“Yours for ever and ever,”
“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?”