“ROLAND YORKE.”
You must not think that Arthur Channing read this letter deliberately, as you have been able to read it. He had only skimmed it—skimmed it with straining eye and burning brow; taking in its general sense, its various points; but of its words, none. In his overpowering emotion—his perplexed confusion—he started up with wild words: “Oh, father! he is innocent! Constance, he is innocent! Hamish, Hamish! forgive—forgive me! I have been wicked enough to believe you guilty all this time!”
To say that they stared at him—to say that they did not understand him—would be weak words to express the surprise that fell upon them, and seemed to strike them dumb. Arthur kept on reiterating the words, as if he could not sufficiently relieve his overburdened heart.
“Hamish never did it! Constance, we might have known it. Constance, what could so have blinded our reason? He has been innocent all this time.”
Mr. Huntley was the first to find his tongue. “Innocent of what?” asked he. “What news have you received there?” pointing to the letter.
“It is from Roland Yorke. He says”—Arthur hesitated, and lowered his voice—“that bank-note lost by Mr. Galloway—”
“Well?” they uttered, pressing round him.
“It was Roland who took it!”
Then arose a Babel of voices: questions to Arthur, references to the letter, and explanations. Mr. Channing, amidst his deep thankfulness, gathered Arthur to him with a fond gesture. “My boy, there has been continual conflict waging in my heart,” he said; “appearances versus my better judgment. But for your own doubtful manner, I should have spurned the thought that you were guilty. Why did you not speak out boldly?”
“Father, how could I—believing that it was Hamish? Hamish, dear Hamish, say you forgive me!”
Hamish was the only one who had retained calmness. Remarkably cool was he. He gazed upon them with the most imperturbable self-possession—rather inclined to be amused than otherwise. “Suspect me!” cried he, raising his eyebrows.
“We did, indeed!”
“Bien obligé,” responded Mr. Hamish. “Perhaps you shared the honour of the doubt?” he mockingly added, turning to Mr. Huntley.
“I did,” replied that gentleman. “Ellen did not,” he added, losing his seriousness in a half laugh. “Miss Ellen and I have been at daggers-drawn upon the point.”
Hamish actually blushed like a schoolgirl. “Ellen knows me better,” was all he said, speaking very quietly. “I should have thought some of the rest of you had known me better, also.”
“Hamish,” said Mr. Huntley, “I think we were all in for a host of blunders.”
Mr. Channing had listened in surprise, Mrs. Channing in indignation. Her brave, good Hamish! her best and dearest!
“I cannot see how it was possible to suspect Hamish,” observed Mr. Channing.
But, before any more could be said, they were interrupted by Mr. Galloway, an open letter in his hand. “Here’s a pretty repast for a man!” he exclaimed. “I go home, expecting to dine in peace, and I find this pill upon my plate!” Pill was the very word Roland had used.
They understood, naturally, what the pill was. Especially Arthur, who had been told by Roland himself, that he was writing to Mr. Galloway. “You see, sir,” said Arthur with a bright smile, “that I was innocent.”
“I do see it,” replied Mr. Galloway, laying his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Why could you not speak openly to my face and tell me so?”
“Because—I am ashamed, sir, now to confess why. We were all at cross-purposes together, it seems.”
“He suspected that it was all in the family, Mr. Galloway,” cried Hamish, in his gay good humour. “It appears that he laid the charge of that little affair to me.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Galloway.
“We both did,” exclaimed Constance, coming forward with tears in her eyes. “Do you think that the mere fact of suspicion being cast upon him, publicly though it was made, could have rendered us as cowardly miserable as it did? Hamish, how shall we atone to you?”
“The question is, how shall I atone to you, my old friend, for the wrong done your son?” exclaimed Mr. Galloway, seizing Mr. Channing’s hand. “Arthur, you and I shall have accounts to make up together.”
“If reparation for unjust suspicion is to be the order of the day, I think I ought to have some of it,” said laughing Hamish, with a glance at Mr. Huntley.
A sudden thought seemed to strike Mr. Channing. “Huntley,” he impulsively cried, “was this the cause of displeasure that you hinted had been given you by Hamish?”
“That, and nothing else,” was Mr. Huntley’s answer. “I suppose I must take him into favour again—‘make reparation,’ as he says.”
A saucy smile crossed the lips of Hamish. It as good as said, “I know who will, if you don’t.” But Mr. Galloway was interrupting.
“The most extraordinary thing of the whole is,” he observed, with unwonted emphasis, “that we never suspected Roland Yorke, knowing him as we did know him. It will be a caution to me as long as I live, never to go again by appearances. Careless, thoughtless, impulsive, conscienceless Roland Yorke! Of course! Who else would have been likely to help themselves to it? I wonder what scales were before our eyes?”
Mr. Channing turned to his son Tom, who had been seated astride on the arm of a sofa, in a glow of astonishment, now succeeded by satisfaction. “Tom, my boy! There’ll be no particular hurry for leaving the college school, will there?”
