The Channings

Roland burst into a glow of delight. “That’s the way to serve him, Mr. Huntley! I hope he’ll get cut by every good man in Helstonleigh.”

CHAPTER XXXIV. – GERALD YORKE MADE INTO A “BLOCK.”

The Rev. Mr. Yorke, in his surplice and hood, stood in his stall in the cathedral. His countenance was stern, absorbed; as that of a man who is not altogether at peace with himself. Let us hope that he was absorbed in the sacred service in which he was taking a part: but we all know, to our cost, that the spirit will wander at these times, and worldly thoughts obtrude themselves. The greatest divine that the Church can boast, is not always free from them.

Not an official part in the service was Mr. Yorke taking, that afternoon; the duty was being performed by the head-master, whose week it was to take it. Very few people were at service, and still less of the clergy; the dean was present, but not one of the chapter.

Arthur Channing sat in his place at the organ. Arthur’s thoughts, too, were wandering; and—you know it is of no use to make people out to be better than they are—wandering to things especially mundane. Arthur had not ceased to look out for something to do, to replace the weekly funds lost when he left Mr. Galloway’s. He had not yet been successful: employment is more easily sought than found, especially by one lying under doubt, as he was. But he had now heard of something which he hoped he might gain.

Jenkins, saying nothing to Roland Yorke, or to any one else, had hurried to Mr. Channing’s house that day between one and two o’clock; and hurrying there and back had probably caused that temporary increase of cough, which you heard of a chapter or two back. Jenkins’s errand was to inform Arthur that Dove and Dove (solicitors in the town, who were by no means so dove-like as their name) required a temporary clerk, and he thought Arthur might suit them. Arthur had asked Jenkins to keep a look-out for him.

“Is one of their clerks leaving?” Arthur inquired.

“One of them met with an accident last night up at the railway-station,” replied Jenkins. “Did you not hear of it, sir?”

“I heard of that. I did not know who was hurt. He was trying to cross the line, was he not?”

“Yes, sir. It was Marston. He had been out with some friends, and had taken, it is thought, more than was good for him. A porter pulled him back, but Marston fell, and the engine crushed his foot. He will be laid up two months, the doctor says, and Dove and Dove are looking out for some one to fill his place for the time. If you would like to take it, sir, you could be looking out for something else while you are there. You would more readily get the two hours’ daily leave of absence from a place like that, where they keep three or four clerks, than you would from where they keep only one.”

“If I like to take it!” repeated Arthur. “Will they like to take me? That’s the question. Thank you, Jenkins; I’ll see about it at once.”

He was not able to do so immediately after Jenkins left; for Dove and Dove’s offices were situated at the other end of the town, and he might not be back in time for service. So he waited and went first to college, and sat, I say, in his place at the organ, his thoughts filled, in spite of himself, with the new project.

The service came to an end: it had seemed long to Arthur—so prone are we to estimate time by our own feelings—and his voluntary, afterwards, was played a shade faster than usual. Then he left the cathedral by the front entrance, and hastened to the office of Dove and Dove.

Arthur had had many a rebuff of late, when bent on a similar application, and his experience taught him that it was best, if possible, to see the principals: not to subject himself to the careless indifference or to the insolence of a clerk. Two young men were writing at a desk when he entered. “Can I see Mr. Dove?” he inquired.

The elder of the writers scrutinized him through the railings of the desk. “Which of them?” asked he.

“Either,” replied Arthur. “Mr. Dove, or Mr. Alfred Dove. It does not matter.”

“Mr. Dove’s out, and Mr. Alfred Dove’s not at home,” was the response. “You’ll have to wait, or to call again.”

He preferred to wait: and in a very few minutes Mr. Dove came in. Arthur was taken into a small room, so full of papers that it seemed difficult to turn in it, and there he stated his business.

“You are a son of Mr. Channing’s, I believe,” said Mr. Dove. He spoke morosely, coarsely; and he had a morose, coarse countenance—a sure index of the mind, in him, as in others. “Was it you who figured in the proceedings at the Guildhall some few weeks ago?”

You may judge whether the remark called up the blood to Arthur’s face. He suppressed his mortification, and spoke bravely.

“It was myself, sir. I was not guilty. My employment in your office would be the copying of deeds solely, I presume; that would afford me little temptation to be dishonest, even were I inclined to be so.”

