CHAPTER XXVI. – CHECKMATED
Constance Channing proceeded to her duties as usual at Lady Augusta Yorke’s. She drew her veil over her face, only to traverse the very short way that conveyed her thither, for the sense of shame was strong upon her; not shame for Arthur, but for Hamish. It had half broken Constance’s heart.
There are times in our every-day lives when all things seem to wear a depressing aspect, turn which way we will. They were wearing it that day to Constance. Apart from home troubles, she felt particularly discouraged in the educational task she had undertaken. You heard the promise made to her by Caroline Yorke, to be up and ready for her every morning at seven. Caroline kept it for two mornings and then failed. This morning and the previous morning Constance had been there at seven, and returned home without seeing either of the children. Both were ready for her when she entered now.
“How am I to deal with you?” she said to Caroline, in a sad but affectionate tone. “I do not wish to force you to obey me; I would prefer that you should do it cheerfully.”
“It is tiresome to get up early,” responded Caroline. “I can’t wake when Martha comes.”
“Whether Martha goes to you at seven, or at eight, or at nine, she has the same trouble to get you up.”
“I don’t see any good in getting up early,” cried Caroline.
“Do you see any good in acquiring good habits, instead of bad ones?” asked Constance.
“But, Miss Channing, why need we learn to get up early? We are ladies. It’s only the poor who need get up at unreasonable hours—those who have their living to earn.”
“Is it only the poor who are accountable to God for waste of time, Caroline?”
Caroline paused. She did not like to give up her argument. “It’s so very low-lived to get up with the sun. I don’t think real ladies ever do it.”
“You think ‘real ladies’ wait until the sun has been up a few hours and warmed the earth for them?”
“Y—es,” said Caroline. But it was not spoken very readily, for she had a suspicion that Miss Channing was laughing at her.
“May I ask where you have acquired your notions of ‘real ladies,’ Caroline?”
Caroline pouted. “Don’t you call Colonel Jolliffe’s daughters ladies, Miss Channing?”
“Yes—in position.”
“That’s where we went yesterday, you know. Mary Jolliffe says she never gets up until half-past eight, and that it is not lady-like to get up earlier. Real ladies don’t, Miss Channing.”
“My dear, shall I relate to you an anecdote that I have heard?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Caroline, her listless mood changing to animation; anecdotes, or anything of that desultory kind, being far more acceptable to the young lady than lessons.
“Before I begin, will you tell me whether you condescend to admit that our good Queen is a ‘real lady’?”
“Oh, Miss Channing, now you are laughing at me! As if any one, in all England, could be so great a lady as the Queen.”
“Very good. When she was a little girl, a child of her own age, the daughter of one of the nobility, was brought to Kensington Palace to spend the day with her. In talking together, the Princess Victoria mentioned something she had seen when out of doors that morning at seven o’clock. ‘At seven o’clock!’ exclaimed the young visitor; ‘how early that is to be abroad! I never get out of bed until eight. Is there any use in rising so early?’ The Duchess of Kent, who was present, took up the answer: ‘My daughter may be called to fill the throne of England when she shall be grown up; therefore, it is especially necessary that she should learn the full value of time.’ You see, Caroline, the princess was not allowed to waste her mornings in bed, although she was destined to be the first lady in the land. We may be thankful to her admirable mother for making her in that, as in many other things, a pattern to us.”
“Is it a true anecdote, Miss Channing?”
“It was related to my mother, many years ago, by a lady who was, at that time, very much at Kensington Palace. I think there is little doubt of its truth. One fact we all know, Caroline: the Queen retains her early habits, and implants them in her children. What do you suppose would be her Majesty’s surprise, were one of her daughters—say, the Princess Helena, or the Princess Louise—to decline to rise early for their morning studies with their governess, Miss Hildyard, on the plea that it was not ‘lady-like’?”
Caroline’s objection appeared to be melting away under her. “But it is a dreadful plague,” she grumbled, “to be obliged to get up from one’s nice warm bed, for the sake of some horrid old lessons!”
“You spoke of ‘the poor’—those who ‘have their living to earn’—as the only class who need rise early,” resumed Constance. “Put that notion away from you at once and for ever, Caroline; there cannot be a more false one. The higher we go in the scale of life, the more onerous become our duties in this world, and the greater is our responsibility to God. He to whom five talents were intrusted, did not make them other five by wasting his days in idleness. Oh, Caroline!—Fanny, come closer and listen to me—your time and opportunities for good must be used—not abused or wasted.”
