speak to me again.”
Apparently it was the course Mr. Roland himself intended to observe. As the Rev. Mr. Yorke, who was coming in to service, drew near, Roland strode on, his step haughty, his head in the air, which was all the notice he vouchsafed to take. Probably the minor canon did not care very much for Mr. Roland’s notice, one way or the other; but his eye lighted with pleasure at the sight of Mr. Huntley, and he advanced to him, his hand outstretched.
But Mr. Huntley — a man given to show in his manner his likes and dislikes — would not see the hand, would not stop at all, but passed Mr. Yorke with a distant bow. That gentleman had fallen pretty deeply in his estimation, since he had heard of the rupture with Constance Channing. Mr. Yorke stood for a moment as if petrified, and then strode on his way with a step as haughty as Roland’s.
Roland burst into a glow of delight. “That’s the way to serve him, Mr. Huntley! I hope he’ll get cut by every good man in Helstonleigh.”
CHAPTER XXXIV. — GERALD YORKE MADE INTO A “BLOCK.”
The Rev. Mr. Yorke, in his surplice and hood, stood in his stall in the cathedral. His countenance was stern, absorbed; as that of a man who is not altogether at peace with himself. Let us hope that he was absorbed in the sacred service in which he was taking a part: but we all know, to our cost, that the spirit will wander at these times, and worldly thoughts obtrude themselves. The greatest divine that the Church can boast, is not always free from them.
Not an official part in the service was Mr. Yorke taking, that afternoon; the duty was being performed by the head-master, whose week it was to take it. Very few people were at service, and still less of the clergy; the dean was present, but not one of the chapter.
Arthur Channing sat in his place at the organ. Arthur’s thoughts, too, were wandering; and — you know it is of no use to make people out to be better than they are — wandering to things especially mundane. Arthur had not ceased to look out for something to do, to replace the weekly funds lost when he left Mr. Galloway’s. He had not yet been successful: employment is more easily sought than found, especially by one lying under doubt, as he was. But he had now heard of something which he hoped he might gain.
Jenkins, saying nothing to Roland Yorke, or to any one else, had hurried to Mr. Channing’s house that day between one and two o’clock; and hurrying there and back had probably caused that temporary increase of cough, which you heard of a chapter or two back. Jenkins’s errand was to inform Arthur that Dove and Dove (solicitors in the town, who were by no means so dove-like as their name) required a temporary clerk, and he thought Arthur might suit them. Arthur had asked Jenkins to keep a look-out for him.
“Is one of their clerks leaving?” Arthur inquired.
“One of them met with an accident last night up at the railway-station,” replied Jenkins. “Did you not hear of it, sir?”
“I heard of that. I did not know who was hurt. He was trying to cross the line, was he not?”
“Yes, sir. It was Marston. He had been out with some friends, and had taken, it is thought, more than was good for him. A porter pulled him back, but Marston fell, and the engine crushed his foot. He will be laid up two months, the doctor says, and Dove and Dove are looking out for some one to fill his place for the time. If you would like to take it, sir, you could be looking out for something else while you are there. You would more readily get the two hours’ daily leave of absence from a place like that, where they keep three or four clerks, than you would from where they keep only one.”
“If I like to take it!” repeated Arthur. “Will they like to take me? That’s the question. Thank you, Jenkins; I’ll see about it at once.”
He was not able to do so immediately after Jenkins left; for Dove and Dove’s offices were situated at the other end of the town, and he might not be back in time for service. So he waited and went first to college, and sat, I say, in his place at the organ, his thoughts filled, in spite of himself, with the new project.
The service came to an end: it had seemed long to Arthur — so prone are we to estimate time by our own feelings — and his voluntary, afterwards, was played a shade faster than usual. Then he left the cathedral by the front entrance, and hastened to the office of Dove and Dove.
Arthur had had many a rebuff of late, when bent on a similar application, and his experience taught him that it was best, if possible, to see the principals: not to subject himself to the careless indifference or to the insolence of a clerk. Two young men were writing at a desk when he entered. “Can I see Mr. Dove?” he inquired.
The elder of the writers scrutinized him through the railings of the desk. “Which of them?” asked he.
“Either,” replied Arthur. “Mr. Dove, or Mr. Alfred Dove. It does not matter.”
“Mr. Dove’s out, and Mr. Alfred Dove’s not at home,” was the response. “You’ll have to wait, or to call again.”