Had any one paid Arthur in gold to keep in that little bit of sarcasm, he could not have done so. Mr. Dove caught up the idea that the words were uttered in sarcasm, and scowled fitfully.

“Marston was worth twenty-five shillings a week to us: and gained it. You would not be worth half as much.”

“You do not know what I should be worth, sir, unless you tried me. I am a quick and correct copyist; but I should not expect to receive as much as an ordinary clerk, on account of having to attend the cathedral for morning and afternoon service. Wherever I go, I must have that privilege allowed me.”

“Then I don’t think you’ll get it with us. But look here, young Channing, it is my brother who undertakes the engaging and management of the clerks—you can speak to him.”

“Can I see him this afternoon, sir?”

“He’ll be in presently. Of course, we could not admit you into our office unless some one became security. You must be aware of that.”

The words seemed like a checkmate to Arthur. He stopped in hesitation. “Is it usual, sir?”

“Usual—no! But it is necessary in your case”

There was a coarse, pointed stress upon the “your,” natural to the man. Arthur turned away. For a moment he felt that to Dove and Dove’s he could not and would not go; every feeling within him rebelled against it. Presently the rebellion calmed down, and he began to think about the security.

It would be of little use, he was sure, to apply to Mr. Alfred Dove—who was a shade coarser than Mr. Dove, if anything—unless prepared to say that security could be given. His father’s he thought he might command: but he was not sure of that, under present circumstances, without first speaking to Hamish. He turned his steps to Guild Street, his unhappy position pressing with unusual weight upon his feelings.

“Can I see my brother?” he inquired of the clerks in the office.

“He has some gentlemen with him just now, sir. I dare say you can go in.”

There was nothing much amiss in the words; but in the tone there was. It was indicative of slight, of contempt. It was the first time Arthur had been there since the suspicion had fallen on him, and they seemed to stare at him as if he had been a hyena; not a respectable hyena either.

He entered Hamish’s room. Hamish was talking with two gentlemen, strangers to Arthur, but they were on the point of leaving. Arthur stood away against the wainscoting by the corner table, waiting until they were gone, his attitude, his countenance, his whole appearance indicative of depression and sadness.

Hamish closed the door and turned to him. He laid his hand kindly upon his shoulder; his voice was expressive of the kindest sympathy. “So you have found your way here once more, Arthur! I thought you were never coming again. What can I do for you, lad?”

“I have been to Dove and Dove’s. They are in want of a clerk. I think perhaps they would take me; but, Hamish, they want security.”

“Dove and Dove’s,” repeated Hamish. “Nice gentlemen, both of them!” he added, in his half-pleasant, half-sarcastic manner. “Arthur, boy, I’d not be under Dove and Dove if they offered me a gold nugget a day, as weighty as the Queen’s crown. You must not go there.”

“They are not agreeable men; I know that; they are not men who are liked in Helstonleigh, but what difference will that make to me? So long as I turn out their parchments properly engrossed, that is all I need care for.”

“What has happened? Why are you looking so sad?” reiterated Hamish, who could not fail to perceive that there was some strange grief at work.

“Is my life so sunny just now, that I can always be as bright as you?” retorted Arthur—for Hamish’s undimmed gaiety did sometimes jar upon his wearied spirit. “I shall go to Dove and Dove’s if they will take me,” he added, resolutely. “Will you answer for me, Hamish, in my father’s name?”

“What amount of security do they require?” asked Hamish. And it was a very proper, a very natural question; but even that grated on Arthur’s nerves.

“Are you afraid of me?” he rejoined. “Or do you fear my father would be?”

“I dare say they would take my security,” was Hamish’s reply. “I will answer for you to any amount. That is,” and again came his smile, “to any amount they may deem me good for. If they don’t like mine, I can offer my father’s. Will that do, Arthur?”

“Thank you; that is all I want.”

“Don’t go to Dove and Dove’s, old boy,” Hamish said again, as Arthur was leaving the room. “Wait patiently for something better to turn up. There’s no such great hurry. I wish there was room for you to come here!”

“It is only a temporary thing; it is not for long,” replied Arthur; and he went out.

On going back to Dove and Dove’s, the first person he saw, upon opening the door of the clerks’ room, was Mr. Alfred Dove. He appeared to be in a passion over something that had gone wrong, and was talking fast and furiously.

