CHAPTER XXXII. – AN OMINOUS COUGH
“I say, Jenkins, how you cough!”
“Yes, sir, I do. It’s a sign that autumn’s coming on. I have been pretty free from it all the summer. I think the few days I lay in bed through that fall, must have done good to my chest; for, since then, I have hardly coughed at all. This last day or two it has been bad again.”
“What cough do you call it?” went on Roland Yorke—you may have guessed he was the speaker. “A churchyard cough?”
“Well, I don’t know, sir,” said Jenkins. “It has been called that, before now. I dare say it will be the end of me at last.”
“Cool!” remarked Roland. “Cooler than I should be, if I had a cough, or any plague of the sort, that was likely to be my end. Does it trouble your mind, Jenkins?”
“No, sir, not exactly. It gives me rather down-hearted thoughts now and then, till I remember that everything is sure to be ordered for the best.”
“The best! Should you call it for ‘the best’ if you were to go off?” demanded Roland, drawing pen-and-ink chimneys upon his blotting-paper, with clouds of smoke coming out, as he sat lazily at his desk.
“I dare say, sir, if that were to happen, I should be enabled to see that it was for the best. There’s no doubt of it.”
“According to that theory, everything that happens must be for the best. You may as well say that pitching on to your head and half killing yourself, was for the best. Moonshine, Jenkins!”
“I think even that accident was sent for some wise purpose, sir. I know, in some respects, it was very palpably for the best. It afforded me some days of quiet, serious reflection, and it served to show how considerate everybody was for me.”
“And the pain?”
“That was soon over, sir. It made me think of that better place where there will be no pain. If I am to be called there early, Mr. Roland, it is well that my thoughts should be led to it.”
Roland stared with all his eyes. “I say, Jenkins, what do you mean? You have nothing serious the matter with you?”
“No, sir; nothing but the cough, and a weakness that I feel. My mother and brother both died of the same thing, sir.”
“Oh, nonsense!” returned Roland. “Because one’s mother dies, is that any reason why we should fall into low spirits and take up the notion that we are going to die, and look out for it? I am surprised at you, Jenkins.”
“I am not in low spirits, sir; and I am sure I do not look out for it. I might have looked out for it any autumn or any spring of late, had I been that way inclined, for I have had the cough at those periods, as you know, sir. There’s a difference, Mr. Roland, between looking out for a thing, and not shutting one’s eyes to what may come.”
“I say, old fellow, you just put all such notions away from you”—and Roland really meant to speak in a kindly, cheering spirit. “My father died of dropsy; and I may just as well set on, and poke and pat at myself every other morning, to see if it’s not attacking me. Only think what would become of this office without you! Galloway would fret and fume himself into his tomb at having nobody but me in it.”
A smile crossed Jenkins’s face at the idea of the office, confided to the management of Roland Yorke. Poor Jenkins was one of the doubtful ones, from a sanitary point of view. Always shadowy, as if a wind would blow him away, and, for some years, suffering much from a cough, which only disappeared in summer, he could not, and did not, count upon a long life. He had quite recovered from his accident, but the cough had now come on with much force, and he was feeling unusually weak.
“You don’t look ill, Jenkins.”
“Don’t I, sir? The Reverend Mr. Yorke met me, to-day—”
“Don’t bring up his name before me!” interrupted Roland, raising his voice to anger. “I may begin to swear, perhaps, if you do.”
“Why, what has he done?” wondered Jenkins.
“Never mind what he has done,” nodded Roland. “He is a disgrace to the name of Yorke. I enjoyed the pleasure of telling him so, the other night, more than I have enjoyed anything a long while. He was so mad! If he had not been a parson, I shouldn’t wonder but he’d have pitched into me.”
“Mr. Roland, sir, you know the parties are waiting for that lease,” Jenkins ventured to remind him.
“Let the parties wait,” rejoined Roland. “Do they think this office is going to be hurried as if it were a common lawyer’s? I say, Jenkins, where has old Galloway taken flight to, this afternoon?”
“He has an appointment with the surrogate,” answered Jenkins. “Oh!—I quite forgot to mention something to you, Mr. Roland.”
“Mention it now,” said Roland.
