“It is not fair to cast in a fellow’s teeth the shortcomings of his relations,” continued Bywater. “What with our uncles and cousins, and mothers and grandmothers, there’s sure to be one among them that goes off the square. Look at that rich lot, next door to Lady Augusta’s, with their carriages and servants, and soirées, and all the rest of their grandeur!—their uncle was hanged for sheep-stealing.”
“I’d rather steal a sheep and be hanged for it, than help myself to a nasty bit of paltry money, and then deny that I did it!” foamed Gerald. “The suspicion might have fallen on my brother, but that he happened, by good luck, to be away that afternoon. My opinion is, that Arthur Channing intended suspicion to fall upon him.”
A howl from Bywater. He had gone over, head foremost, to make acquaintance with the graves. They were too much engrossed to heed him.
“Your brother was a great deal more likely to have helped himself to it, than Arthur Channing,” raged Tom. “He does a hundred dirty things every day, that a Channing would rather cut off his arm than attempt.”
The disputants’ faces were almost touching each other, and very fiery faces they were—that is, speaking figuratively. Tom’s certainly was red enough, but Gerald’s was white with passion. Some of the bigger boys stood close to prevent blows, which Gaunt was forbidding.
“I know he did it!” shrieked Gerald. “There!”
“You can’t know it!” stamped Tom. “You don’t know it!”
“I do. And for two pins I’d tell.”
The boast was a vain boast, the heat of passion alone prompting it. Gerald Yorke was not scrupulously particular in calm moments; but little recked he what he said in his violent moods. Tom repudiated it with scorn. But there was another upon whom the words fell with intense fear.
And that was Charley Channing. Misled by Gerald’s positive and earnest tone, the boy really believed that there must be some foundation for the assertion. A wild fear seized him, lest Gerald should proclaim some startling fact, conveying a conviction of Arthur’s guilt to the minds of the school. The blood forsook his face, his lips trembled, and he pushed his way through the throng till he touched Gerald.
“Don’t say it, Gerald Yorke! Don’t!” he imploringly whispered. “I have kept counsel for you.”
“What?” said Gerald, wheeling round.
“I have kept your counsel about the surplice. Keep Arthur’s in return, if you do know anything against him.”
I wish you could have witnessed the change in Gerald Yorke’s countenance! A streak of scarlet crossed its pallor, his eyes blazed forth defiance, and a tremor, as of fear, momentarily shook him. To the surprise of the boys, who had no notion what might have been the purport of Charley’s whisper, he seized the boy by the arm, and fiercely dragged him away up the cloisters, turning the corner into the west quadrangle.
“Get down!” he hissed; “get down upon your knees, and swear that you’ll never breathe a syllable of that calumny again! Do you hear me, boy?”
“No, I will not get down,” said brave Charley.
Gerald drew in his lips. “You have heard of a wild tiger, my boy? One escaped from a caravan the other day, and killed a few people. I am worse than a wild tiger now, and you had better not provoke me. Swear it, or I’ll kill you!”
“I will not swear,” repeated the child. “I’ll try and keep the promise I gave you, not to betray about the surplice—I will indeed; but don’t you say again, please, that Arthur is guilty.”
To talk of killing somebody, and to set about doing it, are two things. Gerald Yorke’s “killing” would have amounted to no more than a good thrashing. He held the victim at arm’s length, his eyes dilating, his right hand raised, when a head was suddenly propelled close upon them from the graveyard. Gerald was so startled as to drop his hold of Charley.
The head belonged to Stephen Bywater, who must have crept across the burial-ground and chosen that spot to emerge from, attracted probably by the noise. “What’s the row?” asked he.
“I was about to give Miss Channing a taste of tan,” replied Gerald, who appeared to suddenly cool down from his passion. “He’d have got it sweetly, had you not come up. I’ll tan you too, Mr. Bywater, if you come thrusting in yourself, like that, where you are not expected, and not wanted.”
“Tan away,” coolly responded Bywater. “I can tan again. What had the young one been up to?”
“Impudence,” shortly answered Yorke. “Mark you, Miss Channing! I have not done with you, though it is my pleasure to let you off for the present. Halloa! What’s that?”
