What did it contain? For one thing, It contained a bank-note for twenty pounds. But the contents? Mr. Galloway gazed at it and rubbed his brow, and gazed again. He took off his spectacles, and put them on; he looked at the bank-note, and he read and re-read the letter; for it completely upset the theory and set at nought the data he had been going upon; especially the data of the last few hours.

"The finder of that lost twenty-pound note sends it back to Mr. Galloway. His motive in doing so is that the wrongly suspected may be cleared. He who was publicly accused of the offence was innocent, as were all others upon whom suspicion (though not acted upon) may have fallen. The writer of this alone took the note, and now restores it."

Abrupt and signatureless, such was the letter. When Mr. Galloway had sufficiently overcome his surprise to reason rationally, it struck him as being a singular coincidence that this should come to him on the day when the old affair had been renewed again. Since its bustle had died out at the time of the occurrence, Mr. Galloway did not remember to have voluntarily spoken of it, until that morning with Roland Yorke.

He took up the bank-note. Was it the one actually taken—the same note—kept possibly, in fear, and now returned? He had no means of knowing. He thought it was not the same. His recollection of the lost note had seemed to be that it was a dirty note, which must have passed through many hands; but he had never been quite clear upon that point. This note was clean and crisp. Who had taken it? Who had sent it back? It quite disposed of that disagreeable suspicion touching his cousin. Had his cousin so far forgotten himself as to take the note, he would not have been likely to return it: he knew nothing of the proceedings which had taken place in Helstonleigh, for Mr. Galloway had never mentioned them to him. The writer of this letter was cognizant of them, and had sent it that they might be removed.

At the first glance, it of course appeared to be proof positive that Arthur Channing was not guilty. But Mr. Galloway was not accustomed to take only the superficial view of things: and it struck him, as it would strike others, that this might be, after all, a refined bit of finessing on Arthur's own part to remove suspicion from himself. True, the cost of doing so was twenty pounds: but what was that compared with the restoration of his good name?

The letter bore the London post-mark. There was not a doubt that it had been there posted. That betrayed nothing. Arthur, or any one else, could have a letter posted there, if wishing to do it. "Where there's a will, there's a way," thought Mr. Galloway. But again, where was Arthur Channing to procure twenty pounds from? Mr. Galloway did not think that he could procure this sum from anywhere, or that he possessed, himself, a twentieth part of it. So far the probability was against Arthur's being the author. Mr. Galloway quite lost himself in conjectures. Why should it have been addressed to his residence, and not to the office? He had been expecting a letter from one, that afternoon, who always did address to his residence: and that letter, it appeared, had not arrived. However, that had nothing to do with this. Neither paper nor writing afforded any clue to the sender, and the latter was palpably disguised.

He called in Roland Yorke, for the purpose of putting to him a few useless questions—as a great many of us do when we are puzzled—questions, at any rate, that could throw no light upon the main subject.

"What did John say when he brought this letter?"

"Only what I told you, sir. That you expected a letter addressed to the house, and ordered him to bring it round."

"But this is not the letter I expected," tapping it with his finger, and looking altogether so puzzled and astonished that Roland stared in his turn.

"It's not my fault," returned he. "Shall I run round, sir, and ask John about it?"

"No," testily answered Mr. Galloway. "Don't be so fond of running round. This letter—There's some one come into the office," he broke off. Roland turned with alacrity, but very speedily appeared again, on his best behaviour, bowing as he showed in the Dean of Helstonleigh.

Mr. Galloway rose, and remained standing. The dean entered upon the business which had brought him there, a trifling matter connected with the affairs of the chapter. This over, Mr. Galloway took up the letter and showed it to him. The dean read it, and looked at the bank-note.

"I cannot quite decide in what light I ought to take it, sir," remarked Mr. Galloway. "It either refutes the suspicion of Arthur Channing's guilt, or else it confirms it."

"In what way confirms it? I do not understand you," said the dean.

"It may have come from himself, Mr. Dean. A wheel within a wheel."

The dean paused to revolve the proposition, and then shook his head negatively. "It appears to me to go a very great way towards proving his innocence," he observed. "The impression upon my own mind has been, that it was not he who took it—as you may have inferred, Mr. Galloway, by my allowing him to retain his post in the cathedral."

"But, sir, if he is innocent, who is guilty?" continued Mr. Galloway, in a tone of remonstrance.

"That is more than I can say," replied the dean. "But for the circumstances appearing to point so strongly to Arthur Channing, I never could have suspected him at all. A son of Mr. Channing's would have been altogether above suspicion, in my mind: and, as I tell you, for some time I have not believed him to be guilty."

"If he is not guilty—" Mr. Galloway paused; the full force of what he was about to say, pressing strongly upon his mind. "If he is not guilty, Mr. Dean, there has been a great deal of injustice done-not only to himself—"

"A great deal of injustice is committed every day, I fear," quietly remarked the dean.