“A person came this morning, sir, and was rather loud,” said Jenkins, in a tone of deprecation, as if he would apologize for having to repeat the news. “He thought you were in, Mr. Roland, and that I was only denying you, and he grew insolent. Mr. Galloway happened to be in his room, unfortunately, and heard it, and he came out himself, and sent the person away. Mr. Galloway was very angry, and he desired me to tell you, sir, that he would not have that sort of people coming here.”
Roland took up the ruler, and essayed to balance it on the edge of his nose. “Who was it?” asked he.
“I am not sure who it was, though I know I have seen the man, somewhere. I think he wanted payment of a bill, sir.”
“Nothing more likely,” rejoined Roland, with characteristic indifference. “I hope his head won’t ache till he gets it! I am cleared out for some time to come. I’d like to know who the fellow was, though, Jenkins, that I might punish him for his impudence. How dared he come here?”
“I asked him to leave his name, sir, and he said Mr. Roland Yorke knew his name quite well enough, without having it left for him.”
“As brassy as that, was he! I wish to goodness it was the fashion to have a cistern in your house-roofs!” emphatically added Roland.
“A what, sir?” cried Jenkins, lifting his eyes from his writing.
“A water-cistern, with a tap, worked by a string, at pleasure. You could give it a pull, you know, when such customers as those came, and they’d find themselves deluged. That would cool their insolence, if anything would. I’d get up a company for it, and take out a patent, if I only had the ready money.”
Jenkins made no reply. He was applying himself diligently to his work, perhaps hoping that Mr. Roland Yorke might take the hint, and do the same. Roland actually did take it; at any rate, he dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote, at the very least, five or six words; then he looked up.
“Jenkins,” began he again, “do you know much about Port Natal?”
“I don’t know anything about it, sir; except that there is such a place.”
“Why, you know nothing!” cried Roland. “I never saw such a muff. I wonder what you reckon yourself good for, Jenkins?”
Jenkins shook his head. No matter what reproach was brought against him, he received it meekly, as if it were his due. “I am not good for much, sir, beyond just my daily duty here. To know about Port Natal and those foreign places is not in my work, sir, and so I’m afraid I neglect them. Did you want any information about Port Natal, Mr. Roland?”
“I have got it,” said Roland; “loads of it. I am not sure that I shan’t make a start for it, Jenkins.”
“For Port Natal, sir? Why! it’s all the way to Africa!”
“Do you suppose I thought it was in Wales?” retorted Roland. “It’s the jolliest opening for an enterprising man, is Port Natal. You may land there to-day with half-a-crown in your pocket, and come away in a year or two with your fortune made.”
“Indeed!” ejaculated Jenkins. “How is it made, sir?”
“Oh, you learn all that when you get there. I shall go, Jenkins, if things don’t look up a bit in these quarters.”
“What things, sir?” Jenkins ventured to ask.
“Tin, for one thing; work for another,” answered Roland. “If I don’t get more of the one, and less of the other, I shall try Port Natal. I had a row with my lady at dinner-time. She thinks a paltry sovereign or two ought to last a fellow for a month. My service to her! I just dropped a hint of Port Natal, and left her weeping. She’ll have come to, by this evening, and behave liberally.”
“But about the work, sir?” said Jenkins. “I’m sure I make it as light for you as I possibly can. You have only had that lease, sir, all day yesterday and to-day.”
“Oh, it’s not just the amount of work, Jenkins,” acknowledged Roland; “it’s the being tied by the leg to this horrid old office. As good work as play, if one has to be in it. I have been fit to cut it altogether every hour, since Arthur Channing left: for you know you are no company, Jenkins.”
“Very true, sir.”
“If I could only get Arthur Channing to go with me, I’d be off to-morrow! But he laughs at it. He hasn’t got half pluck. Only fancy, Jenkins! my coming back in a year or two with twenty thousand pounds in my pocket! Wouldn’t I give you a treat, old chap! I’d pay a couple of clerks to do your work here, and carry you off somewhere, in spite of old Galloway, for a six-months’ holiday, where you’d get rid of that precious cough. I would, Jenkins.”
“You are very kind, sir—”
Jenkins was stopped by the “precious cough.” It seemed completely to rack his frame. Roland looked at him with sympathy, and just then steps were heard to enter the passage, and a knock came to the office door.
