The Channings Part 49

"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?"

"No," said Arthur, "I never suspected him for a moment. As to any one's begging my pardon, I have most cause to do that, for suspecting Hamish. You'll be all right now, Tom."

But now, in the midst of this demonstration from all sides, I will leave you to judge what were the feelings of that reverend divine, William Yorke. You may remember that he was present. He had gone to Mr. Channing's house ostensibly to welcome Mr. Channing home and congratulate him on his restoration. Glad, in truth, was he to possess the opportunity to do that; but Mr. Yorke's visit also included a purpose less disinterested. Repulsed by Constance in the two or three appeals he had made to her, he had impatiently awaited the return of Mr. Channing, to solicit his influence. Remembering the past, listening to this explanation of the present, you may imagine, if you can, what his sensations must have been. He, who had held up his head, in his haughty Yorke spirit, ready to spurn Arthur for the suspicion cast upon him, ready to believe that he was guilty, resenting it upon Constance, had now to stand and learn that the guilt lay in his family, not in theirs. No wonder that he stood silent, grave, his lips drawn in to sternness.

Mr. Galloway soon departed again. He had left his dinner untouched upon his table. Mr. Huntley took the occasion to leave with him; and, in the earnestness of discussion, they all went out with them to the hall, except Constance. This was Mr. Yorke's opportunity. His arms folded, his pale cheek flushed to pain, he moved before her, and stood there, drawn to his full height, speaking hoa.r.s.ely.

"Constance, will it be possible for you to forgive me?"

What a fine field it presented for her to play the heroine! To go into fierce declamations that she never could, and never would forgive him, but would hold herself aloof from him for ever and a day, condemning him to bachelorhood! Unfortunately for these pages, Constance Channing had nothing of the heroine in her composition. She was only one of those simple, truthful, natural English girls, whom I hope you often meet in your every-day life. She smiled at William Yorke through her glistening eye-lashes, and drew closer to him. Did he take the hint? He took _her_; took her to that manly breast that would henceforth be her shelter for ever.

"Heaven knows how I will strive to atone to you, my darling."

It was a happy evening, chequered, though it necessarily must be, with thoughts of Charles. And Mr. Channing, in the midst of his deep grief and perplexity, thanked G.o.d for His great mercy in restoring the suspected to freedom. "My boy!" he exclaimed to Arthur, "how bravely you have borne it all!"

"Not always very bravely," said Arthur, shaking his head. "There were times when I inwardly rebelled."

"It could not have been done without one thing," resumed Mr. Channing: "firm trust in G.o.d."

Arthur's cheek kindled. That had ever been present with him. "When things would wear their darkest aspect, I used to say to myself, 'Patience and hope; and trust in G.o.d!' But I never antic.i.p.ated this bright ending," he added. "I never thought that I and Hamish should both be cleared."

"I cannot conceive how you could have suspected Hamis.h.!.+" Mr. Channing repeated, after a pause. Of all the wonders, that fact seemed to have taken most hold of his mind.

Arthur made a slight answer, but did not pursue the topic. There were circ.u.mstances connected with it, regarding Hamish, not yet explained. He could not speak of them to Mr. Channing.

Neither were they to be explained, as it seemed to Arthur. At any rate, not at present. When they retired to rest, Hamish came into his room; as he had done that former night, months ago, when suspicion had just been thrown upon Arthur. They went up together, and Hamish, instead of turning into his own room, followed Arthur to his. He set down the candle on the table, and turned to Arthur with his frank smile.

"How is it that we can have been playing at these cross-purposes, Arthur? Why did you not tell me at the time that you were innocent?"

"I think I did tell you so, Hamish: if my memory serves me rightly."

"Well, I am not sure; it may have been so; but in a very undemonstrative sort of manner, if you did at all. That sort of manner from you, Arthur, would only create perplexity."

Arthur smiled. "Don't you see? believing that you had taken it, I thought you must know whether I was innocent or guilty. And, for your sake, I did not dare to defend myself to others. Had only a breath of suspicion fallen upon you, Hamish, it might have cost my father his post."

