Shaking hands with Lady Augusta Yorke as she turned out of Mr. Galloway’s office, was Mr. Huntley. He had only just arrived at Helstonleigh; had not yet been home; but he explained that he wished to give at once a word of pleasant news to Constance Channing of her father and mother, and, on his way to the Boundaries, was calling on Mr. Galloway.
“You will find Miss Channing at my house,” said Lady Augusta, after some warm inquiries touching Mr. and Mrs. Channing. “I would offer to go back there with you, but I am on my way to make some calls.” She turned towards the town as she spoke, and Mr. Huntley entered the office.
“I thought you were never coming home again!” cried free Roland. “Why, you have been away three months, Mr. Huntley!”
“Very nearly. Where is Mr. Galloway?”
“In his skin,” said Roland.
Jenkins looked up deprecatingly, as if he would apologize for the rudeness of Roland Yorke. “Mr. Galloway is out, sir. I dare say he will not be away more than half an hour.”
“I cannot wait now,” said Mr. Huntley. “So you are one less in this office than you were when I left?”
“The awfullest shame!” struck in Roland. “Have you heard that Galloway lost a bank-note out of a letter, sir?”
“Yes. I have heard of it from Mr. Channing.”
“And they accused Arthur Channing of taking it!” exclaimed Roland. “They took him up for it; he was had up twice to the town-hall, like any felon. You may be slow to believe it, Mr. Huntley, but it’s true.”
“It was Butterby, sir,” interposed Jenkins. “He was rather too officious over it, and acted without Mr. Galloway’s orders.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Jenkins,” rebuked Roland. “You have defended Galloway all through the piece, but he is as much to blame as Butterby. Why did he turn off Channing?”
“You do not think him guilty, Roland, I see,” said Mr. Huntley.
“I should hope I don’t,” answered Roland. “Butterby pitched upon Arthur, because there happened to be nobody else at hand to pitch upon; just as he’d have pitched upon you, Mr. Huntley, had you happened to be in the office that afternoon.”
“Mr. Arthur Channing was not guilty, I am sure, sir; pray do not think him so,” resumed Jenkins, his eye lighting as he turned to Mr. Huntley. And Mr. Huntley smiled in response to the earnestness. He believe Arthur Channing guilty!
He left a message for Mr. Galloway, and quitted the office. Roland, who was very difficult to settle to work again, if once disturbed from it, strided himself across his stool, and tilted it backwards.
“I’m uncommonly glad Carrick’s coming!” cried he. “Do you remember him, Jenkins?”
“Who, sir?”
“That uncle of mine. He was at Helstonleigh three years ago.”
“I am not sure that I do, sir.”
“What a sieve of a memory you must have! He is as tall as a house. We are not bad fellows for height, but Carrick beats us. He is not married, you know, and we look to him to square up many a corner. To do him justice, he never says No, when he has the cash, but he’s often out at elbows himself. It was he who bought George his commission and fitted him out; and I know my lady looks to him to find the funds Gerald will want to make him into a parson. I wonder what he’ll do for me?”
Jenkins was about to answer, but was stopped by his cough. For some minutes it completely exhausted him; and Roland, for want of a hearer, was fain to bring the legs of his stool down again, and apply himself lazily to his work.
At this very moment, which was not much past two o’clock in the day, Bywater had Charley Channing pinned against the palings underneath the elm trees. He had him all to himself. No other boys were within hearing; though many were within sight; for they were assembling in and round the cloisters after their dinner.
“Now, Miss Charley, it’s the last time I’ll ask you, as true as that we are living here! You are as obstinate as a young mule. I’ll give you this one chance, and I’ll not give you another. I’d advise you to take it, if you have any regard for your skin.”
“I don’t know anything, Bywater.”
“You shuffling little turncoat! I don’t know that there’s any fire in that kitchen chimney of the old dean’s, but I am morally certain that there is, because clouds of black smoke are coming out of it. And you know just as well who it was that played the trick to my surplice. I don’t ask you to blurt it out to the school, and I won’t bring your name up in it at all; I won’t act upon what you tell me. There!”
“Bywater, I don’t know; and suspicion goes for nothing. Gaunt said it did not.”
Bywater gave Charley a petulant shake. “I say that you know morally, Miss Channing. I protest that I heard you mention the word ‘surplice’ to Gerald Yorke, the day there was that row in the cloisters, when Roland Yorke gave Tod a thrashing and I tore the seat out of my pants. Gerald Yorke looked ready to kill you for it, too! Come, out with it. This is about the sixth time I have had you in trap, and you have only defied me.”
