by Ellen Wood
Ellen, who had glanced up two or three times, concerned to see the very stern, perplexed look on her father’s face, at length spoke, “Is anything the matter, papa?”
Mr. Huntley did not answer. He was standing close to the table then, apparently looking at Ellen, at her white morning dress and its blue ribbons: it, and she altogether, a fair picture. Probably he saw neither her nor her dress — he was too deeply absorbed.
“You are not ill, are you, papa?”
“Ill!” he answered, rousing himself. “No, Ellen, I am not ill.”
“Then you have had something to vex you, papa?”
“I have,” emphatically replied Mr. Huntley. “And the worst is, that my vexation will not be confined to myself, I believe. It may extend to you, Ellen.”
Mr. Huntley’s manner was so serious, his look so peculiar as he gazed at her, that Ellen felt a rush of discomfort, and the colour spread itself over her fair face. She jumped to the conclusion that she had been giving offence in some way — that Miss Huntley must have been complaining of her.
“Has my aunt been telling you about last night, papa? Harry had two of the college boys here, and I unfortunately laughed and talked with them, and she said afterwards I had done it on purpose to annoy her. But I assure you, papa—”
“Never mind assuring me, child,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “Your aunt has said nothing to me; and if she had, it would go in at one ear and out at the other. It is worse business than any complaint that she could bring.”
Ellen laid down her pencil, and gazed at her father, awe-struck at his strange tone. “What is it?” she breathed.
But Mr. Huntley did not answer. He remained perfectly still for a few moments, absorbed in thought: and then, without a word of any sort to Ellen, turned round to leave the room, took his hat as he passed through the hall, and left the house.
Can you guess what it was that was troubling Mr. Huntley? Very probably, if you can put, as the saying runs, this and that together.
Convinced, as he was, that Arthur Channing was not, could not be guilty of taking the bank-note, yet puzzled by the strangely tame manner in which he met the charge — confounded by the behaviour both of Arthur and Constance relating to it — Mr. Huntley had resolved, if possible, to dive into the mystery. He had his reasons for it. A very disagreeable, a very improbable suspicion, called forth by the facts, had darted across his mind; therefore he resolved to penetrate to it. And he set to work. He questioned Mr. Galloway, he questioned Butterby, he questioned Jenkins, and he questioned Roland Yorke. He thus became as thoroughly conversant with the details of the transaction as it was possible for any one, except the actual thief, to be; and he drew his own deductions. Very reluctantly, very slowly, very cautiously, were they drawn, but very surely. The behaviour of Arthur and Constance could only have one meaning: they were screening the real culprit. And that culprit must be Hamish Channing.
Unwilling as Mr. Huntley was to admit it, he had no resource but to do so. He grew as certain of it as he was of his own life. He had loved and respected Hamish in no measured degree. He had observed the attachment springing up between him and his daughter, and he had been content to observe it. None were so worthy of her, in Mr. Huntley’s eyes, as Hamish Channing, in all respects save one — wealth; and, of that, Ellen would have plenty. Mr. Huntley had known of the trifling debts that were troubling Hamish, and he found that those debts, immediately on the loss of the bank-note, had been partially satisfied. That the stolen money must have been thus applied, and that it had been taken for that purpose, he could not doubt.
Hamish! It nearly made Mr. Huntley’s hair stand on end. That he must be silent over it, as were Hamish’s own family, he knew — silent for Mr. Channing’s sake. And what about Ellen?
There was the sad, very sad grievance. Whether Hamish went wrong, or whether Hamish went right, it was not of so much consequence to Mr. Huntley; but it might be to Ellen — in fact, he thought it would be. He had risen that morning resolved to hint to Ellen that any particular intimacy with Hamish must cease. But he was strangely undecided about it. Now that the moment was come, he almost doubted, himself, Hamish’s guilt. All the improbabilities of the case rose up before him in marked colours; he lost sight of the condemning facts; and it suddenly occurred to him that it was scarcely fair to judge Hamish so completely without speaking to him. “Perhaps he can account to me for the possession of the money which he applied to those debts,” thought Mr. Huntley. “If so, in spite of appearances, I will not deem him guilty.”