"Tom Channing will have lost the seniorship for nothing!" went on Mr. Galloway, in a perturbed voice, not so much addressing the dean, as giving vent to his thoughts aloud.

"Yes," was the answer, spoken calmly, and imparting no token of what might be the dean's private sentiments upon the point. "You will see to that matter," the dean continued, referring to his own business there, as he rose from his chair.

"I will not forget it, Mr. Dean," said Mr. Galloway. And he escorted the dean to the outer door, as was his custom when honoured by that dignitary with a visit, and bowed him out.

Roland just then looked a pattern of industry. He had resumed his seat, after rising in salutation as the dean passed through the office, and was writing away like a steam-engine. Mr. Galloway returned to his own room, and set himself calmly to consider all the bearings of this curious business. The great bar against his thinking Arthur innocent, was the difficulty of fixing upon any one else as likely to have been guilty. Likely! he might almost have said as possible to have been guilty. "I have a very great mind," he growled to himself, "to send for Butterby, and let him rake it all up again!" The uncertainty vexed him, and it seemed as if the affair was never to have an end. "What, if I show Arthur Channing the letter first, and study his countenance as he looks at it? I may gather something from that. I don't fancy he'd be an over good actor, as some might be. If he has sent this money, I shall see it in his face."

Acting upon the moment's impulse, he suddenly opened the door of the outer office, and there found that Mr. Roland's industry had, for the present, come to an end. He was standing before the window, making pantomimic signs through the glass to a friend of his, Knivett. His right thumb was pointed over his shoulder towards the door of Mr. Galloway's private room; no doubt, to indicate a warning that that gentleman was within, and that the office, consequently, was not free for promiscuous intruders. A few sharp words of reprimand to Mr. Roland ensued, and then he was sent off with a message to Arthur Channing.

It brought Arthur back with Roland. Mr. Galloway called Arthur into his own room, closed the door, and put the letter into his hand in silence.

He read it twice over before he could understand it; indeed, he did not do so fully then. His surprise appeared to be perfectly genuine, and so Mr. Galloway thought it. "Has this letter been sent to you, sir? Has any money been sent to you?"

"This has been sent to me," replied Mr. Galloway, tossing the twenty-pound note to him. "Is it the one that was taken, Channing?"

"How can I tell, sir?" said Arthur, in much simplicity. And Mr. Galloway's long doubts of him began to melt away.

"You did not send the money—to clear yourself?"

Arthur looked up in surprise. "Where should I get twenty pounds from?" he asked. "I shall shortly have a quarter's salary from Mr. Williams: but it is not quite due yet. And it will not be twenty pounds, or anything like that amount."

Mr. Galloway nodded. It was the thought which had struck himself. Another thought, however, was now striking Arthur; a thought which caused his cheek to flush and his brow to lower. With the word "salary" had arisen to him the remembrance of another's salary due about this time; that of his brother Hamish. Had Hamish been making this use of it—to remove the stigma from him? The idea received additional force from Mr. Galloway's next words: for they bore upon the point.

"This letter is what it purports to be: a missive from the actual thief; or else it comes from some well-wisher of yours, who sacrifices twenty pounds to do you a service. Which is it?"

Mr. Galloway fixed his eyes on Arthur's face and could not help noting the change which had come over it, over his bearing altogether. The open candour was gone: and in its place reigned the covert look, the hesitating manner, the confusion which had characterized him at the period of the loss. "All I can say, sir, is, that I know nothing of this," he presently said. "It has surprised me as much as it can surprise any one."

"Channing!" impulsively exclaimed Mr. Galloway, "your manner and your words are opposed to each other, as they were at the time. The one gives the lie to the other. But I begin to believe you did not take it."

"I did not," returned Arthur.

"And therefore—as I don't like to be played with and made sport of, like a cat tormenting a mouse—I think I shall give orders to Butterby for a fresh investigation."

It startled Arthur. Mr. Galloway's curiously significant tone, his piercing gaze upon his face, also startled him. "It would bring no satisfaction, sir," he said. "Pray do not. I would far rather continue to bear the blame."

A pause. A new idea came glimmering into the mind of Mr. Galloway. "Whom are you screening?" he asked. But he received no answer.

"Is it Roland Yorke?"

"Roland Yorke!" repeated Arthur, half reproachfully. "No, indeed. I wish every one had been as innocent of it as was Roland Yorke."

In good truth, Mr. Galloway had only mentioned Roland's name as coming uppermost in his mind. He knew that no suspicion attached to Roland. Arthur resumed, in agitation:

"Let the matter drop, sir. Indeed, it will be better. It appears, now, that you have the money back again; and, for the rest, I am willing to take the blame, as I have done."

"If I have the money back again, I have not other things back again," crossly repeated Mr. Galloway. "There's the loss of time it has occasioned, the worry, the uncertainty: who is to repay me all that?"