“What do you want?” he asked, wheeling round upon Arthur. Arthur replied by intimating that he would be glad to speak with him.

“Can’t you speak, then?” returned Mr. Alfred Dove. “I am not deaf.”

Thus met, Arthur did not repeat his wish for privacy. He intimated his business, uncertain whether Mr. Alfred Dove had heard of it or not; and stated that the security could be given.

“I don’t know what you mean about ‘security,’” was Mr. Alfred Dove’s rejoinder. “What security?”

“Mr. Dove said that if I came into your office security would be required,” answered Arthur. “My friends are ready to give it.”

“Mr. Dove told you that, did he? Just like him. He has nothing to do with the details of the office. Did he know who you are?”

“Certainly he did, sir.”

“I should have thought not,” offensively returned Mr. Alfred Dove. “You must possess some assurance, young man, to come after a place in a respectable office. Security, or no security, we can’t admit one into ours, who lies under the accusation of being light-fingered.”

It was the man all over. Hamish had said, “Don’t go to Dove and Dove’s.” Mr. Alfred Dove stood with his finger pointing to the door, and the two clerks stared in an insolent manner at Arthur. With a burning brow and rising spirit, Arthur left the room, and halted for a moment in the passage outside. “Patience, patience,” he murmured to himself; “patience, and trust in God!” He turned into the street quickly, and ran against Mr. Huntley.

For a minute he could not speak. That gentleman detected his emotion, and waited till it was over. “Have you been insulted, Arthur?” he breathed.

“Not much more so than I am now getting accustomed to,” was the answer that came from his quivering lips. “I heard they wanted a clerk, and went to offer myself. I am looked upon as a felon now, Mr. Huntley.”

“Being innocent as the day.”

“I am innocent, before God,” spoke Arthur, in the impulse of his emotion, in the fervency of his heart. That he spoke but the solemn truth, it was impossible to doubt, even had Mr. Huntley been inclined to doubt; and Arthur may be excused for forgetting his usual caution in the moment’s bitterness.

“Arthur,” said Mr. Huntley, “I promised your father and mother that I should do all in my power to establish your innocence. Can you tell me how I am to set about it?”

“You cannot do it at all, Mr. Huntley. Things must remain as they are.”

“Why?”

“I cannot explain why. I can only repeat it.”

“There is some strange mystery attaching to this.”

Arthur did not gainsay it.

“Arthur, if I am to allow the affair to rest as I find it, you must at least give me a reason why I may not act. What is it?”

“Because the investigation could only cause tenfold deeper trouble. You are very good to think of helping me, Mr. Huntley, but I must fight my own battle. Others must be quiet in this matter—for all our sakes.”

Mr. Huntley gazed after Arthur as he moved away. Constance first! Arthur next! What could be the meaning of it all? Where did the mystery lie? A resolution grew up in Mr. Huntley’s heart that he would fathom it, for private reasons of his own; and, in the impulse of the moment, he bent his steps there and then, towards the police-station, and demanded an interview with Roland Yorke’s bête noire, Mr. Butterby.

But the cathedral is not quite done with for the afternoon.

Upon the conclusion of service, the dean lingered a few minutes in the nave, speaking to one of the vergers. When he turned to continue his way, he encountered the Rev. Mr. Pye, who had been taking off his surplice in the vestry. The choristers had been taking off their surplices also, and were now trooping through the cloisters back to the schoolroom, not more gently than usual. The dean saluted Mr. Pye, and they walked out together.

“It is impossible to keep them quiet unless one’s eye is continually upon them!” exclaimed the head-master, half apologetically, as they came in view of the rebels. He had a great mind to add, “And one’s cane.”

“Boys will be boys,” said the dean. “How has this foolish opinion arisen among them, that the names, standing first on the roll for the seniorship, will not be allowed to compete for it?” continued he, with much suavity.

Mr. Pye looked rather flushed. “Really I am unable to say, Mr. Dean. It is difficult to account for all the notions taken up by schoolboys.”

“Boys do take up strange notions,” blandly assented the dean. “But, I think, were I you, Mr. Pye, I would set their minds at rest in this respect. You have not yet deemed it worth while, I dare say: but it may perhaps be as well to do so. When the elders of a school once take up the idea that their studies may not meet with due reward, it tends to render them indifferent. I remember once—it was just after I came here as dean, many years ago—the head-master of the school exalted a boy to be senior who stood sixth or seventh on the rolls, and was positively half an idiot. But those times are past.”