It was a tremendous sound of yelling, as if some one amidst the throng of boys was being “tanned” there. Gerald and Charley flew off towards it, followed by Bywater, who propelled himself upwards through the mullioned frame in the best way he could. The sufferer proved to be Tod Yorke, who was writhing under the sharp correction of some tall fellow, six feet high. To the surprise of Gerald, he recognized his brother Roland.
You may remember it was stated in the last chapter that Roland Yorke flew off, in wild indignation, from Lady Augusta’s news of the parting of the Reverend Mr. Yorke and Constance Channing. Roland, in much inward commotion, was striding through the cloisters on his way to find that reverend divine, when he strode up to the throng of disputants, who were far too much preoccupied with their own concerns to observe him. The first distinct voice that struck upon Roland’s ear above the general hubbub, was that of his brother Tod.
When Gerald had rushed away with Charley Channing, it had struck Tod that he could not do better than take up the dispute on his own score. He forced himself through the crowd to where Gerald had stood in front of Tom Channing, and began. For some little time the confusion was so great he could not be heard, but Tod persevered; his manner was overbearing, his voice loud.
“I say that Tom Channing might have the decency to take himself out of the school. When our friends put us into it, they didn’t expect we should have to consort with thieves’ brothers.”
“You contemptible little reptile! How dare you presume to cast aspersion at my brother?” scornfully uttered Tom. And the scorn was all he threw at him; for the seniors disdained, whatever the provocation, to attack personally those younger and less than themselves. Tod Yorke knew this.
“How dare I! Oh!” danced Tod. “I dare because I dare, and because it’s true. When my brother Gerald says he knows it was Arthur Channing helped himself to the note, he does know it. Do you think,” he added, improving upon Gerald’s suggestion, “that my brother Roland could be in the same office, and not know that he helped himself to it? He—”
It was at this unlucky moment that Roland had come up. He heard the words, dashed the intervening boys right and left, caught hold of Mr. Tod by the collar of his jacket, and lifted him from the ground, as an angry lion might lift a contemptible little animal that had enraged him. Roland Yorke was not an inapt type of an angry lion just then, with his panting breath, his blazing eye, and his working nostrils.
“Take that! and that! and that!” cried he, giving Tod a taste of his strength. “You speak against Arthur Channing!—take that! You false little hound!—and that! Let me catch you at it again, and I won’t leave a whole bone in your body!”
Tod writhed; Tod howled; Tod shrieked; Tod roared for mercy. All in vain. Roland continued his “and thats!” and Gerald and the other two absentees came leaping up. Roland loosed him then, and turned his flashing eyes upon Gerald.
“Is it true that you said you knew Arthur Channing took the bank-note?”
“What if I did?” retorted Gerald.
“Then you told a lie! A lie as false as you are. If you don’t eat your words, you are a disgrace to the name of Yorke. Boys, believe me!” flashed Roland, turning to the wondering throng—“Gaunt, you believe me—Arthur Channing never did take the note. I know it. I know it, I tell you! I don’t care who it was took it, but it was not Arthur Channing. If you listen again to his false assertions,” pointing scornfully to Gerald, “you’ll show yourselves to be sneaking curs.”
Roland stopped for want of breath. Bold Bywater, who was sure to find his tongue before anybody else, elbowed his way to the inner circle, and flourished about there, in complete disregard of the sad state of dilapidation he was in behind; a large portion of a very necessary article of attire having been, in some unaccountable manner, torn away by his recent fall.
“That’s right, Roland Yorke!” cried he. “I’d scorn the action of bringing up a fellow’s relations against him. Whether Arthur Channing took the note, or whether he didn’t, what has that to do with Tom?—or with us? They are saying, some of them, that Tom Channing shan’t sign a petition to the master about the seniorship!”
“What petition?” uttered Roland, who had not calmed down a whit.
“Why! about Pye giving it to Gerald Yorke, over the others’ heads,” returned Bywater. “You know Gerald’s crowing over it, like anything, but I say it’s a shame. I heard him and Griffin say this morning that there was only Huntley to get over, now Tom Channing was put out of it through the bother about Arthur.”
“What’s the dean about, that he does not give Pye a word of a sort?” asked Roland.