"My portion in it has been worse than yours, sir," said Arthur, in a low, deep tone. "Think of my loss of time; my worry and uncertainty; my waste of character; my anxiety of mind: they can never be repaid to me."

"And whose the fault? If you were truly innocent, you might have cleared yourself with a word."

Arthur knew he might. But that word he had not dared to speak. At this juncture, Roland Yorke appeared. "Here's Jenner's old clerk come in, sir," said he to his master. "He wants to see you, he says."

"He can come in," replied Mr. Galloway. "Are you getting on with that copying?" he added to Arthur, as the latter was going out.

"Yes, sir."

The gentleman, whom Roland Yorke designated as "Jenner's old clerk," was shut in with Mr. Galloway; and Roland, who appeared to be on the thorns of curiosity, arrested Arthur.

"I say, what is it that's agate? He has been going into fits, pretty near, over some letter that came, asking me five hundred questions about it. What have you to do with it? What does he want with you?"

"Some one has been sending him back the money, Roland. It came in a letter."

Roland opened his eyes. "What money?"

"The money that was lost. A twenty-pound note has come. He asked me whether it was the veritable note that was taken."

"A twenty-pound note come!" repeated puzzled Roland.

"It's quite true, Roland. It purports to be sent by the stealer of the money for the purpose of clearing me."

Roland stood for a few moments, profound surprise on his face, and then began to execute a triumphant hornpipe amidst the desks and stools of the office. "I said it would come right some time; over and over again I said it! Give us your hand, old fellow! He's not such a bad trump after all, that thief!"

"Hush, Roland! you'll be heard. It may not do me much good. Galloway seems to doubt me still."

"Doubt you still!" cried Roland, stopping short in his dance, and speaking in a very explosive tone. "Doubt you still! Why, what would he have?"

"I don't know;" sighed Arthur. "I have assured him I did not send it; but he fancies I may have done it to clear myself. He talks of calling in Butterby again."

"My opinion then, is, that he wants to be transported, if he is to turn up such a heathen as that!" stamped Roland. "What would he have, I ask? Another twenty, given him for interest? Arthur, dear old fellow, let's go off together to Port Natal, and leave him and his office to it! I'll find the means, if I rob his cash-box to get them!"

But Arthur was already beyond hearing, having waved his adieu to Roland Yorke and his impetuous but warm-hearted championship. Anxious to get on with the task he had undertaken, he hastened home. Constance was in the hall when he entered, having just returned from Lady Augusta Yorke's.

His confidant throughout, his gentle soother and supporter, his ever ready adviser, Arthur drew her into one of the rooms, and acquainted her with what had occurred. A look of terror rose to her face, as she listened.

"Hamish has done it!" she uttered, in a whisper. "This puts all doubt at an end. There are times—they have been times"—she burst into tears as she spoke—"when I have fondly tried to cheat myself that we were suspecting him wrongfully. Arthur! others suspect him."

Arthur's face reflected the look that was upon hers. "I trust not!"

"But they do. Ellen Huntley dropped a word inadvertently, which convinces me that he is in some way doubted there. She caught it up again in evident alarm, ere it was well spoken; and I dared not pursue the subject. It is Hamish who has sent this money."

"You speak confidently, Constance."

"Listen. I know that he has drawn money—papa's salary and his own: he mentioned it incidentally. A few days ago I asked him for money for housekeeping purposes, and he handed me a twenty-pound note, in mistake for a five-pound. He discovered the mistake before I did, and snatched it back again in some confusion."

'I can't give you that,' he said in a laughing manner, when he recovered himself. 'That has a different destination.' Arthur! that note, rely upon it, was going to Mr. Galloway."

"When was this?" asked Arthur.

"Last week. Three or four days ago."

Trifling as the incident was, it seemed to bear out their suspicions, and Arthur could only come to the same conclusion as his sister: the thought had already crossed him, you remember.

"Do not let it pain you thus, Constance," he said, for her tears were falling fast. "He may not call in Butterby. Your grieving will do no good."

"I cannot help it," she exclaimed, with a burst of anguish. "How God is trying us!"

Ay! even as silver, which must be seven times purified, ere it be sufficiently refined.



CHAPTER XLVII.

DARK CLOUDS.

Constance Channing sat, her forehead buried in her hands. How God was trying them! The sentence, wrung from her in the bitterness of her heart, but expressed the echo of surrounding things. Her own future blighted; Arthur's character gone; Tom lost the seniorship; Charley not heard of, dead or alive! There were moments, and this was one of them, when Constance felt almost beyond the pale of hope. The college school, meanwhile existed in a state of constant suspense, the sword of terror ever hanging over its head. Punishment for the present was reserved; and what the precise punishment would be when it came, none could tell. Talkative Bywater was fond of saying that it did not matter whether Miss Charley turned up or not, so far as their backs were concerned: they would be made to tingle, either way.