"What induced you to suspect me? Surely not the simple fact of being alone for a few minutes with the letter in Galloway's office?"

"Not that. That alone would have been nothing; but, coupled with other circ.u.mstances, it a.s.sumed a certain weight. Hamish, I will tell you. Do you remember the trouble you were in at the time--owing money in the town?"

A smile parted Hamish's lips; he seemed half inclined to make fun of the reminiscence. "I remember it well enough. What of that?"

"You contrived to pay those debts, or partially pay them, at the exact time the note was taken; and we knew you had no money of your own to do it with. We saw you also with gold in your purse-through Annabel's tricks, do you remember?--and we knew that it could not be yours--legitimately yours, I mean."

Hamish's smile turned into a laugh. "Stop a bit, Arthur. The money with which I paid up, and the gold you saw, was mine; legitimately mine. Don't speak so fast, old fellow."

"But where did it come from, Hamish?"

"It did not come from Galloway's office, and it did not drop from the skies," laughed Hamish. "Never mind where else it came from. Arthur boy, I wish you had been candid, and had given me a hint of your suspicion."

"We were at cross purposes, as you observe," repeated Arthur. "Once plunge into them, and there's no knowing when enlightenment will come; perhaps never. But you were not very open with me."

"I was puzzled," replied Hamish. "You may remember that my seeing a crowd round the Guildhall, was the first intimation I received of the matter. When they told me, in answer to my questions, that my brother, Arthur Channing, was taken up on suspicion of stealing a bank-note, and was then under examination, I should have laughed in their faces, but for my inclination to knock them down. I went into that hall, Arthur, trusting in your innocence as implicitly as I trusted in my own, boiling over with indignation against all who had dared to accuse you, ready to stand up for you against the world. I turned my eyes upon you as you stood there, and your gaze met mine. Arthur, what made you look so? I never saw guilt--or perhaps I would rather say shame, conscious shame--s.h.i.+ne out more palpably from any countenance than it did from yours then. It startled me--it cowed me; and, in that moment, I did believe you guilty. Why did you look so?"

"I looked so for your sake, Hamish. Your countenance betrayed your dismay, and I read it for signs of your own guilt and shame. Not until then did I fully believe you guilty. We were at cross-purposes, you see, throughout the piece."

"Cross-purposes, indeed!" repeated Hamish.

"Have you believed me guilty until now?"

"No," replied Hamish. "After a few days my infatuation wore off. It was an infatuation, and nothing less, ever to have believed a Channing guilty. I then took up another notion, and that I have continued to entertain."

"What was it?"

"That you were screening Roland Yorke."

Arthur lifted up his eyes to Hamish.

"I did indeed. Roland's excessive champions.h.i.+p of you, his impetuous agitation when others brought it up against you, first aroused my suspicions that he himself must have been guilty; and I came to the conclusion that you also had discovered his guilt, and were generously screening him. I believed that you would not allow a stir be made in it to clear yourself, lest it should bring it home to him. Cross purposes again, you will say."

"Ah, yes. Not so much as an idea of suspecting Roland Yorke ever came across me. All my fear was, that he, or any one, should suspect you."

Hamish laughed as he placed his hands upon Arthur's shoulders. "The best plan for the future will be, to have no secrets one from the other; otherwise, it seems hard to say what labyrinths we may not get into. What do you say, old fellow?"

"You began the secrets first, Hamish."

"Did I? Well, let us thank Heaven that the worst are over."

Ay, thank Heaven! Most sincerely was Arthur Channing doing that. The time to give thanks had come.

Meanwhile Mr. Huntley had proceed home. He found Miss Huntley in the stiffest and most uncompromising of moods; and no wonder, for Mr. Huntley had kept dinner waiting, I am afraid to say how long. Harry, who was to have dined with them that day, had eaten his, and flown off to the town again, to keep some appointment with the college boys. Miss Huntley now ate hers in dignified displeasure; but Mr. Huntley, sitting opposite to her, appeared to be in one of his very happiest moods. Ellen attributed it to the fact of Mr. Channing's having returned home well. She asked a hundred questions about them--of their journey, their arrival--and Mr. Huntley never seemed tired of answering.