“I will try and get up,” said Caroline, repentantly. “I wish mamma had trained me to it when I was a child, as the Duchess of Kent trained the princess! I might have learned to like it by this time.”
“Long before this,” said Constance. “Do you remember the good old saying, ‘Do what you ought, that you may do what you like’? Habit is second nature. Were I told that I might lie in bed every morning until nine or ten o’clock, as a great favour, I should consider it a great punishment.”
“But I have not been trained to get up, Miss Channing; and it is nothing short of punishment to me to do so.”
“The punishment of self-denial we all have to bear, Caroline. But I can tell you what will take away half its sting.”
“What?” asked Caroline, eagerly.
Constance bent towards her. “Jesus Christ said, ‘If any will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.’ When once we learn HOW to take it up cheerfully, bravely, for His sake, looking to Him to be helped, the sting is gone. ‘No cross, no crown,’ you know, my children.”
“No cross, no crown!” Constance had sufficient cross to carry just then. In the course of the morning Lady Augusta came into the room boisterously, her manner indicative of great surprise.
“Miss Channing, what is this tale, about your brother’s having been arrested for stealing that missing bank-note? Some visitors have just called in upon me, and they say the town is ringing with the news.”
It was one of the first of Constance Channing’s bitter pills; they were to be her portion for many a day. Her heart fluttered, her cheek varied, and her answer to Lady Augusta Yorke was low and timid.
“It is true that he was arrested yesterday on suspicion.”
“What a shocking thing! Is he in prison?”
“Oh no.”
“Did he take the note?”
The question pained Constance worse than all. “He did not take it,” she replied, in a clear, soft tone. “To those who know Arthur well, it would be impossible to think so.”
“But he was before the magistrates yesterday, I hear, and is going up again to-day.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“And Roland could not open his lips to tell me of this when I came home last night!” grumbled my lady. “We were late, and he was the only one up; Gerald and Tod were in bed. I shall ask him why he did not. But, Miss Channing, this must be a dreadful blow for you all?”
“It would be far worse, Lady Augusta, if we believed him guilty,” she replied from her aching heart.
“Oh, dear! I hope he is not guilty!” continued my lady, displaying as little delicacy of feeling as she could well do. “It would be quite a dangerous thing, you know, for my Roland to be in the same office.”
“Be at ease, Lady Augusta,” returned Constance, with a tinge of irony she could not wholly suppress. “Your son will incur no harm from the companionship of Arthur.”
“What does Hamish say?—handsome Hamish! He does not deserve that such a blow should come to him.”
Constance felt her colour deepen. She bent her face over the exercise she was correcting.
“Is he likely to be cleared of the charge?” perseveringly resumed Lady Augusta.
“Not by actual proof, I fear,” answered Constance, pressing her hand upon her brow as she remembered that he could only be proved innocent by another’s being proved guilty. “The note seems to have been lost in so very mysterious a manner, that positive proof of his innocence will be difficult.”
“Well, it is a dreadful thing!” concluded Lady Augusta.
Meanwhile, at the very moment her ladyship was speaking, the magistrates were in the town-hall in full conclave—the case before them. The news had spread—had excited interest far and wide; the bench was crowded, and the court was one dense sea of heads.
Arthur appeared, escorted by his brother Hamish and by Roland Yorke. Roland was in high feather, throwing his haughty glances everywhere, for he had an inkling of what was to be the termination of the affair, and did not conceal his triumph. Mr. Galloway also was of their party.
Mr. Galloway was the first witness put forth by Mr. Butterby. The latter gentleman was in high feather also, believing he saw his way clear to a triumphant conviction. Mr. Galloway was questioned; and for some minutes it all went on swimmingly.
“On the afternoon of the loss, before you closed your letter, who were in your office?”
“My clerks—Roland Yorke and Arthur Channing.”
“They saw the letter, I believe?”
“They did.”
“And the bank-note?”
“Most probably.”
“It was the prisoner, Arthur Channing, who fetched the bank-note from your private room to the other? Did he see you put it into the letter?”
“I cannot say.”
A halt. “But he was in full possession of his eyes just then?”
“No doubt he was.”
“Then what should hinder his seeing you put the note into the letter?”
“I will not swear that I put the note into the letter.”
The magistrates pricked up their ears. Mr. Butterby pricked up his, and looked at the witness.
“What do you say?”
“I will not swear that I put the bank-note inside the letter,” deliberately repeated Mr. Galloway.