Arthur, after communicating to Constance the strange fact of the return of the money to Mr. Galloway, shut himself up in the study to pursue his copying. Tea-time arrived, and Sarah brought in the tea-things. But neither Hamish nor Tom had come in, and Constance sat alone, deep in unpleasant thoughts.

That it was Hamish who had now returned the money to Mr. Galloway, Constance could not entertain the slightest doubt. It had a very depressing effect upon her. It could not render worse what had previously happened, indeed, it rather mended it, insomuch as that it served to show some repentance, some good feeling; but it made the suspicion against Hamish a certainty; and there had been times when Constance had been beguiled into thinking it only a suspicion. And now came this new fear of Mr. Butterby again!

Hamish's own footstep in the hall. Constance roused herself. He came in, books under his arm, as usual, and his ever-gay face smiling. There were times when Constance almost despised him for his perpetual sunshine. The seriousness which had overspread Hamish at the time of Charley's disappearance had nearly worn away. In his sanguine temperament, he argued that not finding the body was a proof that Charley was yet alive, and would come forth in a mysterious manner one of these days.

"Have I kept you waiting tea, Constance?" began he. "I came home by way of Close Street, and was called into Galloway's by Roland Yorke, and then got detained further by Mr. Galloway. Where's Arthur?"

"He has undertaken some copying for Mr. Galloway, and is busy with it," replied Constance in a low tone. "Hamish!" raising her eyes to his face, as she gathered resolution to speak of the affair: "have you heard what has happened?"

"That some good fairy has forwarded a bank-note to Galloway on the wings of the telegraph? Roland Yorke would not allow me to remain in ignorance of that. Mr. Galloway did me the honour to ask whether I had sent it."

"You!" uttered Constance, regarding the avowal only from her own point of view. "He asked whether you had sent it?"

"He did."

She gazed at Hamish as if she would read his very soul. "And what did—what did you answer?"

"Told him I wished a few others would suspect me of the same, and count imaginary payments for real ones."

"Hamish!" she exclaimed, the complaint wrung from her: "how can you be so light, so cruel, when our hearts are breaking?"

Hamish, in turn, was surprised at this. "I, cruel! In what manner, Constance? My dear, I repeat to you that we shall have Charley back again. I feel sure of it; and it has done away with my fear. Some inward conviction, or presentiment—call it which you like—tells me that we shall; and I implicitly trust to it. We need not mourn for him."

"It is not for Charley: I do not speak of Charley now," she sadly reiterated. "You are straying from the point. Hamish, have you no love left for Arthur?"

"I have plenty of love for every one," said Mr. Hamish.

"Then how can you behave like this? Arthur is not guilty; you know he is not. And look what he has to bear! I believe you would laugh at the greatest calamity! Sending back this money to Mr. Galloway has—has—sadly distressed me."

Hamish turned his smiling eyes upon her, but his tone was grave. "Wait until some great calamity occurs, Constance, and then see whether I laugh. Did I laugh that dreadful night and day that succeeded to Charley's loss? Sending back the money to Mr. Galloway is not a cause for sadness. It most certainly exonerates Arthur."

"And you are gay over it!" She would have given anything to speak more plainly.

"I am particularly gay this afternoon," acknowledged Hamish, who could not be put out of temper by any amount of reproach whatever. "I have had great news by the post, Constance."

"From Germany?" she quickly cried.

"Yes, from Germany," he answered, taking a letter from his pocket, and spreading it open before Constance.

It contained the bravest news: great news, as Hamish expressed it. It was from Mr. Channing himself, and it told them of his being so far restored that there was no doubt now of his ability to resume his own place at his office. They intended to be home the first week in November. The weather at Borcette continued warm and charming, and they would prolong their stay there to the full time contemplated. It had been a fine autumn everywhere. There was a postscript added to the letter, as if an afterthought had occurred to Mr. Channing. "When you see Mr. Huntley, tell him how well I am progressing. I remember, by the way, that he hinted at being able to introduce you to something, should I no longer require you in Guild Street."

In the delight that the news brought, Constance partially lost sight of her sadness. "It is not all gloom," she whispered to herself. "If we could only dwell on God's mercies as we do on His chastisement; if we could only feel more trust, we should see the bright side of the cloud oftener than we do."

But it was dark; dark in many ways, and Constance was soon to be reminded again of it forcibly. She had taken her seat at the tea-table, when Tom came in. He looked flushed—stern; and he flung his Gradus, and one or two other books in a heap, on the side table, with more force than was necessary; and himself into a chair, ditto.

"Constance, I shall leave the school!"

Constance, in her dismay, dropped the sugar-tongs into the sugar. "What, Tom?"

"I shall leave the school!" he repeated, his tone as fiery as his face. "I wouldn't stop in it another month, if I were bribed with gold. Things are getting too bad there."

"Oh, Tom, Tom! Is this your endurance?"

"Endurance!" he exclaimed. "That's a nice word in theory, Constance; but just you try it in practice! Who has endured, if I have not? I thought I'd go on and endure it, as you say; at any rate, until papa came home. But I can't—I can't!"