Barely was the cloth removed, when Miss Huntley rose. Mr. Huntley crossed the room to open the door for her, and bow her out. Although he was her brother, she would never have forgiven him, had he omitted that little mark of ceremony. Ellen was dutifully following. She could not always brave her aunt. Mr. Huntley, however, gave Ellen a touch as she was pa.s.sing him, drew her back, and closed the door upon his sister.

"Ellen, I have been obliged to take Mr. Hamish into favour again."

Ellen's cheeks became glowing. She tried to find an answer, but none came.

"I find Hamish had nothing to do with the loss of the bank-note."

Then she found words. "Oh, papa, no! How could you ever have imagined such a thing? You might have known the Channings better. They are above suspicion."

"I did know them better at one time, or else you may be sure, young lady, Mr. Hamish would not have been allowed to come here as he did. However, it is cleared up; and I suppose you would like to tell me that I was just a donkey for my pains."

Ellen shook her head and laughed. She would have liked to ask whether Mr. Hamish was to be allowed to come again on the old familiar footing, had she known how to frame the question. But it was quite beyond her courage.

"When I told him this evening that I had suspected him--"

She clasped her hands and turned to Mr. Huntley, her rich colour going and coming. "Papa, you told him?"

"Ay. And I was not the only one to suspect him, or to tell him. I can a.s.sure you that, Miss Ellen."

"What did he say? How did he receive it?"

"Told us he was much obliged to us all. I don't think Hamish could be put out of temper."

"Then you do not dislike him now, papa?" she said, timidly.

"I never have disliked him. When I believed what I did of him, I could not dislike him even then, try as I would. There, you may go to your aunt now."

And Ellen went, feeling that the earth and air around her had suddenly become as Eden.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE BROKEN PHIAL.

That broken phial, you have heard of, was burning a hole in Bywater's pocket, as Roland Yorke had said the bank-note did in his. He had been undecided about complaining to the master; strangely so for Bywater. The fact was, he had had a strong suspicion, from the very first, that the boy who did the damage to the surplice was Pierce senior. At least, his suspicions had been divided between that gentleman and Gerald Yorke. The cause of suspicion against Pierce need not be entered into, since it was misplaced. In point of fact, Mr. Pierce was, so far as that feat went, both innocent and unconscious. But Bywater could not be sure that he was, and he did not care to bring the accusation publicly against Gerald, should he be innocent.

You saw Bywater, a chapter or two back, fitting the broken pieces together in his bedroom. On the following morning--it was also the morning following the arrival of the important letter from Roland Yorke--Bywater detained Gerald Yorke when the boys tore down the schoolroom steps after early school.

"I say, Yorke, I said I'd give you a last chance, and now I am doing it," he began. "If you'll acknowledge the truth to me about that surplice affair, I'll let it drop. I will, upon my honour. I'll never say another word about it."

Gerald flew into a rage. "Now look you here, Mr. Bywater," was his angry retort. "You bother me again with that stale fish, and I'll put you up for punishment. It's--"

Gerald stopped. Tom Channing was pa.s.sing close to them, and Mr. Gerald had never cared to be heard, when talking about the surplice. At that moment a group of boys, who were running out of the cloisters, the opposite road to Tom Channing, turned round and hissed him, Tod Yorke adding some complimentary remark about "stolen notes." As usual, it was a shaft launched at Arthur. Not as usual did Tom receive it. There was nothing of fierce defiance now in his demeanour; nothing of half-subdued rage. Tom halted; took off his trencher with a smile of suavity that might have adorned Hamish, and thanked them with as much courtesy as if it had been real, especially Tod. Gerald Yorke and Bywater looked on with surprise. They little dreamt of the great secret that Tom now carried within him. He could afford to be calm.