Tom slid off his perch and went straight up to Arthur. “Arthur, I beg your pardon heartily for the harsh words and thoughts I may have given you. I was just a fool, or I should have known you could not be guilty. Were you screening Roland Yorke?”
“No,” said Arthur, “I never suspected him for a moment. As to any one’s begging my pardon, I have most cause to do that, for suspecting Hamish. You’ll be all right now, Tom.”
But now, in the midst of this demonstration from all sides, I will leave you to judge what were the feelings of that reverend divine, William Yorke. You may remember that he was present. He had gone to Mr. Channing’s house ostensibly to welcome Mr. Channing home and congratulate him on his restoration. Glad, in truth, was he to possess the opportunity to do that; but Mr. Yorke’s visit also included a purpose less disinterested. Repulsed by Constance in the two or three appeals he had made to her, he had impatiently awaited the return of Mr. Channing, to solicit his influence. Remembering the past, listening to this explanation of the present, you may imagine, if you can, what his sensations must have been. He, who had held up his head, in his haughty Yorke spirit, ready to spurn Arthur for the suspicion cast upon him, ready to believe that he was guilty, resenting it upon Constance, had now to stand and learn that the guilt lay in his family, not in theirs. No wonder that he stood silent, grave, his lips drawn in to sternness.
Mr. Galloway soon departed again. He had left his dinner untouched upon his table. Mr. Huntley took the occasion to leave with him; and, in the earnestness of discussion, they all went out with them to the hall, except Constance. This was Mr. Yorke’s opportunity. His arms folded, his pale cheek flushed to pain, he moved before her, and stood there, drawn to his full height, speaking hoarsely.
“Constance, will it be possible for you to forgive me?”
What a fine field it presented for her to play the heroine! To go into fierce declamations that she never could, and never would forgive him, but would hold herself aloof from him for ever and a day, condemning him to bachelorhood! Unfortunately for these pages, Constance Channing had nothing of the heroine in her composition. She was only one of those simple, truthful, natural English girls, whom I hope you often meet in your every-day life. She smiled at William Yorke through her glistening eye-lashes, and drew closer to him. Did he take the hint? He took her; took her to that manly breast that would henceforth be her shelter for ever.
“Heaven knows how I will strive to atone to you, my darling.”
It was a happy evening, chequered, though it necessarily must be, with thoughts of Charles. And Mr. Channing, in the midst of his deep grief and perplexity, thanked God for His great mercy in restoring the suspected to freedom. “My boy!” he exclaimed to Arthur, “how bravely you have borne it all!”
“Not always very bravely,” said Arthur, shaking his head. “There were times when I inwardly rebelled.”
“It could not have been done without one thing,” resumed Mr. Channing: “firm trust in God.”
Arthur’s cheek kindled. That had ever been present with him. “When things would wear their darkest aspect, I used to say to myself, ‘Patience and hope; and trust in God!’ But I never anticipated this bright ending,” he added. “I never thought that I and Hamish should both be cleared.”
“I cannot conceive how you could have suspected Hamish!” Mr. Channing repeated, after a pause. Of all the wonders, that fact seemed to have taken most hold of his mind.
Arthur made a slight answer, but did not pursue the topic. There were circumstances connected with it, regarding Hamish, not yet explained. He could not speak of them to Mr. Channing.
Neither were they to be explained, as it seemed to Arthur. At any rate, not at present. When they retired to rest, Hamish came into his room; as he had done that former night, months ago, when suspicion had just been thrown upon Arthur. They went up together, and Hamish, instead of turning into his own room, followed Arthur to his. He set down the candle on the table, and turned to Arthur with his frank smile.
“How is it that we can have been playing at these cross-purposes, Arthur? Why did you not tell me at the time that you were innocent?”
“I think I did tell you so, Hamish: if my memory serves me rightly.”
“Well, I am not sure; it may have been so; but in a very undemonstrative sort of manner, if you did at all. That sort of manner from you, Arthur, would only create perplexity.”
Arthur smiled. “Don’t you see? believing that you had taken it, I thought you must know whether I was innocent or guilty. And, for your sake, I did not dare to defend myself to others. Had only a breath of suspicion fallen upon you, Hamish, it might have cost my father his post.”
“What induced you to suspect me? Surely not the simple fact of being alone for a few minutes with the letter in Galloway’s office?”
“Not that. That alone would have been nothing; but, coupled with other circumstances, it assumed a certain weight. Hamish, I will tell you. Do you remember the trouble you were in at the time—owing money in the town?”
A smile parted Hamish’s lips; he seemed half inclined to make fun of the reminiscence. “I remember it well enough. What of that?”
“You contrived to pay those debts, or partially pay them, at the exact time the note was taken; and we knew you had no money of your own to do it with. We saw you also with gold in your purse—through Annabel’s tricks, do you remember?—and we knew that it could not be yours—legitimately yours, I mean.”
Hamish’s smile turned into a laugh. “Stop a bit, Arthur. The money with which I paid up, and the gold you saw, was mine; legitimately mine. Don’t speak so fast, old fellow.”