"What has happened more than usual?" inquired Hamish.

"It gets worse and worse," said Tom, turning his blazing face upon his brother. "I wouldn't wish a dog to live the life that I live in the college school. They call me a felon, and treat me as one; they send me to Coventry; they won't acknowledge me as one of their seniors. My position is unbearable."

"Live it down, Tom," said Hamish quietly.

"Haven't I been trying to live it down?" returned the boy, suppressing his emotion. "It has lasted now these two months, and I have borne it daily. At the time of Charley's loss I was treated better for a day or two, but that has worn away. It is of no use your looking at me reproachfully, Constance; I must complain. What other boy in the world has ever been put down as I? I was head of the school, next to Gaunt; looking forward to be the head; and what am I now? The seniorship taken from me in shame; Huntley exalted to my place; my chance of the exhibition gone—"

"Huntley does not take the exhibition," interrupted Constance.

"But Yorke will. I shan't be allowed to take it. Now I know it, Constance, and the school knows it. Let a fellow once go down, and he's kept down: every dog has a fling at him. The seniorship's gone, the exhibition is going. I might bear that tamely, you may say; and of course I might, for they are negative evils; but what I can't and won't bear, are the insults of every-day life. Only this afternoon they—"

Tom stopped, for his feelings were choking him; and the complaint he was about to narrate was never spoken. Before he had recovered breath and calmness, Arthur entered and took his seat at the tea-table. Poor Tom, allowing one of his unfortunate explosions of temper to get the better of him, sprang from his chair and burst forth with a passionate reproach to Arthur, whom he regarded as the author of all the ill.

"Why did you do it? Why did you bring this disgrace upon us? But for you, I should not have lost caste in the school."

"Tom!" interposed Hamish, in a severe tone.

Mr. Tom, brave college boy that he was—manly as he coveted to be thought—actually burst into tears. Tears called forth, not by contrition, I fear; but by remembered humiliation, by vexation, by the moment's passion. Never had Tom cast a reproach openly to Arthur; whatever he may have felt he buried it within himself; but that his opinion vacillated upon the point of Arthur's guilt, was certain. Constance went up to him and laid her hand gently and soothingly upon his shoulder.

"Tom, dear boy, your troubles are making you forget yourself. Do not be unjust to Arthur. He is innocent as you."

"Then if he is innocent, why does he not speak out like a man, and proclaim his innocence?" retorted Tom, sensibly enough, but with rather too much heat. "That's what the school cast in my teeth, more than anything again. 'Don't preach up your brother's innocence to us!' they cry; 'if he did not take it, wouldn't he say so?' Look at Arthur now"—and Tom pointed his finger at him—"he does not, even here, to me, assert that he is innocent!"

Arthur's face burnt under the reproach. He turned it upon Hamish, with a gesture almost as fiery, quite as hasty, as any that had been vouchsafed them by Tom. Plainly as look could speak, it said, "Will you suffer this injustice to be heaped upon me?" Constance saw the look, and she left Tom with a faint cry, and bent over Arthur, afraid of what truth he might give utterance to.

"Patience yet, Arthur!" she whispered. "Do not let a moment's anger undo the work of weeks. Remember how bravely you have borne."

"Ay! Heaven forgive my pride, Tom!" Arthur added, turning to him calmly. "I would clear you—or rather clear myself—in the eyes of the school, if I could: but it is impossible. However, you have less to blame me for than you may think."

Hamish advanced. He caught Tom's arm and drew him to a distant window. "Now, lad," he said, "let me hear all about this bugbear. I'll see if it can be in any way lightened for you."

Hamish's tone was kindly, his manner frank and persuasive, and Tom was won over to speak of his troubles. Hamish listened with an attentive ear. "Will you abide by my advice?" he asked him, when the catalogue of grievances had come to an end.

"Perhaps I will," replied Tom, who was growing cool after his heat.

"Then, as I said to you before, so I say now—Live it down. It is the best advice I can give you."

"Hamish, you don't know what it is!"

"Yes, I do. I can enter into your trials and annoyances as keenly as if I had to encounter them. I do not affect to disparage them to you: I know that they are real trials, real insults; but if you will only make up your mind to bear them, they will lose half their sharpness. Your interest lies in remaining in the college school; more than that, your duty lies in it. Tom, don't let it be said that a Channing shrunk from his duty because it brought him difficulties to battle with."

"I don't think I can stop in it, Hamish. I'd rather stand in a pillory, and have rotten eggs shied at me."

"Yes, you can. In fact, my boy, for the present you must. Disobedience has never been a fault amongst us, and I am sure you will not be the one to inaugurate it. Your father left me in charge, in his place, with full control; and I cannot sanction any such measure as that of your leaving the school. In less than a month's time he will be home, and you can then submit the case to him, and abide by his advice."