He went out, on the spur of the moment, straight down to the office in Guild Street. Hamish was alone, not at all busy, apparently. He was standing up by the fireplace, his elbow on the mantelpiece, a letter from Mr. Channing (no doubt the one alluded to in Mrs. Channing’s letter to Constance) in his hand. He received Mr. Huntley with his cordial, sunny smile; spoke of the good news the letter brought, spoke of the accident which had caused the delay of the mail, and finally read out part of the letter, as Constance had to Judith.
It was all very well; but this only tended to embarrass Mr. Huntley. He did not like his task, and the more confidential they grew over Mr. Channing’s health, the worse it made it for him to enter upon. As chance had it, Hamish himself paved the way. He began telling of an incident which had taken place that morning, to the scandal of the town. A young man, wealthy but improvident, had been arrested for debt. Mr. Huntley had not yet heard of it.
“It stopped his day’s pleasure,” laughed Hamish. “He was going along with his gun and dogs, intending to pop at the partridges, when he got popped upon himself, instead. Poor fellow! it was too bad to spoil his sport. Had I been a rich man, I should have felt inclined to bail him out.”
“The effect of running in debt,” remarked Mr. Huntley. “By the way, Master Hamish, is there no fear of a similar catastrophe for you?” he added, in a tone which Hamish might, if he liked, take for a jesting one.
“For me, sir?” returned Hamish.
“When I left Helstonleigh in June, a certain young friend of mine was not quite free from a suspicion of such liabilities,” rejoined Mr. Huntley.
Hamish flushed rosy red. Of all people in the world, Mr. Huntley was the one from whom he would, if possible, have kept that knowledge, but he spoke up readily.
“I did owe a thing or two, it can’t be denied,” acknowledged he. “Men, better and wiser and richer than I, have owed money before me, Mr. Huntley.”
“Suppose they serve you as they have served Jenner this morning?”
“They will not do that,” laughed Hamish, seeming very much inclined to make a joke of the matter. “I have squared up some sufficiently to be on the safe side of danger, and I shall square up the rest.”
Mr. Huntley fixed his eyes upon him. “How did you get the money to do it, Hamish?”
Perhaps it was the plain, unvarnished manner in which the question was put; perhaps it was the intent gaze with which Mr. Huntley regarded him; but, certain it is, that the flush on Hamish’s face deepened to crimson, and he turned it from Mr. Huntley, saying nothing.
“Hamish, I have a reason for wishing to know.”
“To know what, sir?” asked Hamish, as if he would temporize, or avoid the question.
“Where did you obtain the money that you applied to liquidate, or partially to liquidate, your debts?”
“I cannot satisfy you, sir. The affair concerns no one but myself. I did get it, and that is sufficient.”
Hamish had come out of his laughing tone, and spoke as firmly as Mr. Huntley; but, that the question had embarrassed him, was palpably evident. Mr. Huntley said good morning, and left the office without shaking hands. All his doubts were confirmed.
He went straight home. Ellen was where he had left her, still alone. Mr. Huntley approached her and spoke abruptly. “Are you willing to give up all intimacy with Hamish Channing?”
She gazed at him in surprise, her complexion changing, her voice faltering. “Oh, papa! what have the
y done?”
“Ellen, did I say ‘they!’ The Channings are my dear friends, and I hope ever to call them such. They have done nothing unworthy of my friendship or of yours. I said Hamish.”
Ellen rose from her seat, unable to subdue her emotion, and stood with her hands clasped before Mr. Huntley. Hamish was far dearer to her than the world knew.
“I will leave it to your good sense, my dear,” Mr. Huntley whispered, glancing round, as if not caring that even the walls should hear. “I have liked Hamish very much, or you may be sure he would not have been allowed to come here so frequently. But he has forfeited my regard now, as he must forfeit that of all good men.”
She trembled excessively, almost to impede her utterance, when she would have asked what it was that he had done.