“Certainly they are,” remarked the master.

“It was an unpleasant duty I had to perform then,” continued the dean, in the same agreeable tone, as if he were relating an anecdote: “unpleasant both for the parents of the boy, and for the head-master. But, as I remark, such things could not occur now. I think I would intimate to the king’s scholars that they have nothing to fear.”

“It shall be done, Mr. Dean,” was the response of the master; and they exchanged bows as the dean turned into the deanery. “She’s three parts a fool, is that Lady Augusta,” muttered the master to the cloister-flags as he strode over them. “Chattering magpie!”

As circumstances had it, the way was paved for the master to speak at once. Upon entering the college schoolroom, in passing the senior desk, he overheard whispered words of dispute between Gerald Yorke and Pierce senior, touching this very question, the seniorship. The master reached his own desk, gave it a sharp rap with a cane that lay near to hand, and spoke in his highest tone, looking red and angry.

“What are these disputes that appear to have been latterly disturbing the peace of the school? What is that you are saying, Gerald Yorke?—that the seniorship is to be yours?”

Gerald Yorke looked red in his turn, and somewhat foolish. “I beg your pardon, sir; I was not saying precisely that,” he answered with hesitation.

“I think you were saying precisely that,” was the response of the master. “My ears are quicker than you may fancy, Mr. Yorke. If you really have been hugging yourself with the notion that the promotion will be yours, the sooner you disabuse your mind of it, the better. Whoever gains the seniorship will gain it by priority of right, by scholarship, or by conduct—as the matter may be. Certainly not by anything else. Allow me to recommend you, one and all”—and the master threw his eyes round the desks generally, and gave another emphatic stroke with the cane—“that you concern yourselves with your legitimate business; not with mine.”

Gerald did not like the reproof, or the news. He remained silent and sullen until the conclusion of school, and then went tearing home.

“A pretty block you have made of me!” he uttered, bursting into the presence of Lady Augusta, who had just returned home, and sat fanning herself on a sofa before an open window.

“Why, what has taken you?” returned her ladyship.

“It’s a shame, mother! Filling me up with the news that I was to be senior? And now Pye goes and announces that I’m a fool for supposing so, and that it’s to go in regular rotation.”

“Pye does not mean it,” said my lady. “There, hold your tongue, Gerald. I am too hot to talk.”

“I know that every fellow in the school will have the laugh at me, if I am to be made a block of, like this!” grumbled Gerald.

CHAPTER XXXV. – THE EARL OF CARRICK

On a fine afternoon in August—and the month was now drawing towards its close—the 2.25 train from London steamed into the station at Helstonleigh, eight minutes behind time, and came to a standstill. Amongst the passengers who alighted, was a gentleman of middle age, as it is called—in point of fact, he had entered his fiftieth year, as the peerage would have told any curious inquirer. As he stepped out of a first-class carriage, several eyes were drawn towards him, for he was of notable height, towering above every one; even above Roland Yorke, who was of good height himself, and stood on the platform waiting for him.

It was the Earl of Carrick, brother to Lady Augusta Yorke, and much resembling her—a pleasant, high cheek-boned, easy face, betraying more of good humour than of high or keen intellect, and nothing of pride. The pride of the young Yorkes was sometimes talked of in Helstonleigh, but it came from their father’s side, not from Lady Augusta’s. The earl spoke with a slight brogue, and shook both Roland’s hands heartily, as soon as he found that it was to Roland they belonged.

“Sure then! but I didn’t know ye, Roland! If ye had twenty years more on to ye’re head, I should have thought it was ye’re father.”

“Have I grown like him, Uncle Carrick?”

“Ye’ve grown out of knowledge, me boy. And how’s ye’re mother, and how are the rest of ye?”

“Stunning,” responded Roland. “They are all outside. She would bring up the whole caravan. The last time the lot came to the station, the two young ones got upon the line to dance a hornpipe on the rails; so she has kept them by her, and is making Gerald and Tod look after them. Where’s your luggage, Uncle Carrick? Have you brought a servant?”