“Who’s come bothering now?” cried Roland. “Come in!”
Possibly the mandate was not heard, for poor Jenkins was coughing still. “Don’t I tell you to come in?” roared out Roland. “Are you deaf?”
“Open the door. I don’t care to soil my gloves,” came the answer from the other side. And Mr. Roland slid off his stool to obey, rather less lazily than usual, for the voice was that of his mother, the Lady Augusta Yorke.
“A very dutiful son, you are, Mr. Roland!” was the salutation of Lady Augusta. “Forcing me up from dinner before I had finished!”
“I didn’t do anything of the sort,” said Roland.
“Yes, you did. With your threats about Port Natal! What do you know about Port Natal? Why should you go to Port Natal? You will break my heart with grief, that’s what you will do.”
“I was not going to start this afternoon,” returned Roland. “But the fact is, mother, I shall have to go to Port Natal, or to some other port, unless I can get a little money to go on with here. A fellow can’t walk about with empty pockets.”
“You undutiful, extravagant boy!” exclaimed Lady Augusta. “I am worried out of my life for money, between you all. Gerald got two sovereigns from me yesterday. What money do you want?”
“As much as you can let me have,” replied Mr. Roland.
Lady Augusta threw a five-pound note by his side upon the desk. “When you boys have driven me into the workhouse, you’ll be satisfied, perhaps. And now hold your foolish tongue about Port Natal.”
Roland gathered it up with alacrity and a word of thanks. Lady Augusta had turned to Jenkins.
“You are the best off, Jenkins; you have no children to disturb your peace. You don’t look well, Jenkins.”
“Thank you kindly, my lady, I feel but poorly. My cough has become troublesome again.”
“He has just been saying that he thought the cough was going to take him off,” interposed Roland.
Lady Augusta laughed; she supposed it was spoken in jest; and desired her son to open the door for her. Her gloves were new and delicate.
“Had you chosen to remain at the dinner-table, as a gentleman ought, I should have told you some news, Mr. Roland,” said Lady Augusta.
Roland was always ready for news. He opened his eyes and ears. “Tell it me now, good mother. Don’t bear malice.”
“Your uncle Carrick is coming here on a visit.”
“I am glad of that; that’s good!” cried Roland. “When does he come? I say, mother, don’t be in a hurry! When does he come?”
But Lady Augusta apparently was in a hurry, for she did not wait to reply. Roland looked after her, and saw her shaking hands with a gentleman, who was about to enter.
“Oh, he’s back, is he!” cried unceremonious Roland. “I thought he was dead and buried, and gone to heaven.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. – NO SENIORSHIP FOR TOM CHANNING
Shaking hands with Lady Augusta Yorke as she turned out of Mr. Galloway’s office, was Mr. Huntley. He had only just arrived at Helstonleigh; had not yet been home; but he explained that he wished to give at once a word of pleasant news to Constance Channing of her father and mother, and, on his way to the Boundaries, was calling on Mr. Galloway.
“You will find Miss Channing at my house,” said Lady Augusta, after some warm inquiries touching Mr. and Mrs. Channing. “I would offer to go back there with you, but I am on my way to make some calls.” She turned towards the town as she spoke, and Mr. Huntley entered the office.
“I thought you were never coming home again!” cried free Roland. “Why, you have been away three months, Mr. Huntley!”
“Very nearly. Where is Mr. Galloway?”
“In his skin,” said Roland.
Jenkins looked up deprecatingly, as if he would apologize for the rudeness of Roland Yorke. “Mr. Galloway is out, sir. I dare say he will not be away more than half an hour.”
“I cannot wait now,” said Mr. Huntley. “So you are one less in this office than you were when I left?”
“The awfullest shame!” struck in Roland. “Have you heard that Galloway lost a bank-note out of a letter, sir?”
“Yes. I have heard of it from Mr. Channing.”
“And they accused Arthur Channing of taking it!” exclaimed Roland. “They took him up for it; he was had up twice to the town-hall, like any felon. You may be slow to believe it, Mr. Huntley, but it’s true.”
“It was Butterby, sir,” interposed Jenkins. “He was rather too officious over it, and acted without Mr. Galloway’s orders.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Jenkins,” rebuked Roland. “You have defended Galloway all through the piece, but he is as much to blame as Butterby. Why did he turn off Channing?”