“I scarcely dare breathe it to you,” said Mr. Huntley, “for it is a thing that we must hush up, as the family are hushing it up. When that bank-note was lost, suspicion fell on Arthur.”
“Well, papa?” wonderingly resumed Ellen.
“It was not Arthur who took it. It was Hamish. And Arthur is bearing the stigma of it for his father’s sake.”
Ellen grew pale. “Papa, who says it?”
“No one says it, Ellen. But the facts leave no room for doubt. Hamish’s own manner — I have just left him — leaves no room for it. He is indisputably guilty.”
Then Ellen’s anger, her straightforwardness, broke forth. She clasped her hands in pain, and her face grew crimson. “He is not guilty, papa. I would answer for it with my own life. How dare they accuse him! how dare they asperse him? Is he not Hamish Channing?”
“Ellen! Ellen!”
Ellen burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Forgive me, papa. If he has no one else to take his part, I will do it. I do not wish to be undutiful; and if you bid me never to see or speak to Hamish Channing again, I will implicitly obey you; but, hear him spoken of as guilty, I will not. I wish I could stand up for him against the world.”
“After that, Miss Ellen Huntley, I think you had better sit down.”
Ellen sat down, and cried until she was calm.
CHAPTER XXXVII. — THE CONSPIRATORS.
Nothing of sufficient consequence to record here, occurred for some weeks to the Channings, or to those connected with them. October came in; and in a few days would be decided the uncertain question of the seniorship. Gaunt would leave the college on the fifth; and on the sixth the new senior would be appointed. The head-master had given no intimation whatever to the school as to which of the three seniors would obtain the promotion, and discussion ran high upon the probabilities. Some were of opinion that it would be Huntley; some, Gerald Yorke; a very few, Tom Channing. Countenanced by Gaunt and Huntley, as he had been throughout, Tom bore on his way, amid much cabal; but for the circumstance of the senior boy espousing (though not very markedly) his cause, his place would have been unbearable. Hamish attended to his customary duties in Guild Street, and sat up at night as usual in his bedroom, as his candle testified to Judith. Arthur tried bravely for a situation, and tried in vain; he could get nothing given to him — no one seemed willing to take him on. There was nothing for it but to wait in patience. He took the organ daily, and copied, at home, the cathedral music. Constance was finding great favour with the Earl of Carrick — but you will hear more about that presently. Jenkins grew more like a shadow day by day. Roland Yorke went on in his impulsive, scapegrace fashion. Mr. and Mrs. Channing sent home news, hopeful and more hopeful, from Germany. And Charley, unlucky Charley, had managed to get into hot water with the college school.
Thus uneventfully had passed the month of September. October was now in, and the sixth rapidly approaching. What with the uncertainty prevailing, the preparation for the examination, which on that day would take place, and a little private matter, upon which some few were entering, the college school had just then a busy and exciting time of it.
Stephen Bywater sat in one of the niches of the cloisters, a pile of books by his side. Around him, in various attitudes, were gathered seven of the most troublesome of the tribe — Pierce senior, George Brittle, Tod Yorke, Fred Berkeley, Bill Simms, Mark Galloway, and Hurst, who had now left the choir, but not the school. They were hatching mischief. Twilight overhung the cloisters; the autumn evenings were growing long, and this was a gloomy one. Half an hour, at the very least, had the boys been gathered there since afternoon school, holding a council of war in covert tones.
“Paid out he shall be, by hook or by crook,” continued Stephen Bywater, who appeared to be president — if talking more than his confrères constitutes one. “The worst is, how is it to be done? One can’t wallop him.”
“Not wallop him!” repeated Pierce senior, who was a badly disposed boy, as well as a mischievous one. “Why not, pray?”
“Not to any good,” said Bywater. “I can’t, with that delicate face of his. It’s like beating a girl.”
“That’s true,” assented Hurst. “No, it won’t do to go in for beating; might break his bones, or something. I can’t think what’s the good of those delicate ones putting themselves into a school of this sort. A parson’s is the place for them; eight gentlemanly pupils, treated as a private family, with a mild usher, and a lady to teach the piano.”