“Not swear that you put the bank-note into the letter? What is it that you mean?”
“The meaning is plain enough,” replied Mr. Galloway, calmly. “Must I repeat it for the third time? I will not swear that I put the note into the letter.”
“But your instructions to me were that you did put the note into the letter,” cried Mr. Butterby, interrupting the examination.
“I will not swear it,” reiterated the witness.
“Then there’s an end of the case!” exclaimed the magistrates’ clerk, in some choler. “What on earth was the time of the bench taken up for in bringing it here?”
And there was an end of the case—at any rate for the present—for nothing more satisfactory could be got out of Mr. Galloway.
“I have been checkmated,” ejaculated the angry Butterby.
They walked back arm-in-arm to Mr. Galloway’s, Roland and Arthur. Hamish went the other way, to his own office, and Mr. Galloway lingered somewhere behind. Jenkins—truehearted Jenkins, in the black handkerchief still—was doubly respectful to Arthur, and rose to welcome him; a faint hectic of pleasure illumining his face at the termination of the charge.
“Who said our office was going to be put down for a thief’s!” uttered Roland. “Old Galloway’s a trump! Here’s your place, Arthur.”
Arthur did not take it. He had seen from the window the approach of Mr. Galloway, and delicacy prevented his assuming his old post until bade to do so. Mr. Galloway came in, and motioned him into his own room.
“Arthur Channing,” he said, “I have acted leniently in this unpleasant matter, for your father’s sake; but, from my very heart, I believe you to be guilty.”
“I thank you, sir,” Arthur said, “for that and all other kindness. I am not as guilty as you think me. Do you wish me to leave?”
“If you can give me no better assurance of your innocence—if you can give me no explanation of the peculiar and most unsatisfactory manner in which you have met the charge—yes. To retain you here would be unjust to my own interests, and unfair as regards Jenkins and Roland Yorke.”
To give this explanation was impossible; neither dared Arthur assert more emphatically his innocence. Once convince Mr. Galloway that he was not the guilty party, and that gentleman would forthwith issue fresh instructions to Butterby for the further investigation of the affair: of this Arthur felt convinced. He could only be silent and remain under the stigma.
“Then—I had better—you would wish me, perhaps—to go at once?” hesitated Arthur.
“Yes,” shortly replied Mr. Galloway.
He spoke a word of farewell, which Mr. Galloway replied to by a nod, and went into the front office. There he began to collect together certain trifles that belonged to him.
“What’s that for?” asked Roland Yorke.
“I am going,” he replied.
“Going!” roared Roland, jumping to his feet, and dashing down his pen full of ink, with little regard to the deed he was copying. “Galloway has never turned you off!”
“Yes, he has.”
“Then I’ll go too!” thundered Roland, who, truth to say, had flown into an uncontrollable passion, startling Jenkins and arousing Mr. Galloway. “I’ll not stop in a place where that sort of injustice goes on! He’ll be turning me out next! Catch me stopping for it!”
“Are you taken crazy, Mr. Roland Yorke?”
The question proceeded from his master, who came forth to make it. Roland turned to him, his temper unsubdued, and his colour rising.
“Channing never took the money, sir! It is not just to turn him away.”
“Did you help him to take it, pray, that you identify yourself with the affair so persistently and violently?” demanded Mr. Galloway, in a cynical tone. And Roland answered with a hot and haughty word.
“If you cannot attend to your business a little better, you will get your dismissal from me; you won’t require to dismiss yourself,” said Mr. Galloway. “Sit down, sir, and go on with your work.”
“And that’s all the thanks a fellow gets for taking up a cause of oppression!” muttered Mr. Roland Yorke, as he sullenly resumed his place at the desk. “This is a precious world to live in!”
CHAPTER XXVII. – A PIECE OF PREFERMENT
Before the nine days’ wonder, which, you know, is said to be the accompaniment of all marvels, had died away, Helstonleigh was fated to be astonished by another piece of news of a different nature—the preferment of the Reverend William Yorke.