“The dean! If we could only get to tell the dean, it might be all right. But none of us dare do it.”
“Thank you for your defence of Arthur,” said Tom Channing to Roland Yorke, as the latter was striding away.
Roland looked back. “I am ashamed for all the lot of you! You might know that Arthur Channing needs no defence. He should not be aspersed in my school, Gaunt, if I were senior.”
What with one thing and another, Roland’s temper had not been so aroused for many a day. Gaunt ran after him, but Roland would not turn his head, or speak.
“Your brothers are excited against Tom Channing, and that makes them hard upon him, with regard to this accusation of Arthur,” observed Gaunt. “Tom has gone on above a bit, about Gerald’s getting his seniorship over him and Huntley. Tom Channing can go on at a splitting rate when he likes, and he has not spared his words. Gerald, being the party interested, does not like it. That’s what they were having a row over, when you came up.”
“Gerald has no more right to be put over Tom Channing’s head, than you have to be put over Pye’s,” said Roland, angrily.
“Of course he has not,” replied Gaunt. “But things don’t go by ‘rights,’ you know. This business of Arthur Channing’s has been quite a windfall for Gerald; he makes it into an additional reason why Tom, at any rate, should not have the seniorship. And there only remains Huntley.”
“He does, does he!” exclaimed Roland. “If the dean—”
Roland’s voice—it had not been a soft one—died away. The dean himself appeared suddenly at the door of the chapter-house, which they were then passing. Roland raised his hat, and Gaunt touched his trencher. The dean accosted the latter, his tone and manner less serene than usual.
“What is the cause of this unusual noise, Gaunt? It has disturbed me in my reading. If the cloisters are to be turned into a bear-garden, I shall certainly order them to be closed to the boys.”
“I’ll go and stop it at once, sir,” replied Gaunt, touching his trencher again, as he hastily retired. He had no idea that the dean was in the chapter-house.
Roland, taking no time for consideration—he very rarely did take it, or any of the Yorkes—burst forth with the grievance to the dean. Not that Roland was one who cared much about justice or injustice in the abstract; but he was feeling excessively wroth with Gerald, and in a humour to espouse Tom Channing’s cause against the world.
“The college boys are in a state of semi-rebellion, Mr. Dean, and are not so quiet under it as they might be. They would like to bring their cause of complaint to you; but they don’t dare.”
“Indeed!” said the dean.
“The senior boy leaves the school at Michaelmas,” went on Roland, scarcely giving the dean time to say the word. “The one who stands first to step into his place is Tom Channing; the next is Huntley; the last is Gerald Yorke. There is a belief afloat that Mr. Pye means to pass over the two first, without reference to their merits or their rights, and to bestow it upon Gerald Yorke. The rumour is, that he has promised this to my mother, Lady Augusta. Ought this to be so, Mr. Dean?—although my asking it may seem to be opposed to Lady Augusta’s wishes and my brother’s interests.”
“Where have you heard this?” inquired the dean.
“Oh, the whole town is talking of it, sir. Of course, that does not prove its truth; but the college boys believe it. They think,” said Roland, pointedly, “that the dean ought to ascertain its grounds of foundation, and to interfere. Tom Channing is bearing the brunt of this false accusation on his brother, which some of the cowards are casting to him. It would be too bad were Pye to deprive him of the seniorship!”
“You think the accusation on Arthur Channing to be a false one?” returned the dean.
“There never was a more false accusation brought in this world,” replied Roland, relapsing into excitement. “I would answer for Arthur Channing with my own life. He is entirely innocent. Good afternoon, Mr. Dean. If I stop longer, I may say more than’s polite; there’s no telling. Things that I have heard this afternoon have put my temper up.”
He strode away towards the west door, leaving the dean looking after him with a smile. The dean had been on terms of friendship with Dr. Yorke, and was intimate with his family. Roland’s words were a somewhat singular corroboration of Arthur Channing’s private defence to the dean only an hour ago.
Meanwhile Gaunt had gone up to scatter the noisy crew. “A nice row you have got me into with your quarrelling,” he exclaimed. “The dean has been in the chapter-house all the time, and isn’t he in a passion! He threatens to shut up the cloisters.”