“Not I,” replied the earl. “Servants are only troubles in other folk’s houses, and me bit of luggage isn’t so much but I can look after it meself. I hope they put it in,” he continued, looking about amid the boxes and portmanteaus, and unable to see his own.

The luggage was found at last, and given in charge of a porter; and Lord Carrick went out to meet his relatives. There were enough of them to meet—the whole caravan, as Roland had expressed it. Lady Augusta sat in her barouche—her two daughters and Constance and Annabel Channing with her. Little Percy and Frank, two most troublesome children, were darting in and out amidst the carriages, flys, and omnibuses; and Gerald and Tod had enough to do to keep them out of danger. It was so like Lady Augusta—bringing them all to the station to welcome their uncle! Warm-hearted and impulsive, she had little more judgment than a child. Constance had in vain protested against herself and Annabel being pressed into the company; but her ladyship looked upon it as a sort of triumphal expedition, and was deaf to remonstrances.

The earl, warm-hearted and impulsive also, kissed them all, Constance included. She could not help herself; before she was aware of the honour intended her, the kiss was given—a hearty smack, as all the rest had. The well-meaning, simple-minded Irishman could not have been made to understand why he should not give a kiss of greeting to Constance as readily as he gave it to his sister, or his sister’s daughters. He protested that he remembered Constance and Annabel well. It may be questioned whether there was not more of Irish politeness than of truth in the assertion, though he had seen them occasionally, during his visit of three years ago.

How were they all to get home? In and on the barouche, as all, except Roland, had come, to the gratification of the curious town? Lord Carrick wished to walk; his long legs were cramped: but Lady Augusta would not hear of it, and pulled him into the carriage, Gerald, Percy, and Frank were fighting for places on the box beside the driver, Tod intending to hang on behind, as he had done in coming, when the deep-toned college bell struck out a quarter to three, and the sound came distinctly to their ears, borne from the distance. It put a stop to the competition, so far as Gerald was concerned. He and Tod, startled half out of their senses, for they had not observed the lapse of time, set off on foot as hard as they could go.

Meanwhile, Roland, putting aside the two young ones with his strong hand, chose to mount the box himself; at which they both began to shriek and roar. Matters were compromised after a while; Percy was taken up by Roland, and Frank was, by some process of packing, stowed away inside. Then the cargo started! Lady Augusta happy as a princess, with her newly-met brother and her unruly children, and not caring in the least for the gaze of the people who stood in the street, or came rushing to their windows and doors to criticise the load.

Crowded as the carriage was, it was pleasanter to be in it, on that genial day, than to be at work in close rooms, dark shops, or dull offices. Amongst others, who were so confined and hard at work, was Jenkins at Mr. Galloway’s. Poor Jenkins had not improved in health during the week or two that had elapsed since you last saw him. His cough was more troublesome still, and he was thinner and weaker. But Jenkins, humble and conscientious, thinking himself one who was not worth thinking of at all in comparison with others, would have died at his post rather than give in. Certainly, Arthur Channing had been discharged at a most inopportune moment, for Mr. Galloway, as steward to the Dean and Chapter, had more to do about Michaelmas, than at any other time of the year. From that epoch until November, when the yearly audit took place, there was a good deal of business to be gone through.

On this afternoon, Jenkins was particularly busy. Mr. Galloway was away from home for a day or two—on business connected with that scapegrace cousin of his, Roland Yorke proclaimed; though whether Mr. Roland had any foundation for the assertion, except his own fancy, may be doubted—and Jenkins had it all upon his own shoulders. Jenkins, unobtrusive and meek though he was, was perfectly competent to manage, and Mr. Galloway left him with entire trust. But it is one thing to be competent to manage, and another thing to be able to do two persons’ work in one person’s time; and, that, Jenkins was finding this afternoon. He had letters to write; he had callers to answer; he had the general business of the office to attend to; he had the regular deeds to prepare and copy. The copying of those deeds was the work belonging to Roland Yorke. Roland did not seem to be in a hurry to come to them. Jenkins cast towards them an anxious eye, but Jenkins could do no more, for his own work could not be neglected. He felt very unwell that afternoon—oppressed, hot, unable to breathe. He wiped the moisture from his brow three or four times, and then thought he might be the better for a little air, and opened the window. But the breeze, gentle as it was, made him cough, and he shut it again.