A different preferment from what had been anticipated for him; otherwise the news had been nothing extraordinary, for it is usual for the Dean and Chapter to provide livings for their minor canons. In a fine, open part of the town was a cluster of buildings, called Hazeldon’s Charity, so named from its founder Sir Thomas Hazeldon—a large, paved inclosure, fenced in by iron railings, and a pair of iron gates. A chapel stood in the midst. On either side, right and left, ran sixteen almshouses, and at the end, opposite to the iron gates, stood the dwelling of the chaplain to the charity, a fine residence, called Hazeldon House. This preferment, worth three hundred a year, had been for some weeks vacant, the chaplain having died. It was in the gift of the present baronet, Sir Frederick Hazeldon, a descendant of the founder, and he now suddenly conferred it upon the Rev. William Yorke. It took Helstonleigh by surprise. It took Mr. Yorke himself entirely by surprise. He possessed no interest whatever with Sir Frederick, and had never cast a thought to the probability of its becoming his. Perhaps, Sir Frederick’s motive for bestowing it upon him was this—that, of all the clergy in the neighbourhood, looking out for something good to fall to them, Mr. Yorke had been almost the only one who had not solicited it of Sir Frederick.
It was none the less welcome. It would not interfere in the least with the duties or preferment of his minor canonry: a minor canon had once before held it. In short, it was one of those slices of luck which do sometimes come unexpectedly in this world.
In the soft light of the summer evening, Constance Channing stood under the cedar-tree. A fine old tree was that, the pride of the Channings’ garden. The sun was setting in all its beauty; clouds of crimson and purple floated on the horizon; a roseate hue tinged the atmosphere, and lighted with its own loveliness the sweet face of Constance. It was an evening that seemed to speak peace to the soul—so would it have spoken to that of Constance, but for the ever-present trouble which had fallen there.
Another trouble was falling upon her, or seemed to be; one that more immediately concerned herself. Since the disgrace had come to Arthur, Mr. Yorke had been less frequent in his visits. Some days had now elapsed from the time of Arthur’s dismissal from Mr. Galloway’s, and Mr. Yorke had called only once. This might have arisen from accidental circumstances; but Constance felt a different fear in her heart.
Hark! that is his ring at the hall-bell. Constance has not listened for, and loved that ring so long, to be mistaken now. Another minute, and she hears those footsteps approaching, warming her life-blood, quickening her pulses: her face deepens to crimson, as she turns it towards him. She knows nothing yet of his appointment to the Hazeldon chaplaincy; Mr. Yorke has not known it himself two hours.
He came up and laid his hands upon her shoulders playfully, looking down at her. “What will you give me for some news, by way of greeting, Constance?”
“News?” she answered, raising her eyes to his, and scarcely knowing what she did say, in the confusion of meeting him, in her all-conscious love. “Is it good or bad news?”
“Helstonleigh will not call it good, I expect. There are those upon whom it will fall as a thunder-clap.”
“Tell it me, William; I cannot guess,” she said, somewhat wearily. “I suppose it does not concern me.”
“But it does concern you—indirectly.”
Poor Constance, timorous and full of dread since this grief had fallen, was too apt to connect everything with that one source. We have done the same in our lives, all of us, when under the consciousness of some secret terror. She appeared to be living upon a mine, which might explode any hour and bring down Hamish in its débris. The words bore an ominous sound; and, foolish as it may appear to us, who know the nature of Mr. Yorke’s news, Constance fell into something very like terror, and turned white.
“Does—does—it concern Arthur?” she uttered.
“No. Constance,” changing his tone, and dropping his hands as he gazed at her, “why should you be so terrified for Arthur? You have been a changed girl since that happened—shrinking, timid, starting at every sound, unable to look people in the face. Why so, if he is innocent?”
She shivered inwardly, as was perceptible to the eyes of Mr. Yorke. “Tell me the news,” she answered in a low tone, “if, as you say, it concerns me.”
“I hope it will concern you, Constance. At any rate, it concerns me. The news,” he gravely added, “is, that I am appointed to the Hazeldon chaplaincy.”
“Oh, William!” The sudden revulsion of feeling from intense, undefined terror to joyful surprise, was too much to bear calmly. Her emotion overpowered her, and she burst into tears. Mr. Yorke compelled her to sit down on the bench, and stood over her—his arm on her shoulder, her hand clasped in his.
“Constance, what is the cause of this?” he asked, when her emotion had passed.
She avoided the question. She dried her tears and schooled her face to smiles, and tried to look as unconscious as she might. “Is it really true that you have the chaplaincy?” she questioned.
“I received my appointment this evening. Why Sir Frederick should have conferred it upon me I am unable to say: I feel all the more obliged to him for its being unexpected. Shall you like the house, Constance?”