The announcement brought stillness, chagrin. “What a bothering old duffer he is, that dean!” uttered Bywater. “He is always turning up when he’s not wanted.”
“Take your books, and disperse in silence,” was the command of the senior boy.
“Stop a bit,” said Bywater, turning himself round and about for general inspection. “Look at me! Can I go home?”
“My!” roared the boys, who had been too preoccupied to be observant. “Haven’t they come to grief!”
“But can I go through the streets?”
“Oh yes! Make a rush for it. Tell the folks you have been in the wars.”
CHAPTER XXX. – THE DEPARTURE
I like to see fair skies and sunshine on the morning fixed for a journey. It seems to whisper a promise that satisfaction from that journey lies before it: a foolish notion, no doubt, but a pleasant one.
Never did a more lovely morning arise to gladden the world, than that fixed upon for Mr. and Mrs. Channing’s departure. The August sky was without a cloud, the early dew glittered in the sunbeams, bees and butterflies sported amidst the opening flowers.
Mr. Channing was up early, and had gathered his children around him. Tom and Charles had, by permission, holiday that morning from early school, and Constance had not gone to Lady Augusta Yorke’s. The very excitement and bustle of preparation had appeared to benefit Mr. Channing; perhaps it was the influence of the hope which had seated itself in his heart, and was at work there. But Mr. Channing did not count upon this hope one whit more than he could help; for disappointment might be its ending. In this, the hour of parting from his home and his children, the hope seemed to have buried itself five fathoms deep, if not to have died away completely. Who, in a similar position to Mr. Channing’s, has not felt this depression on leaving a beloved home?
The parting had been less sad but for the dark cloud hanging over Arthur. Mr. Channing had no resource but to believe him guilty, and his manner to him had grown cold and stern. It was a pleasing sight—could you have looked in upon it that morning—one that would put you in mind of that happier world where partings are not.
For it was to that world that Mr. Channing had been carrying the thoughts of his children in these, the last moments. The Bible was before him, but all that he had chosen to read was a short psalm. And then he prayed God to bless them; to keep them from evil; to be their all-powerful protector. There was not a dry eye present; and Charles and Annabel—Annabel with all her wildness—sobbed aloud.
He was standing up now, supported by Hamish, his left hand leaning heavily, also for support, on the shoulder of Tom. Oh! Arthur felt it keenly! felt it as if his heart would break. It was Tom whom his father had especially called to his aid; he was passed over. It was hard to bear.
He was giving a word of advice, of charge to all. “Constance, my pretty one, the household is in your charge; you must take care of your brothers’ comforts. And, Hamish, my son, I leave Constance to your care. Tom, let me enjoin you to keep your temper within bounds, particularly with regard to that unsatisfactory matter, the seniorship. Annabel, be obedient to your sister, and give her no care. And Charley, my little darling, be loving and gentle as you always are. Upon my return—if I shall be spared to return—”
“Father,” exclaimed Arthur, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, “have you no word for me?”
Mr. Channing laid his hand upon the head of Arthur. “Bless, oh bless this my son!” he softly murmured. “And may God forgive him, if he be indeed the erring one we fear!”
But a few minutes had elapsed since Mr. Channing had repeated aloud the petition in the prayer taught us by our Saviour—“Lead us not into temptation!” It had come quickly to one of his hearers. If ever temptation assailed a heart, it assailed Arthur’s then. “Not I, father; it is Hamish who is guilty; it is for him I have to bear. Hamish, whom you are caressing, was the true culprit; I, whom you despise, am innocent.” Words such as these might have hovered on Arthur’s lips; he had nearly spoken them, but for the strangely imploring look cast to him from the tearful eyes of Constance, who read his struggle. Arthur remembered One who had endured temptation far greater than this; Who is ever ready to grant the same strength to those who need it. A few moments, and the struggle and temptation passed, and he had not yielded to it.
“Children, I do not like these partings. They always sadden my heart. They make me long for that life where partings shall be no more. Oh, my dear ones, do you all strive on to attain to that blessed life! Think what would be our woeful grief—if such can assail us there; if memory of the past may be allowed us—should we find any one of our dear ones absent—of you who now stand around me! I speak to you all—not more to one than to another—absent through his own fault, his own sin, his own carelessness! Oh, children! you cannot tell my love for you—my anxious care!—lest any of you should lose this inconceivable blessing. Work on; strive on; and if we never meet again here—”
“Oh, papa, papa,” wildly sobbed Annabel, “we shall meet again! You will come back well.”