"Why, it's four months, good, since that surplice was damaged," resumed Gerald, in a tone of irritation, to Bywater, as soon as they were alone again. "One would think it was of rare value, by your keeping up the ball in this way. Every now and then you break out afresh about that surplice. Was it made of gold?"

"It was made of Irish linen," returned Bywater, who generally contrived to retain his coolness, whoever might grow heated. "I tell you that I have a fresh clue, Yorke; one I have been waiting for. I thought it would turn up some time. If you say you did it, by accident or how you like, I'll let it drop. If you don't, I'll bring it before Pye after breakfast."

"Bring it," retorted Gerald.

"Mind you, I mean what I say. I shall bring the charge against you, and I have the proofs."

"Bring it, I say!" fiercely repeated Gerald. "Who cares for your bringings? Mind your bones afterwards, that's all!"

He pushed Bywater from him with a haughty gesture, and raced home to breakfast, hoping there would be something good to a.s.suage his hunger.

But Bywater was not to be turned from his determination. Never a boy in the school less likely than he. He went home to his breakfast, and returned to school to have his name inscribed on the roll, and then went into college with the other nine choristers, and took his part in the service. And the bottle, I say, was burning a hole in his pocket. The Reverend William Yorke was chanting, and Arthur Channing sat at the organ. Would the Very Reverend the Dean of Helstonleigh, standing in his stall so serenely placid, his cap resting on the cus.h.i.+on beside him, ever again intimate a doubt that Arthur was not worthy to take part in the service? But the dean did not know the news yet.

Back in the school-room, Bywater lost no time. He presented himself before the master, and entered upon his complaint, schoolboy fas.h.i.+on.

"Please, sir, I think I have found out who inked my surplice."

The master had allowed the occurrence to slip partially from his memory. At any rate, it was some time since he had called it up. "Oh, indeed!" said he somewhat cynically, to Bywater, after a pause given to revolving the circ.u.mstances. "Think you have found out the boy, do you?"

"Yes, sir; I am pretty sure of it. I think it was Gerald Yorke."

"Gerald Yorke! One of the seniors!" repeated the master, casting a penetrating gaze upon Bywater.

The fact was, Mr. Pye, at the time of the occurrence, had been somewhat inclined to a secret belief that the real culprit was Bywater himself. Knowing that gentleman's propensity to mischief, knowing that the destruction of a few surplices, more or less, would be only fun to him, he had felt an unpleasant doubt upon the point. "Did you do it yourself?" he now plainly asked of Bywater.

Bywater for once was genuinely surprised. "I had no more to do with it, sir, than this desk had," touching the master's. "I should not have spent many an hour since, trying to ferret it out, if I had done it."

"Well, what have you found out?"

"On the day it happened, sir, when we were discussing it in the cloisters, little Channing suddenly started up with a word that caused me to think he had seen something connected with it, in which Gerald Yorke was mixed up. But the boy recollected himself before he had said much, and I could get no more from him. Once afterwards I heard him tell Yorke that he had kept counsel about the inked surplice."

"Is that all?" asked the master, while the whole school sat with tingling ears, for Bywater was not making his complaint in private.

"Not quite, sir. Please to look at this."

Bywater had whipped the broken phial out of his pocket, and was handing the smaller piece towards the master. Mr. Pye looked at it curiously.

"As I was turning over my surplice, sir, in the vestry, when I found it that day, I saw this bit of gla.s.s lying in the wet ink. I thought it belonged to a small ornamental phial, which Gerald Yorke used to keep, about that time, in his pocket, full of ink. But I couldn't be sure. So I put the bit of gla.s.s into my pocket, thinking the phial would turn up some day, if it did belong to it. And so it has. You can put the piece into it, sir, and see whether it fits."

Gerald Yorke left his place, and joined Bywater before the head master. He looked white and haughty. "Is it to be borne, sir, that he should tell these lies of me?"