The rosy hue stole over her face again, and a happy smile parted her lips. “I once said to mamma, when we had been spending the evening there, that I should like to live at Hazeldon House. I like its rooms and its situation; I shall like to be busy among all those poor old people, but, when I said it, William, I had not the slightest idea that the chance would ever be mine.”
“You have only to determine now how soon the ‘chance’ shall become certainty,” he said. “I must take up my residence there within a month, and I do not care how soon my wife takes up hers after that.”
The rose grew deeper. She bent her brow down upon her hand and his, hiding her face. “It could not possibly be, William.”
“What could not be?”
“So soon. Papa and mamma are going to Germany, you know, and I must keep house here. Besides, what would Lady Augusta say at my leaving her situation almost as soon as I have entered upon it?”
“Lady Augusta—” Mr. Yorke was beginning impulsively, but checked himself. Constance lifted her face and looked at him. His brow was knit, and a stern expression had settled on it.
“What is it, William?”
“I want to know what caused your grief just now,” was his abrupt rejoinder. “And what is it that has made you appear so strange of late?”
The words fell on her as an ice-bolt. For a few brief moments she had forgotten her fears, had revelled in the sunshine of the happiness so suddenly laid out before her. Back came the gloom, the humiliation, the terror.
“Had Arthur been guilty of the charge laid to him, and you were cognizant of it, I could fancy that your manner would be precisely what it is,” answered Mr. Yorke.
Her heart beat wildly. He spoke in a reserved, haughty tone, and she felt a foreboding that some unpleasant explanation was at hand. She felt more—that perhaps she ought not to become his wife with this cloud hanging over them. She nerved herself to say what she deemed she ought to say.
“William,” she began, “perhaps you would wish that our marriage should be delayed until—until—I mean, now that this suspicion has fallen upon Arthur—?”
She could scarcely utter the words coherently, so great was her agitation. Mr. Yorke saw how white and trembling were her lips.
“I cannot believe Arthur guilty,” was his reply.
She remembered that Hamish was, though Arthur was not; and in point of disgrace, it amounted to the same thing. Constance passed her hand over her perplexed brow. “He is looked upon as guilty by many: that, we unfortunately know; and it may not be thought well that you should, under the circumstance, make me your wife. You may not think so.”
Mr. Yorke made no reply. He may have been deliberating the question.
“Let us put it in this light, William,” she resumed, her tone one of intense pain. “Suppose, for argument’s sake, that Arthur were guilty; would you marry me, all the same?”
“It is a hard question, Constance,” he said, after a pause.
“It must be answered.”
“Were Arthur guilty and you cognizant of it—screening him—I should lose half my confidence in you, Constance.”
That was the knell. Her heart and her eyes alike fell, and she knew, in that one moment, that all hope of marrying William Yorke was at an end.
“You think that, were he guilty—I am speaking only for argument’s sake,” she breathed in her emotion,—“you think, were I cognizant of it, I ought to betray him; to make it known to the world?”
“I do not say that, Constance. No. But you are my affianced wife; and, whatever cognizance of the matter you might possess, whatever might be the mystery attending it—and a mystery I believe there is—you should repose the confidence and the mystery in me.”
“That you might decide whether or not I am worthy to be your wife!” she exclaimed, a flash of indignation lighting up her spirit. To doubt her! She felt it keenly, Oh, that she could have told him the truth! But this she dare not, for Hamish’s sake.
He took her hand in his, and gazed searchingly into her face. “Constance, you know what you are to me. This unhappy business has been as great a trial to me as to you. Can you deny to me all knowledge of its mystery, its guilt? I ask not whether Arthur be innocent or guilty; I ask whether you are innocent of everything in the way of concealment. Can you stand before me and assure me, in all truth, that you are so?”
She could not. “I believe in Arthur’s innocence,” she replied, in a low tone.
So did Mr. Yorke, or he might not have rejoined as he did. “I believe also in his innocence,” he said. “Otherwise—”
“You would not make me your wife. Speak it without hesitation, William.”
“Well—I cannot tell what my course would be. Perhaps, I would not.”
A silence. Constance was feeling the avowal in all its bitter humiliation. It seemed to humiliate her. “No, no; it would not be right of him to make me his wife now,” she reflected. “Hamish’s disgrace may come out any day; he may still be brought to trial for it. His wife’s brother! and he attached to the cathedral. No, it would never do. William,” she said, aloud, “we must part.”
“Part?” echoed Mr. Yorke, as the words issued faintly from her trembling lips.
Tears rose to her eyes; it was with difficulty she kept them from falling. “I cannot become your wife while this cloud overhangs Arthur. It would not be right.”