“I trust we shall! I do trust I may! God is ever merciful and good. All I would say is, that my life is uncertain; that, if it be His will not to spare me, I shall have but preceded you to that better land. My blessing be upon you, my children! God’s blessing be upon you! Fare you well.”
In the bustle of getting Mr. Channing to the fly, Arthur was left alone with his mother. She clung to him, sobbing much. Even her faith in him was shaken. When the rupture occurred between Mr. Yorke and Constance, Arthur never spoke up to say: “There is no cause for parting; I am not guilty.” Mrs. Channing was not the only one who had expected him to say this, or something equivalent to it; and she found her expectation vain. Arthur had maintained a studied silence; of course it could only tell against him.
“Mother! my darling mother! I would ask you to trust me still, but that I see how difficult it is for you!” he said, as hot tears were wrung from his aching heart.
Hamish came in. Arthur, not caring to exhibit his emotion for every one’s benefit, retired to a distant window. “My father is in, all comfortable,” said Hamish. “Mother, are you sure you have everything?”
“Everything, I believe.”
“Well—put this into your private purse, mother mine. You’ll find some use for it.”
It was a ten-pound note. Mrs. Channing began protesting that she should have enough without it.
“Mrs. Channing, I know your ‘enoughs,’” laughed Hamish, in his very gayest and lightest tone. “You’ll be for going without dinner every other day, fearing that funds won’t last. If you don’t take it, I shall send it after you to-morrow.”
“Thank you, my dear, considerate boy!” she gratefully said, as she put up the money, which would, in truth, prove useful. “But how have you been able to get it for me?”
“As if a man could not save up his odd sixpences for a rainy day!” quoth Hamish.
She implicitly believed him. She had absolute faith in her darling Hamish; and the story of his embarrassments had not reached her ear. Arthur heard all from his distant window. “For that very money, given to my mother as a gift from him, I must suffer,” was the rebellious thought that ran through his mind.
The fly started. Mr. and Mrs. Channing and Charley inside, Hamish on the box with the driver. Tom galloped to the station on foot. Of course the boys were eager to see them off. But Arthur, in his refined sensitiveness, would not put himself forward to make one of them; and no one asked him to do so.
The train was on the point of starting. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were in their places, certain arrangements having been made for the convenience of Mr. Channing, who was partially lying across from one seat to the other; Hamish and the others were standing round for a last word; when there came one, fighting his way through the platform bustle, pushing porters and any one else who impeded his progress to the rightabout. It was Roland Yorke.
“Haven’t I come up at a splitting pace! I overslept myself, Mr. Channing, and I thought I should not be in time to give you a God-speed. I hope you’ll have a pleasant time, and come back cured, sir!”
“Thank you, Roland. These heartfelt wishes from you all are very welcome.”
“I say, Mr. Channing,” continued Roland, leaning over the carriage window, in utter disregard of danger: “If you should hear of any good place abroad, that you think I might do for, I wish you’d speak a word for me.”
“Place abroad?” repeated Mr. Channing, while Hamish burst into a laugh.
“Yes,” said Roland. “My brother George knew a fellow who went over to Austria or Prussia, or some of those places, and dropped into a very good thing there, quite by accident. It was connected with one of the embassies, I think; five or six hundred a year, and little to do.”
Mr. Channing smiled. “Such windfalls are rare. I fear I am not likely to hear of anything of the sort. But what has Mr. Galloway done to you, Roland? You are a fixture with him.”
“I am tired of Galloway’s,” frankly confessed Roland. “I didn’t enjoy myself there before Arthur left, but I am ready to hang myself since, with no one to speak to but that calf of a Jenkins! If Galloway will take on Arthur again, and do him honour, I’ll stop and make the best of it; but, if he won’t—”
“Back! back! hands off there! Are you mad?” And amidst much shouting, and running, and dragging careless Roland out of danger, the train steamed out of the station.