With all Tom's faults, he was not rebellious, neither was he unreasonable; and he made up his mind, not without some grumbling, to do as Hamish desired him. He drew his chair with a jerk to the tea-table, which of course was unnecessary. I told you that the young Channings, admirably as they had been brought up, had their faults; as you have yours, and I have mine.

It was a silent meal. Annabel, who was wont to keep them alive, whatever might be their troubles, had remained to take tea at Lady Augusta Yorke's, with Caroline and Fanny. Had Constance known that she was in the habit of thoughtlessly chattering upon any subject that came uppermost, including poor Charles's propensity to be afraid of ghosts, she had allowed her to remain with them more charily. Hamish took a book and read. Arthur only made a show of taking anything, and soon left them, to resume his work; Tom did not even make a show of it, but unequivocally rejected all good things. "How could he be hungry?" he asked, when Constance pressed him. An unsociable meal it was—almost as unpleasant as were their inward thoughts. They felt for Tom, in the midst of their graver griefs; but they were all at cross purposes together, and they knew it; therefore they could only retain an uncomfortable reticence one with another. Tom laid the blame to the share of Arthur; Arthur and Constance to the share of Hamish. To whom Hamish laid it, was only known to himself.

He, Hamish, rose as the tea-things were carried away. He was preparing for a visit to Mr. Huntley's. His visits there, as already remarked, had not been frequent of late. He had discovered that he was not welcome to Mr. Huntley. And Hamish Channing was not one to thrust his company upon any one: even the attraction of Ellen could not induce that. But it is very probable that he was glad of the excuse Mr. Channing's letter afforded him to go there now.

He found Miss Huntley alone; a tall, stiff lady, who always looked as if she were cased in whalebone. She generally regarded Hamish with some favour, which was saying a great deal for Miss Huntley.

"You are quite a stranger here," she remarked to him as he entered.

"I think I am," replied Hamish. "Mr. Huntley is still in the dining-room, I hear?"

"Mr. Huntley is," said the lady, speaking as if the fact did not give her pleasure, though Hamish could not conceive why. "My niece has chosen to remain with him," she added, in a tone which denoted dissatisfaction. "I am quite tired of talking to her! I tell her this is proper, and the other is improper, and she goes and mixes up my advice in the most extraordinary way; leaving undone what she ought to do, and doing what I tell her she ought not! Only this very morning I read her a sermon upon 'Propriety, and the fitness of things.' It took me just an hour—an hour by my watch, I assure you, Mr. Hamish Channing!—and what is the result? I retired from the dinner-table precisely ten minutes after the removal of the cloth, according to my invariable custom; and Ellen, in defiance of my warning her that it is not lady-like, stays there behind me! 'I have not finished my grapes, aunt,' she says to me. And there she stays, just to talk with her father. And he encourages her! What will become of Ellen, I cannot imagine; she will never be a lady!"

"It's very sad!" replied Hamish, coughing down a laugh, and putting on the gravest face he could call up.

"Sad!" repeated Miss Huntley, who sat perfectly upright, her hands, cased in mittens, crossed upon her lap. "It is grievous, Mr. Hamish Channing! She—what do you think she did only yesterday? One of our maids was going to be married, and a dispute, or some unpleasantness occurred between her and the intended husband. Would you believe that Ellen actually wrote a letter for the girl (a poor ignorant thing, who never learnt to read, let alone to write, but an excellent servant) to this man, that things might be smoothed down between them? My niece, Miss Ellen Huntley, lowering herself to write a—a—I can scarcely allow my tongue to utter the word, Mr. Hamish—a love-letter!"

Miss Huntley lifted her eyes, and her mittens. Hamish expressed himself inexpressibly shocked, inwardly wishing he could persuade Miss Ellen Huntley to write a few to him.

"And I receive no sympathy from any one!" pursued Miss Huntley. "None! I spoke to my brother, and he could not see that she had done anything wrong in writing: or pretended that he could not. Oh dear! how things have altered from what they were when I was a young girl! Then—"

"My master says, will you please to walk into the dining-room, sir?" interrupted a servant at this juncture. And Hamish rose and followed him.

Mr. Huntley was alone. Hamish threw his glance to the four corners of the room, but Ellen was not in it. The meeting was not very cordial on Mr. Huntley's side. "What can I do for you?" he inquired, as he shook hands. Which was sufficient to imply coldly, "You must have come to my house for some particular purpose. What is it?"

But Hamish could not lose his sunny temperament, his winning manner. "I bring you great news, Mr. Huntley. We have heard from Borcette: and the improvement in my father's health is so great, that all doubts as to the result are over."

"I said it would be so," replied Mr. Huntley.

They continued talking some little time, and then Hamish mentioned the matter alluded to in the postscript of the letter. "Is it correct that you will be able to help me to something," he inquired, "when my father shall resume his own place in Guild Street?"

"It is correct that I told your father so," answered Mr. Huntley. "I thought then that I could."

"And is the post gone? I assume that it was a situation of some sort?"