He preferred to wait: and in a very few minutes Mr. Dove came in. Arthur was taken into a small room, so full of papers that it seemed difficult to turn in it, and there he stated his business.
“You are a son of Mr. Channing’s, I believe,” said Mr. Dove. He spoke morosely, coarsely; and he had a morose, coarse countenance — a sure index of the mind, in him, as in others. “Was it you who figured in the proceedings at the Guildhall some few weeks ago?”
You may judge whether the remark called up the blood to Arthur’s face. He suppressed his mortification, and spoke bravely.
“It was myself, sir. I was not guilty. My employment in your office would be the copying of deeds solely, I presume; that would afford me little temptation to be dishonest, even were I inclined to be so.”
Had any one paid Arthur in gold to keep in that little bit of sarcasm, he could not have done so. Mr. Dove caught up the idea that the words were uttered in sarcasm, and scowled fitfully.
“Marston was worth twenty-five shillings a week to us: and gained it. You would not be worth half as much.”
“You do not know what I should be worth, sir, unless you tried me. I am a quick and correct copyist; but I should not expect to receive as much as an ordinary clerk, on account of having to attend the cathedral for morning and afternoon service. Wherever I go, I must have that privilege allowed me.”
“Then I don’t think you’ll get it with us. But look here, young Channing, it is my brother who undertakes the engaging and management of the clerks — you can speak to him.”
“Can I see him this afternoon, sir?”
“He’ll be in presently. Of course, we could not admit you into our office unless some one became security. You must be aware of that.”
The words seemed like a checkmate to Arthur. He stopped in hesitation. “Is it usual, sir?”
“Usual — no! But it is necessary in your case”
There was a coarse, pointed stress upon the “your,” natural to the man. Arthur turned away. For a moment he felt that to Dove and Dove’s he could not and would not go; every feeling within him rebelled against it. Presently the rebellion calmed down, and he began to think about the security.
It would be of little use, he was sure, to apply to Mr. Alfred Dove — who was a shade coarser than Mr. Dove, if anything — unless prepared to say that security could be given. His father’s he thought he might command: but he was not sure of that, under present circumstances, without first speaking to Hamish. He turned his steps to Guild Street, his unhappy position pressing with unusual weight upon his feelings.
“Can I see my brother?” he inquired of the clerks in the office.
“He has some gentlemen with him just now, sir. I dare say you can go in.”
There was nothing much amiss in the words; but in the tone there was. It was indicative of slight, of contempt. It was the first time Arthur had been there since the suspicion had fallen on him, and they seemed to stare at him as
if he had been a hyena; not a respectable hyena either.
He entered Hamish’s room. Hamish was talking with two gentlemen, strangers to Arthur, but they were on the point of leaving. Arthur stood away against the wainscoting by the corner table, waiting until they were gone, his attitude, his countenance, his whole appearance indicative of depression and sadness.
Hamish closed the door and turned to him. He laid his hand kindly upon his shoulder; his voice was expressive of the kindest sympathy. “So you have found your way here once more, Arthur! I thought you were never coming again. What can I do for you, lad?”
“I have been to Dove and Dove’s. They are in want of a clerk. I think perhaps they would take me; but, Hamish, they want security.”
“Dove and Dove’s,” repeated Hamish. “Nice gentlemen, both of them!” he added, in his half-pleasant, half-sarcastic manner. “Arthur, boy, I’d not be under Dove and Dove if they offered me a gold nugget a day, as weighty as the Queen’s crown. You must not go there.”
“They are not agreeable men; I know that; they are not men who are liked in Helstonleigh, but what difference will that make to me? So long as I turn out their parchments properly engrossed, that is all I need care for.”
“What has happened? Why are you looking so sad?” reiterated Hamish, who could not fail to perceive that there was some strange grief at work.
“Is my life so sunny just now, that I can always be as bright as you?” retorted Arthur — for Hamish’s undimmed gaiety did sometimes jar upon his wearied spirit. “I shall go to Dove and Dove’s if they will take me,” he added, resolutely. “Will you answer for me, Hamish, in my father’s name?”
“What amount of security do they require?” asked Hamish. And it was a very proper, a very natural question; but even that grated on Arthur’s nerves.
“Are you afraid of me?” he rejoined. “Or do you fear my father would be?”
“I dare say they would take my security,” was Hamish’s reply. “I will answer for you to any amount. That is,” and again came his smile, “to any amount they may deem me good for. If they don’t like mine, I can offer my father’s. Will that do, Arthur?”