“But where did it come from, Hamish?”
“It did not come from Galloway’s office, and it did not drop from the skies,” laughed Hamish. “Never mind where else it came from. Arthur boy, I wish you had been candid, and had given me a hint of your suspicion.”
“We were at cross purposes, as you observe,” repeated Arthur. “Once plunge into them, and there’s no knowing when enlightenment will come; perhaps never. But you were not very open with me.”
“I was puzzled,” replied Hamish. “You may remember that my seeing a crowd round the Guildhall, was the first intimation I received of the matter. When they told me, in answer to my questions, that my brother, Arthur Channing, was taken up on suspicion of stealing a bank-note, and was then under examination, I should have laughed in their faces, but for my inclination to knock them down. I went into that hall, Arthur, trusting in your innocence as implicitly as I trusted in my own, boiling over with indignation against all who had dared to accuse you, ready to stand up for you against the world. I turned my eyes upon you as you stood there, and your gaze met mine. Arthur, what made you look so? I never saw guilt—or perhaps I would rather say shame, conscious shame—shine out more palpably from any countenance than it did from yours then. It startled me—it cowed me; and, in that moment, I did believe you guilty. Why did you look so?”
“I looked so for your sake, Hamish. Your countenance betrayed your dismay, and I read it for signs of your own guilt and shame. Not until then did I fully believe you guilty. We were at cross-purposes, you see, throughout the piece.”
“Cross-purposes, indeed!” repeated Hamish.
“Have you believed me guilty until now?”
“No,” replied Hamish. “After a few days my infatuation wore off. It was an infatuation, and nothing less, ever to have believed a Channing guilty. I then took up another notion, and that I have continued to entertain.”
“What was it?”
“That you were screening Roland Yorke.”
Arthur lifted up his eyes to Hamish.
“I did indeed. Roland’s excessive championship of you, his impetuous agitation when others brought it up against you, first aroused my suspicions that he himself must have been guilty; and I came to the conclusion that you also had discovered his guilt, and were generously screening him. I believed that you would not allow a stir be made in it to clear yourself, lest it should bring it home to him. Cross purposes again, you will say.”
“Ah, yes. Not so much as an idea of suspecting Roland Yorke ever came across me. All my fear was, that he, or any one, should suspect you.”
Hamish laughed as he placed his hands upon Arthur’s shoulders. “The best plan for the future will be, to have no secrets one from the other; otherwise, it seems hard to say what labyrinths we may not get into. What do you say, old fellow?”
“You began the secrets first, Hamish.”
“Did I? Well, let us thank Heaven that the worst are over.”
Ay, thank Heaven! Most sincerely was Arthur Channing doing that. The time to give thanks had come.
Meanwhile Mr. Huntley had proceed home. He found Miss Huntley in the stiffest and most uncompromising of moods; and no wonder, for Mr. Huntley had kept dinner waiting, I am afraid to say how long. Harry, who was to have dined with them that day, had eaten his, and flown off to the town again, to keep some appointment with the college boys. Miss Huntley now ate hers in dignified displeasure; but Mr. Huntley, sitting opposite to her, appeared to be in one of his very happiest moods. Ellen attributed it to the fact of Mr. Channing’s having returned home well. She asked a hundred questions about them—of their journey, their arrival—and Mr. Huntley never seemed tired of answering.
Barely was the cloth removed, when Miss Huntley rose. Mr. Huntley crossed the room to open the door for her, and bow her out. Although he was her brother, she would never have forgiven him, had he omitted that little mark of ceremony. Ellen was dutifully following. She could not always brave her aunt. Mr. Huntley, however, gave Ellen a touch as she was passing him, drew her back, and closed the door upon his sister.
“Ellen, I have been obliged to take Mr. Hamish into favour again.”
Ellen’s cheeks became glowing. She tried to find an answer, but none came.
“I find Hamish had nothing to do with the loss of the bank-note.”
Then she found words. “Oh, papa, no! How could you ever have imagined such a thing? You might have known the Channings better. They are above suspicion.”
“I did know them better at one time, or else you may be sure, young lady, Mr. Hamish would not have been allowed to come here as he did. However, it is cleared up; and I suppose you would like to tell me that I was just a donkey for my pains.”
Ellen shook her head and laughed. She would have liked to ask whether Mr. Hamish was to be allowed to come again on the old familiar footing, had she known how to frame the question. But it was quite beyond her courage.
“When I told him this evening that I had suspected him—”
She clasped her hands and turned to Mr. Huntley, her rich colour going and coming. “Papa, you told him?”
“Ay. And I was not the only one to suspect him, or to tell him. I can assure you that, Miss Ellen.”
“What did he say? How did he receive it?”
“Told us he was much obliged to us all. I don’t think Hamish could be put out of temper.”
“Then you do not dislike him now, papa?” she said, timidly.
“I never have disliked him. When I believed what I did of him, I could not dislike him even then, try as I would. There, you may go to your aunt now.”
And Ellen went, feeling that the earth and air around her had suddenly become as Eden.