The Channings: A Story

by Mrs. Henry Wood

Constance smiled. She was running her eyes over the rest of the letter, which was a long one. She caught sight of Arthur’s name. There were some loving, gentle messages to him, and then these words: “Hamish says Arthur applied at Dove and Dove’s for a clerk’s place, but did not come to terms with them. We are glad that he did not. Papa says he should not like to have one of his boys at Dove and Dove’s.”

“And here’s a little bit for you, Judith,” Constance said aloud. “Tell Judith not to be over-anxious in her place of trust; and not to over-work herself, but to let Sarah take her full share. There is no hurry about the bed-furniture; Sarah can do it in an evening at her leisure.”

Judith received the latter portion of the message with scorn. “‘Tisn’t me that’s going to let her do it! A fine do it would be, Miss Constance! The first thing I shall see, when I go back now, will be her head stretched out at one of the windows, and the kidney beans left to string and cut themselves in the kitchen!”

Judith turned to depart. She never would allow any virtues to her helpmate Sarah, who gave about the same trouble to her that young servants of twenty generally give to old ones. Constance followed her to the door, saying something which had suddenly occurred to her mind about domestic affairs, when who should she meet, coming in, but the Rev. William Yorke! He had just left the Cathedral after morning prayers, and was calling at Lady Augusta’s.

Both were confused; both stopped, face to face, in hesitation. Constance grew crimson; Mr. Yorke pale. It was the first time they had met since the parting. There was an angry feeling against Constance in the mind of Mr. Yorke; he considered that she had not treated him with proper confidence; and in his proud nature—the Yorke blood was his—he was content to resent it. He did not expect to lose Constance eventually; he thought that the present storm would blow over some time, and that things would come right again. We are all too much given to trust to that vague “some time.” In Constance’s mind there existed a soreness against Mr. Yorke. He had doubted her; he had accepted (if he had not provoked) too readily her resignation of him. Unlike him, she saw no prospect of the future setting matters right. Marry him, whilst the cloud lay upon Arthur, she would not, after he had intimated his opinion and sentiments: and that cloud could only be lifted at the expense of another.

They exchanged a confused greeting; neither of them conscious how it passed. Mr. Yorke’s attention was then caught by the open letter in her hand—by the envelope bearing the foreign post-marks. “How is Mr. Channing?” he asked.

“So much better that it seems little short of a miracle,” replied Constance. “Mamma says,” glancing at the letter, “that he can walk, leaning on her arm.”

“I am so glad to hear it! Hamish told me last week that he was improving. I trust it may go on to a cure.”

“Thank you,” replied Constance. And she made him a pretty little state curtsey as she turned away, not choosing to see the hand he would fain have offered her.

Mr. Yorke’s voice brought a head and shoulders out at the breakfast-room door. They belonged to Lord Carrick. He and Lady Augusta were positively at breakfast at that hour of the day. His lordship’s eyes followed the pretty form of Constance as she disappeared up the staircase on her return to the schoolroom. William Yorke’s were cast in the same direction. Then their eyes—the peer’s and the clergyman’s—met.