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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?”

“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 hoarsely.

“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 God 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 God.”

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 God!’ But I never anticipated this bright ending,” he added. “I never thought that I and Hamish should both be cleared.”

“I cannot conceive how you could have suspected Hamish!” 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 circumstances 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 circumstances, it assumed 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—shine 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 championship 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 passing 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 assure 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.