“I don’t defy you, Bywater. I say that I will not tell. I would not if I knew. It is no business of mine.”
“You little ninny! Don’t you see that your obstinacy is injuring Tom Channing? Yorke is going in for the seniorship; is sure to get it—if it’s true that Pye has given the promise to Lady Augusta. But, let it come out that he was the Jack-in-the-box, and his chance falls to the ground. And you won’t say a word to do good to your brother!”
Charley shook his head. He did not take the bait. “And Tom himself would be the first to punish me for doing wrong! He never forgives a sneak. It’s of no use your keeping me, Bywater.”
“Listen, youngster. I have my suspicions; I have had them all along; and I have a clue—that’s more. But, for a certain reason, I think my suspicions and my clue point to the wrong party; and I don’t care to stir in it till I am sure. One—two—three! for the last time. Will you tell me?”
“No.”
“Then, look you, Miss Charley Channing. If I do go and denounce the wrong party, and find out afterwards that it is the wrong one, I’ll give you as sweet a drubbing as you ever had, and your girl’s face shan’t save you. Now go.”
He propelled Charley from him with a jerk, and propelled him against Mr. Huntley, who was at that moment turning the corner close to them, on his way from Mr. Galloway’s office.
“You can’t go through me, Charley,” said Mr. Huntley. “Did you think I was made of glass, Bywater?”
“My patience!” exclaimed Bywater. “Why, Harry was grumbling, not five minutes ago, that you were never coming home at all, Mr. Huntley.”
“He was, was he? Is he here?”
“Oh, he’s somewhere amongst the ruck of them,” cried Bywater, looking towards the distant boys. “He wants you to see about this bother of the seniorship. If somebody doesn’t, we shall get up a mutiny, that’s all. Here, Huntley,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “here’s an arrival from foreign parts!”
Some of the nearer boys looked round, and the word was passed to Huntley. Harry Huntley and the rest soon surrounded him, and Mr. Huntley had no reason to complain of the warmth of his reception. When news had recently arrived that Mr. Huntley was coming home, the boys had taken up the hope of his interference. Of course, schoolboy-like, they all entered upon it eagerly.
“Stop, stop, stop!” said Mr. Huntley. “One at a time. How can I hear, if you all talk together? Now, what’s the grievance?”
They detailed it as rationally and with as little noise as it was in their nature to do. Huntley was the only senior present, but Gaunt came up during the conference.
“It’s all a cram, Mr. Huntley,” cried Tod Yorke. “My brother Gerald says that Jenkins dreamt it.”
“I’ll ‘dream’ you, if you don’t keep your tongue silent, Tod Yorke,” reprimanded Gaunt. “Take yourself off to a distance, Mr. Huntley,” he added, turning to that gentleman, “it is certain that Lady Augusta said it; and we can’t think she’d say it, unless Pye promised it. It is unfair upon Channing and Huntley.”
A few more words given to the throng, upon general matters—for Mr. Huntley touched no more on the other topic—and then he continued his way to Lady Augusta’s. As he passed the house of the Reverend Mr. Pye, that gentleman was coming out of it. Mr. Huntley, a decisive, straightforward man, entered upon the matter at once, after some moments spent in greeting.
“You will pardon my speaking of it to you personally,” he said, when he had introduced the subject, “In most cases I consider it perfectly unjustifiable for the friends of boys in a public school to interfere with the executive of its master; but this affair is different. Is it, or is it not correct, that there is an intention afloat to exalt Yorke to the seniorship?”
“Mr. Huntley, you must be aware that in no case can the head-master of a public school allow himself to be interfered with, or questioned,” was the reply of the master.
“I hope you will meet this amicably,” returned Mr. Huntley.
“I have no other wish than to be friendly; quite so. We all deem ourselves under obligations to you, Mr. Pye, and esteem you highly; we could not have, or wish, a better preceptor for our sons. But in this instance, my duty is plain. The injustice—if any such injustice is contemplated—tells particularly upon Tom Channing and my son. Mr. Channing does not give ear to it; I would rather not; nevertheless, you must pardon me for acting, in the uncertainty, as though it had foundation. I presume you cannot be ignorant of the dissatisfied feeling that reigns in the school?”
“I have intimated that I will not be questioned,” said Mr. Pye.
“Quite right. I merely wished to express a hope that there may be no foundation for the rumour. If Tom Channing and Harry forfeit their rights legally, through want of merit, or ill conduct, it is not I that would urge a word in their favour. Fair play’s a jewel: and the highest boy in the school should have no better chance given him than the lowest. But if the two senior boys do not so forfeit their rights, Yorke must not be exalted above them.”