“You do not think him guilty, Roland, I see,” said Mr. Huntley.
“I should hope I don’t,” answered Roland. “Butterby pitched upon Arthur, because there happened to be nobody else at hand to pitch upon; just as he’d have pitched upon you, Mr. Huntley, had you happened to be in the office that afternoon.”
“Mr. Arthur Channing was not guilty, I am sure, sir; pray do not think him so,” resumed Jenkins, his eye lighting as he turned to Mr. Huntley. And Mr. Huntley smiled in response to the earnestness. He believe Arthur Channing guilty!
He left a message for Mr. Galloway, and quitted the office. Roland, who was very difficult to settle to work again, if once disturbed from it, strided himself across his stool, and tilted it backwards.
“I’m uncommonly glad Carrick’s coming!” cried he. “Do you remember him, Jenkins?”
“Who, sir?”
“That uncle of mine. He was at Helstonleigh three years ago.”
“I am not sure that I do, sir.”
“What a sieve of a memory you must have! He is as tall as a house. We are not bad fellows for height, but Carrick beats us. He is not married, you know, and we look to him to square up many a corner. To do him justice, he never says No, when he has the cash, but he’s often out at elbows himself. It was he who bought George his commission and fitted him out; and I know my lady looks to him to find the funds Gerald will want to make him into a parson. I wonder what he’ll do for me?”
Jenkins was about to answer, but was stopped by his cough. For some minutes it completely exhausted him; and Roland, for want of a hearer, was fain to bring the legs of his stool down again, and apply himself lazily to his work.
At this very moment, which was not much past two o’clock in the day, Bywater had Charley Channing pinned against the palings underneath the elm trees. He had him all to himself. No other boys were within hearing; though many were within sight; for they were assembling in and round the cloisters after their dinner.
“Now, Miss Charley, it’s the last time I’ll ask you, as true as that we are living here! You are as obstinate as a young mule. I’ll give you this one chance, and I’ll not give you another. I’d advise you to take it, if you have any regard for your skin.”
“I don’t know anything, Bywater.”
“You shuffling little turncoat! I don’t know that there’s any fire in that kitchen chimney of the old dean’s, but I am morally certain that there is, because clouds of black smoke are coming out of it. And you know just as well who it was that played the trick to my surplice. I don’t ask you to blurt it out to the school, and I won’t bring your name up in it at all; I won’t act upon what you tell me. There!”
“Bywater, I don’t know; and suspicion goes for nothing. Gaunt said it did not.”
Bywater gave Charley a petulant shake. “I say that you know morally, Miss Channing. I protest that I heard you mention the word ‘surplice’ to Gerald Yorke, the day there was that row in the cloisters, when Roland Yorke gave Tod a thrashing and I tore the seat out of my pants. Gerald Yorke looked ready to kill you for it, too! Come, out with it. This is about the sixth time I have had you in trap, and you have only defied me.”
“I don’t defy you, Bywater. I say that I will not tell. I would not if I knew. It is no business of mine.”
“You little ninny! Don’t you see that your obstinacy is injuring Tom Channing? Yorke is going in for the seniorship; is sure to get it—if it’s true that Pye has given the promise to Lady Augusta. But, let it come out that he was the Jack-in-the-box, and his chance falls to the ground. And you won’t say a word to do good to your brother!”
Charley shook his head. He did not take the bait. “And Tom himself would be the first to punish me for doing wrong! He never forgives a sneak. It’s of no use your keeping me, Bywater.”
“Listen, youngster. I have my suspicions; I have had them all along; and I have a clue—that’s more. But, for a certain reason, I think my suspicions and my clue point to the wrong party; and I don’t care to stir in it till I am sure. One—two—three! for the last time. Will you tell me?”
“No.”
“Then, look you, Miss Charley Channing. If I do go and denounce the wrong party, and find out afterwards that it is the wrong one, I’ll give you as sweet a drubbing as you ever had, and your girl’s face shan’t save you. Now go.”
He propelled Charley from him with a jerk, and propelled him against Mr. Huntley, who was at that moment turning the corner close to them, on his way from Mr. Galloway’s office.