“You say you believe in his innocence,” was the reply of Mr. Yorke.
“I do. But the world does not. William,” she continued, placing her hand in his, while the tears rained freely down her face, “let us say farewell now.”
He drew her closer to him. “Explain this mystery, Constance. Why are you not open with me? What has come between us?”
“I cannot explain,” she sobbed. “There is nothing for us but to part.”
“We will not part. Why should we, when you say Arthur is innocent, and I believe him to be so? Constance, my darling, what is this grief?”
What were the words but a tacit admission that, if Arthur were not innocent, they should part? Constance so interpreted them. Had any additional weight been needed to strengthen her resolution, this would have supplied it.
“Farewell! farewell, William! To remain with you is only prolonging the pain of parting.”
That her resolution to part was firm, he saw. It was his turn to be angry now. A slight touch of the haughty Yorke temper was in him, and there were times when it peeped out. He folded his arms, and the flush left his countenance.
“I cannot understand you, Constance. I cannot fathom your motive, or why you are doing this; unless it be that you never cared for me.”
“I have cared for you as I never cared for any one; as I shall never care for another. To part with you will be like parting with life.”
“Then why speak of it? Be my wife, Constance; be my wife!”
“No, it might bring you disgrace,” she hysterically answered; “and, that, you shall never encounter through me. Do not keep me, William; my resolution is irrevocable.”
Sobbing as though her heart would break, she turned from him. Mr. Yorke followed her indoors. In the hall stood Mrs. Channing. Constance turned aside, anywhere, to hide her face from her mother’s eye. Mrs. Channing did not particularly observe her, and turned to accost Mr. Yorke. An angry frown was on his brow, an angry weight on his spirit. Constance’s words and course of action had now fully impressed him with the belief that Arthur was guilty; that she knew him to be so; and the proud Yorke blood within him whispered that it was well so to part. But he had loved her with a deep and enduring love, and his heart ached bitterly.
“Will you come in and lend us your help in the discussion?” Mrs. Channing said to him, with a smile. “We are carving out the plan for our journey.”
He bowed, and followed her into the sitting-room. He did not speak of what had just occurred, leaving that to Constance, if she should choose to give an explanation. It was not Mr. Yorke’s place to say, “Constance has given me up. She has impressed me with the conviction that Arthur is guilty, and she says she will not bring disgrace upon me.” No, certainly; he could not tell them that.
Mr. Channing lay as usual on his sofa, Hamish near him. Gay Hamish, who was looking as light-faced as ever; undoubtedly, he seemed as light-hearted. Hamish had a book before him, a map, and a pencil. He was tracing out the route for his father and mother, joking always.
After much anxious consideration, Mr. Channing had determined to proceed at once to Germany. It is true that he could not well afford to do so; and, before he heard from Dr. Lamb the very insignificant cost it would prove, he had always put it from him, as wholly impracticable at present. But the information given him by the doctor altered his views, and he began to think it not only practicable, but feasible. His children were giving much help now to meet home expenses—Constance, in going to Lady Augusta’s; Arthur, to the Cathedral. Dr. Lamb strongly urged his going, and Mr. Channing himself knew that, if he could only come home restored to health and to activity, the journey instead of being an expense, would, in point of fact, prove an economy. With much deliberation, with much prayer to be helped to a right decision, Mr. Channing at length decided to go.
It was necessary to start at once, for the season was already advanced; indeed, as Dr. Lamb observed, he ought to have been away a month ago. Then all became bustle and preparation. Two or three days were wasted in the unhappy business concerning Arthur. But all the grieving over that, all the staying at home for it, could do no good; Mr. Channing was fain to see this, and the preparations were hastened. Hamish was most active in all—in urging the departure, in helping to pack, in carving out their route: but always joking.
“Now, mind, mother, as you are to be commander in chief, it is the Antwerp packet you are to take,” he was saying, in a serio-comic, dictatorial manner. “Don’t get seduced on to any indiscriminate steamer, or you may find yourselves carried off to some unknown regions inhabited by cannibals, and never be heard of again. The Antwerp steamer; and it starts from St. Katherine’s Docks—if you have the pleasure of knowing that enchanting part of London. I made acquaintance with it in a fog, in that sight-seeing visit I paid to town; and its beauty, I must confess, did not impress me. From St. Katherine’s Docks you will reach Antwerp in about eighteen hours—always provided the ship does not go to pieces.”