The Channings: A Story

by Mrs. Henry Wood

Well, the thing was in time discovered, but the mischief, I say, was done. It could not be eradicated. Charles Channing’s judgment and good sense told him that all those bygone terrors were only tricks of that wretched Martha’s: but, overcome the fear, he could not. All consideration was shown to him; he was never scolded for it, never ridiculed; his brothers and sisters observed to him entire silence upon the subject—even Annabel; and Mr. and Mrs. Channing had done reasoning lovingly with him now. It is not argument that will avail in a case like this. In the broad light of day, Charley could be very brave; would laugh at such tales with the best of them; but when night came, and he was left alone—if he ever was left alone—then all the old terror rose up again, and his frame would shake, and he would throw himself on the bed or on the floor, and hide his face; afraid of the darkness, and of what he might see in it. He was as utterly unable to prevent or subdue this fear, as he was to prevent his breathing. He knew it, in the sunny morning light, to be a foolish fear, utterly without reason: but, in the lonely night, there it came again, and he could not combat it.

Thus, it is easy to understand that the very worst subject for a ghost trick to be played upon, was Charley Channing. It was, however, going to be done. The defect—for it really is a defect—had never transpired to the College school, who would not have spared their ridicule, or spared Charley. Reared, in that point, under happier auspices, they could have given nothing but utter ridicule to the fear. Chattering Annabel, in her thoughtless communications to Caroline and Fanny Yorke, had not bargained for their reaching the ears of Tod; and Tod, when the report did reach his ears, remembered to have heard the tale before; until then it had escaped his memory.

Charley had got into hot water with some of the boys. Bywater had been owing him a grudge for weeks, on account of Charley’s persistent silence touching what he had seen the day the surplice was inked; and now there arose another grudge on Bywater’s score, and also on that of others. There is not space to enter into the particulars of the affair; it is sufficient to say that some underhand work, touching cribs, came to the knowledge of one of the under-masters—and came to him through Charley Channing.

Not that Charley went, open-mouthed, and told; there was nothing of that disreputable character—which the school held in especial dislike—the sneak, about Charles Channing. Charley would have bitten his tongue out first. By an unfortunate accident Charles was pinned by the master, and questioned; and he had no resource but to speak out. In honour, in truth, he could not do otherwise; but, the consequence was—punishment to the boys; and they turned against him. Schoolboys are not famous for being swayed by the rules of strict justice; and they forgot to remember that in Charles Channing’s place they would (at any rate, most of them) have felt bound to do the same. They visited the accident upon him, and were determined—as you have heard them express it in their own phrase—to “serve him out.”

Leaving this decision to fructify, let us turn to Constance. Lady Augusta Yorke—good-hearted in the main, liberal natured, swayed by every impulse as the wind—had been particularly kind to Constance and Annabel Channing during the absence of their mother. Evening after evening she would insist upon their spending at her house, Hamish—one of Lady Augusta’s lasting favourites, probably from his good looks—being pressed into the visit with them by my lady. Hamish was nothing loth. He had given up indiscriminate evening visiting; and, since the coolness which had arisen in the manner of Mr. Huntley, Hamish did not choose to go much to Mr. Huntley’s, where he had been a pretty constant visitor before; and he found his evenings hang somewhat heavily on his hands. Thus Constance saw a good deal of the Earl of Carrick; or, it may be more to the purpose to say, the earl saw a good deal of her.

For the earl grew to like her very much indeed. He grew to think that if she would only consent to become his wife, he should be the happiest man in ould Ireland; and one day, impulsive in his actions as was ever Lady Augusta, he told Constance so, in that lady’s presence.

Constance—much as we may regret to hear it of her—behaved in by no means a dignified manner. She laughed over it. When brought to understand, which took some little time, that she was actually paid that high compliment, she laughed in the earl’s face. He was as old as her father; and Constance had certainly regarded him much more in the light of a father than a husband.

“I do beg your pardon, Lord Carrick,” she said, apologetically “but I think you must be laughing at me.”

“Laughing at ye!” said the earl. “It’s not I that would do that. I’d like ye to be Countess of Carrick to-morrow, me dear, if you can only get over me fifty years and me grey hair. Here’s me sister—she knows that I’d like to have ye. It’s you that are laughing at me, Miss Constance; at me ould locks.”

“No, indeed, indeed it is not that,” said Constance, while Lady Augusta sat with an impassive countenance. “I don’t know why I laughed. It so took me by surprise; that was why, I think. Please do not say any more about it, Lord Carrick.”