"It is not gone. The post will not be vacant until the beginning of the year. Have you heard that there is to be a change in the joint-stock bank?"

"No," replied Hamish, looking up with much interest.

"Mr. Bartlett leaves. He is getting in years, his health is failing, and he wishes to retire. As one of the largest shareholders in the bank, I shall possess the largest voice in the appointment of a. successor, and I had thought of you. Indeed, I have no objection to say that there is not the slightest doubt you would have been appointed; otherwise, I should not have spoken confidently to Mr. Channing."

It was an excellent post; there was no doubt of that. The bank was not an extensive one; it was not the principal bank of Helstonleigh; but it was a firmly established, thoroughly respectable concern; and Mr. Bartlett, who had been its manager for many years, enjoyed many privileges, and a handsome salary. A far larger salary than was Mr. Channing's. The house, a good one, attached to the bank, was used as his residence, and would be, when he left, the residence of his successor.

"I should like it of all things!" cried Hamish.

"So would many a one, young sir, who is in a better position than you," drily answered Mr. Huntley. "I thought you might have filled it."

"Can I not, sir?"

"No."

Hamish did not expect the answer. He looked inquiringly at Mr. Huntley. "Why can I not?"

"Because I cannot now recommend you to it," was the reply.

"But why not?" exclaimed Hamish.

"When I spoke of you as becoming Mr. Bartlett's successor, I believed you would be found worthy to fulfil his duties."

"I can fulfil them," said Hamish.

"Possibly. But so much doubt has arisen upon that point in my own mind, that I can no longer recommend you for it. In fact, I could not sanction your appointment."

"What have I done?" inquired Hamish.

"Ask your conscience. If that does not tell you plainly enough, I shall not."

"My conscience accuses me of nothing that need render me unfit to fill the post, and to perform my duties in it, Mr. Huntley."

"I think otherwise. But, to pursue the subject will be productive of no benefit, so we will let it drop. I would have secured you the appointment, could I have done so conscientiously, but I cannot; and the matter is at an end."

"At least you can tell me why you will not?" said Hamish, speaking with some sarcasm, in the midst of his respect.

"I have already declined to do so. Ask your own conscience, Hamish."

"The worst criminal has a right to know his accusation, Mr. Huntley. Otherwise he cannot defend himself."

"It will be time enough for you to defend yourself when you are publicly accused. I shall say no more upon the point. I am sorry your father mentioned the thing to you, necessitating this explanation, so far; I have also been sorry for having ever mentioned it to him. My worst explanation will be with your father, for I cannot enter into cause and effect, any more than I can to you."

"I have for some little time been conscious of a change in your manner towards me, Mr. Huntley."

"Ay—no doubt."

"Sir, you ought to tell me what has caused it. I might explain away any prejudice or wrong impression—"

"There, that will do," interrupted Mr. Huntley. "It is neither prejudice nor wrong impression that I have taken up. And now I have said the last word upon the matter that I shall say."

"But, sir—"

"No more, I say!" peremptorily interrupted Mr. Huntley. "The subject is over. Let us talk of other things. I need not ask whether you have news of poor Charley; you would have informed me of that at once. You see, I was right in advising silence to be kept towards them. All this time of suspense would have told badly on Mr. Channing."

Hamish rose to leave. He had done little good, it appeared, by his visit; certainly, he could not wish to prolong it. "There was an unsealed scrap of paper slipped inside my father's letter," he said. "It was from my mother to Charley. This is it."

It appeared to have been written hastily—perhaps from a sudden thought at the moment of Mr. Channing's closing his letter. Mr. Huntley took it in his hand.

"MY DEAR LITTLE CHARLEY,"

"How is it you do not write to mamma? Not a message from you now: not a letter! I am sure you are not forgetting me."

"Poor boy!" exclaimed Mr. Huntley, handing it back to Hamish. "Poor mother!"

"I did not show it to Constance," observed Hamish. "It would only distress her. Good night, sir. By the way," added Hamish, turning as he reached the door: "Mr. Galloway has received that money back again."

"What money?" cried Mr. Huntley.

"That which was lost. A twenty-pound note came to him in a letter by this afternoon's post. The letter states that Arthur, and all others who may have been accused, are innocent."

"Oh, indeed!" cried Mr. Huntley, with cutting sarcasm, as the conviction flashed over him that Hamish, and no other, had been the sender. "The thief has come to his senses at last, has he? So far as to render lame justice to Arthur."

Hamish left the room. The hall had not yet been lighted, and Hamish could hardly see the outline of a form, crossing it from the staircase to the drawing-room. He knew whose it was, and he caught it to him.

"Ellen," he whispered, "what has turned your father against me?"

Of course she could not enlighten him; she could not say to Hamish Channing, "He suspects you of being a thief." Her whole spirit would have revolted from that, as much as it did from the accusation. The subject was a painful one; she was flurried at the sudden meeting—the stealthy meeting, it may be said; and—she burst into tears.