“Who is to dictate to me?” demanded Mr. Pye. “Certainly not I,” replied Mr. Huntley, in a courteous but firm tone. “Were the thing to take place, I should simply demand, through the Dean and Chapter, that the charter of the school might be consulted, as to whether its tenets had teen strictly followed.”
The head-master made no reply. Neither did he appear angry; only impassible. Mr. Huntley had certainly hit the right nail on the head; for the master of Helstonleigh College school was entirely under the control, of the Dean and Chapter.
“I can speak to you upon this all the more freely and with better understanding, since it is not my boy who stands any chance,” said Mr. Huntley, with a cordial smile. “Tom Channing heads him on the rolls.”
“Tom Channing will not be senior; I have no objection to affirm so much to you,” observed the master, falling in with Mr. Huntley’s manner, “This sad affair of his brother Arthur’s debars him.”
“It ought not to debar him, even were Arthur guilty,” warmly returned Mr. Huntley.
“In justice to Tom Channing himself, no. But,” and the master dropped his voice to a confidential tone, “it is necessary sometimes to study the prejudices taken up by a school; to see them, and not to appear to see them—if you understand me. Were Tom Channing made head of the school, part of the school would rise up in rebellion; some of the boys would, no doubt, be removed from it. For the peace of the school alone, it could not be done. The boys would not now obey him as senior, and there would be perpetual warfare, resulting we know not in what.”
“Arthur Channing was not guilty. I feel as sure of it as I do of my own life.”
“He is looked upon as guilty by those who must know best, from their familiarity with the details,” rejoined Mr. Pye, “For my own part, I have no resource but to believe him so, I regard it as one of those anomalies which you cannot understand, or would believe in, but that it happens under your own eye; where the moment’s yielding to temptation is at variance with the general character, with the whole past life. Of course, in these cases, the disgrace is reflected upon relatives and connections, and they have to suffer for it. I cannot help the school’s resenting it upon Tom.”
“It will be cruel to deprive Tom of the seniorship upon these grounds,” remonstrated Mr. Huntley.
“To himself individually,” assented the master. “But it is well that one, promoted to a foundation-school’s seniorship, should be free from moral taint. Were there no feeling whatever against Tom Channing in the school, I do not think I could, consistently with my duty and with a due regard to the fitness of things, place him as senior. I am sorry for the boy; I always liked him; and he has been of good report, both as to scholarship and conduct.”
“I know one thing,” said Mr. Huntley: “that you may search the school through, and not find so good a senior as Tom Channing would make.”
“He would have made a very good one, there’s no doubt. Would have ruled the boys well and firmly, though without oppression. Yes, we lose a good senior in Tom Channing.”
There was no more to be said. Mr. Huntley felt that the master was thoroughly decided; and for the other matter, touching Yorke, he had done with it until the time of appointment. As he went musing on, he began to think that Mr. Pye might be right with regard to depriving Tom of the seniorship, however unjust it might appear to Tom himself. Mr. Huntley remembered that not one of the boys, except Gaunt, had mentioned Tom Channing’s name in his recent encounter with them; they had spoken of the injustice of exalting Yorke over Harry Huntley. He had not noticed it at the time.
He proceeded to Lady Augusta’s, and Constance was informed of his visit. She had three pupils at Lady Augusta’s now, for that lady had kindly insisted that Constance should bring Annabel to study with her daughters, during the absence of Mrs. Channing. Constance left them to themselves and entered the drawing-room. Pretty Constance! so fresh, so lovely, in her simple muslin dress, and her braided hair. Mr. Huntley caught her hands, and imprinted a very fatherly kiss upon her fair forehead.
“That is from the absentees, Constance. I told them I should give it to you. And I bring you the bravest news, my dear. Mr. Channing was already finding benefit from his change; he was indeed. There is every hope that he will be restored.”
Constance was radiant with delight. To see one who had met and stayed with her father and mother at their distant sojourn, was almost like seeing her parents themselves.
“And now, my dear, I want a word with you about all those untoward trials and troubles, which appear to have come thickly during my absence,” continued Mr. Huntley. “First of all, as to yourself. What mischief-making wind has been arising between you and William Yorke?”
The expression of Constance’s face changed to sadness, and her cheeks grew crimson.
