by Ellen Wood
“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 obligé,” 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?”