The council burst into a laugh at Hurst’s mocking tones, and Pierce senior interrupted it.
“I don’t see why he shouldn’t—”
“Say she, Pierce,” corrected Mark Galloway.
“She, then. I don’t see why she shouldn’t get a beating if she deserves it; it will teach her not to try her tricks on again. Let her be delicate; she’ll feel it the more.”
“It’s all bosh about his being delicate. She’s not,” vehemently interrupted Tod Yorke, somewhat perplexed, in his hurry, with the genders. “Charley Channing’s no more delicate than we are. It’s all in the look. As good say that detestable little villain, Boulter, is delicate, because he has yellow curls. I vote for the beating.”
“I’ll vote you out of the business, if you show insubordination, Mr. Tod,” cried Bywater. “We’ll pay out Miss Charley in some way, but it shan’t be by beating him.”
“Couldn’t we lock him up in the cloisters, as we locked up Ketch, and that lot; and leave him there all night?” proposed Berkeley.
“But there’d be getting the keys?” debated Mark Galloway.
“As if we couldn’t get the keys if we wanted them!” scoffingly retorted Bywater. “We did old Ketch the other time, and we could do him again. That would not serve the young one out, locking him up in the cloisters.”
“Wouldn’t it, though!” said Tod Yorke. “He’d be dead of fright before morning, he’s so mortally afraid of ghosts.”
“Afraid of what?” cried Bywater.
“Of ghosts. He’s a regular coward about them. He dare not go to bed in the dark for fear of their coming to him. He’d rather have five and twenty pages of Virgil to do, than he’d be left alone after nightfall.”
The notion so tickled Bywater, that he laughed till he was hoarse. Bywater could not understand being afraid of “ghosts.” Had Bywater met a whole army of ghosts, the encounter would only have afforded him pleasure.
“There never was a ghost seen yet, as long as any one can remember,” cried he, when he came out of his laughter. “I’d sooner believe in Gulliver’s travels, than I’d believe in ghosts. What a donkey you are, Tod Yorke!”
“It’s Charley Channing that’s the donkey; not me,” cried Tod, fiercely. “I tell you, if we locked him up here for a night, we should find him dead in the morning, when we came to let him out. Let’s do it.”
“What, to find him dead in the morning!” exclaimed Hurst. “You are a nice one, Tod!”
“Oh, well, I don’t mean altogether dead, you know,” acknowledged Tod. “But he’d have had a mortal night of it! All his clothes gummed together from fright, I’ll lay.”
“I don’t think it would do,” deliberated Bywater. “A whole night — twelve hours,
that would be — and in a fright all the time, if he is frightened. Look here! I have heard of folks losing their wits through a thing of the sort.”
“I won’t go in for anything of the kind,” said Hurst. “Charley’s not a bad lot, and he shan’t be harmed. A bit of a fright, or a bit of a whacking, not too much of either; that’ll be the thing for Miss Channing.”
“Tod Yorke, who told you he was afraid of ghosts?” demanded Bywater.
“Oh, I know it,” said Tod. “Annabel Channing was telling my sisters about it, for one thing: but I knew it before. We had a servant once who told us so, she had lived at the Channings’. Some nurse frightened him when he was a youngster, and they have never been able to get the fear out of him since.”
“What a precious soft youngster he must have been!” said Mr. Bywater.
“She used to get a ghost and dress it up and show it off to Miss Charley—”
“Get a ghost, Tod?”
“Bother! you know what I mean,” said Tod, testily. “Get a broom or something of that sort, and dress it up with a mask and wings: and he is as scared over it now as he ever was. I don’t care what you say.”
“Look here!” exclaimed Bywater, starting from his niche, as a bright idea occurred to him. “Let one of us personate a ghost, and appear to him! That would be glorious! It would give him a precious good fright for the time, and no harm done.”
If the boys had suddenly found the philosopher’s stone, it could scarcely have afforded them so much pleasure as did this idea. It was received with subdued shouts of approbation: the only murmur of dissent to be heard was from Pierce senior. Pierce grumbled that it would not be “half serving him out.”