“My dear, you will not misunderstand me,” he resumed. “I heard of these things at Borcette, and I said that I should undertake to inquire into them in the place of your father: just as he, health permitting him, would have undertaken for me in my absence, did any trouble arise to Ellen. Is it true that you and Mr. Yorke have parted?”
“Yes,” faltered Constance.
“And the cause?”
Constance strove to suppress her tears. “You can do nothing, Mr. Huntley; nothing whatever. Thank you all the same.”
“He has made this accusation upon Arthur the plea for breaking off his engagement?”
“I could not marry him with this cloud upon me,” she murmured. “It would not be right.”
“Cloud upon you!” hastily ejaculated Mr. Huntley. “The accusation against Arthur was the sole cause, then, of your parting?”
“Yes; the sole cause which led to it.”
Mr. Huntley paused, apparently in thought. “He is presented to Hazeldon Chapel, I hear. Did his rupture with you take place after that occurrence?”
“I see what you are thinking,” she impulsively cried, caring too much for Mr. Yorke not to defend him. “The chief fault of the parting was mine. I felt that it would not do to become his wife, being—being—” she hesitated much—“Arthur’s sister. I believe that he also felt it. Indeed, Mr. Huntley, there is no help for it; nothing can be done.”
“Knowing what I do of William Yorke, I am sure that the pain of separation must be keen, whatever may be his pride. Constance, unless I am mistaken, it is equally keen to you.”
Again rose the soft damask blush to the face of Constance. But she answered decisively. “Mr. Huntley, I pray you to allow the subject to cease. Nothing can bring about the renewal of the engagement between myself and Mr. Yorke. It is irrevocably at an end.”
“Until Arthur shall be cleared, you mean?”
“No,” she answered—a vision of Hamish and his guilt flashing across her—“I mean for good.”
“Why does not Arthur assert his innocence to Mr. Yorke? Constance, I am sure you know, as well as I do, that he is not guilty. Has he asserted it?”
She made no answer.
“As I would have wished to serve you, so will I serve Arthur,” said Mr. Huntley. “I told your father and mother, Constance, that I should make it my business to investigate the charge against him; I shall leave not a stone unturned to bring his innocence to light.”
The avowal terrified Constance, and she lost her self-possession. “Oh don’t! don’t!” she uttered. “You must not, indeed! you do not know the mischief it might do.”
“Mischief to what?—to whom?” exclaimed Mr. Huntley.
Constance buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The next moment she had raised it, and taken Mr. Huntley’s hand between hers. “You are papa’s friend! You would do us good and not harm—is it not so?” she beseechingly said.
“My dear child,” he exclaimed, quite confounded by her words—her distress: “you know that I would not harm any of you for the world.”
“Then pray do not seek to dive into that unhappy story,” she whispered. “It must not be too closely looked into.”
And Mr. Huntley quitted Constance, as a man who walks in a dream, so utterly amazed was he. What did it all mean?
As he was going through the cloisters—his nearest way to the town—Roland Yorke came flying up. With his usual want of ceremony, he passed his arm within Mr. Huntley’s. “Galloway’s come in now,” he exclaimed, “and I am off to the bank to pay in a bag of money for him. Jenkins told him you had called. Just hark at that clatter!”
The clatter, alluded to by Mr. Roland, was occasioned by the tramp of the choristers on the cloister flags. They were coming up behind, full speed, on their way from the schoolroom to enter the cathedral, for the bell had begun for service.
“And here comes that beautiful relative of mine,” continued Roland, as he and Mr. Huntley passed the cathedral entrance, and turned into the west quadrangle of the cloisters. “Would you credit it, Mr. Huntley, that he has turned out a sneak? He has. He was to have married Constance Channing, you know, and, for fear Arthur should have touched the note, he has declared off it. If I were Constance, I would never allow the fellow to speak to me again.”
Apparently it was the course Mr. Roland himself intended to observe. As the Rev. Mr. Yorke, who was coming in to service, drew near, Roland strode on, his step haughty, his head in the air, which was all the notice he vouchsafed to take. Probably the minor canon did not care very much for Mr. Roland’s notice, one way or the other; but his eye lighted with pleasure at the sight of Mr. Huntley, and he advanced to him, his hand outstretched.
But Mr. Huntley—a man given to show in his manner his likes and dislikes—would not see the hand, would not stop at all, but passed Mr. Yorke with a distant bow. That gentleman had fallen pretty deeply in his estimation, since he had heard of the rupture with Constance Channing. Mr. Yorke stood for a moment as if petrified, and then strode on his way with a step as haughty as Roland’s.
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.”
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.