“You can’t go through me, Charley,” said Mr. Huntley. “Did you think I was made of glass, Bywater?”
“My patience!” exclaimed Bywater. “Why, Harry was grumbling, not five minutes ago, that you were never coming home at all, Mr. Huntley.”
“He was, was he? Is he here?”
“Oh, he’s somewhere amongst the ruck of them,” cried Bywater, looking towards the distant boys. “He wants you to see about this bother of the seniorship. If somebody doesn’t, we shall get up a mutiny, that’s all. Here, Huntley,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “here’s an arrival from foreign parts!”
Some of the nearer boys looked round, and the word was passed to Huntley. Harry Huntley and the rest soon surrounded him, and Mr. Huntley had no reason to complain of the warmth of his reception. When news had recently arrived that Mr. Huntley was coming home, the boys had taken up the hope of his interference. Of course, schoolboy-like, they all entered upon it eagerly.
“Stop, stop, stop!” said Mr. Huntley. “One at a time. How can I hear, if you all talk together? Now, what’s the grievance?”
They detailed it as rationally and with as little noise as it was in their nature to do. Huntley was the only senior present, but Gaunt came up during the conference.
“It’s all a cram, Mr. Huntley,” cried Tod Yorke. “My brother Gerald says that Jenkins dreamt it.”
“I’ll ‘dream’ you, if you don’t keep your tongue silent, Tod Yorke,” reprimanded Gaunt. “Take yourself off to a distance, Mr. Huntley,” he added, turning to that gentleman, “it is certain that Lady Augusta said it; and we can’t think she’d say it, unless Pye promised it. It is unfair upon Channing and Huntley.”
A few more words given to the throng, upon general matters—for Mr. Huntley touched no more on the other topic—and then he continued his way to Lady Augusta’s. As he passed the house of the Reverend Mr. Pye, that gentleman was coming out of it. Mr. Huntley, a decisive, straightforward man, entered upon the matter at once, after some moments spent in greeting.
“You will pardon my speaking of it to you personally,” he said, when he had introduced the subject, “In most cases I consider it perfectly unjustifiable for the friends of boys in a public school to interfere with the executive of its master; but this affair is different. Is it, or is it not correct, that there is an intention afloat to exalt Yorke to the seniorship?”
“Mr. Huntley, you must be aware that in no case can the head-master of a public school allow himself to be interfered with, or questioned,” was the reply of the master.
“I hope you will meet this amicably,” returned Mr. Huntley.
“I have no other wish than to be friendly; quite so. We all deem ourselves under obligations to you, Mr. Pye, and esteem you highly; we could not have, or wish, a better preceptor for our sons. But in this instance, my duty is plain. The injustice—if any such injustice is contemplated—tells particularly upon Tom Channing and my son. Mr. Channing does not give ear to it; I would rather not; nevertheless, you must pardon me for acting, in the uncertainty, as though it had foundation. I presume you cannot be ignorant of the dissatisfied feeling that reigns in the school?”
“I have intimated that I will not be questioned,” said Mr. Pye.
“Quite right. I merely wished to express a hope that there may be no foundation for the rumour. If Tom Channing and Harry forfeit their rights legally, through want of merit, or ill conduct, it is not I that would urge a word in their favour. Fair play’s a jewel: and the highest boy in the school should have no better chance given him than the lowest. But if the two senior boys do not so forfeit their rights, Yorke must not be exalted above them.”
“Who is to dictate to me?” demanded Mr. Pye. “Certainly not I,” replied Mr. Huntley, in a courteous but firm tone. “Were the thing to take place, I should simply demand, through the Dean and Chapter, that the charter of the school might be consulted, as to whether its tenets had teen strictly followed.”
The head-master made no reply. Neither did he appear angry; only impassible. Mr. Huntley had certainly hit the right nail on the head; for the master of Helstonleigh College school was entirely under the control, of the Dean and Chapter.
“I can speak to you upon this all the more freely and with better understanding, since it is not my boy who stands any chance,” said Mr. Huntley, with a cordial smile. “Tom Channing heads him on the rolls.”
“Tom Channing will not be senior; I have no objection to affirm so much to you,” observed the master, falling in with Mr. Huntley’s manner, “This sad affair of his brother Arthur’s debars him.”
“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!”