I am quite afraid to say what Mr. Hamish did, this being a sober story. When he left the hall, Ellen Huntley's cheeks were glowing, and certain sweet words were ringing changes in her ears.

"Ellen! they shall never take you from me!"



CHAPTER XLVIII.

MUFFINS FOR TEA.

A week or two passed by, and November was rapidly approaching. Things remained precisely as they were at the close of the last chapter: nothing fresh had occurred; no change had taken place. Tom Channing's remark, though much cannot be said for its elegance, was indisputable in point of truth—that when a fellow was down, he was kept down, and every dog had a fling at him It was being exemplified in the case of Arthur. The money, so mysteriously conveyed to Mr. Galloway, had proved of little service towards clearing him; in fact, it had the contrary effect; and people openly expressed their opinion that it had come from himself or his friends. He was down; and it would take more than that to lift him up again.

Mr. Galloway kept his thoughts to himself, or had put them into his cash-box with the note, for he said nothing.

Roland Yorke did not imitate his example; he was almost as explosive over the present matter as he had been over the loss. It would have pleased him that Arthur should be declared innocent by public proclamation. Roland was in a most explosive frame of mind on another score, and that was the confinement to the office. In reality, he was not overworked; for Arthur managed to get through a great amount of it at home, which he took in regularly, morning after morning, to Mr. Galloway. Roland, however, thought he was, and his dissatisfaction was becoming unbearable. I do not think that Roland could have done a hard day's work. To sit steadily to it for only a couple of hours appeared to be an absolute impossibility to his restless temperament. He must look off; he must talk; he must yawn; he must tilt his stool; he must take a slight interlude at balancing the ruler on his nose, or at other similar recreative and intellectual amusements; but, apply himself in earnest, he could not. Therefore there was little fear of Mr. Roland's being overcome with the amount of work on hand.

But what told upon Roland was the confinement—I don't mean upon his health, you know, but his temper. It had happened many a day since Jenkins's absence, that Roland had never stirred from the office, except for his dinner. He must be there in good time in the morning—at the frightfully early hour of nine—and he often was not released until six. When he went to dinner at one, Mr. Galloway would say, "You must be back in half an hour, Yorke; I may have to go out." Once or twice he had not gone to dinner until two or three o'clock, and then he was half dead with hunger. All this chafed poor Roland nearly beyond endurance.

Another cause was rendering Roland's life not the most peaceful one. He was beginning to be seriously dunned for money. Careless in that, as he was in other things, improvident as was ever Lady Augusta, Roland rarely paid until he was compelled to do so. A very good hand was he at contracting debts, but a bad one at liquidating them. Roland did not intend to be dishonest. Were all his creditors standing around him, and a roll of bank-notes before him he would freely have paid them all; very probably, in his openheartedness, have made each creditor a present, over and above, for "his trouble." But, failing the roll of notes, he only staved off the difficulties in the best way he could, and grew cross and ill-tempered on being applied to. His chief failing was his impulsive thoughtlessness. Often, when he had teased or worried Lady Augusta out of money, to satisfy a debt for which he was being pressed, that very money would be spent in some passing folly, arising with the impulse of the moment, before it had had time to reach the creditor. There are too many in the world like Roland Yorke.

Roland was late in the office one Monday evening, he and a lamp sharing it between them. He was in a terrible temper, and sat kicking his feet on the floor, as if the noise, for it might be heard in the street, would while away the time. He had nothing to do; the writing he had been about was positively finished; but he had to remain in, waiting for Mr. Galloway, who was absent, but had not left the office for the evening. He would have given the whole world to take his pipe out of his pocket and begin to smoke; but that pastime was so firmly forbidden in the office, that even Roland dared not disobey.

"There goes six of 'em!" he uttered, as the cathedral clock rang out the hour, and his boots threatened to stave in the floor. "If I stand this life much longer, I'll be shot! It's enough to take the spirit out of a fellow; to wear the flesh off his bones; to afflict him with nervous fever. What an idiot I was to let my lady mother put me here! Better have stuck to those musty old lessons at school, and gone in for a parson! Why can't Jenkins get well, and come back? He's shirking it, that's my belief. And why can't Galloway have Arthur back? He might, if he pressed it! Talk of solitary confinement driving prisoners mad, at their precious model prisons, what else is this? I wish I could go mad for a week, if old Galloway might be punished for it! It's worse than any prison, this office! At four o'clock he went out, and now it's six, and I have not had a blessed soul put his nose inside the door to say, 'How are you getting on?' I'm a regular prisoner, and nothing else. Why doesn't he—"

The complaint was cut short by the entrance of Mr. Galloway. Unconscious of the rebellious feelings of his clerk, he passed through the office to his own room, Roland's rat-tat-to having ceased at his appearance. To find Roland drumming the floor with his feet was nothing unusual—rather moderate for him; Mr. Galloway had found him doing it with his head. Two or three minutes elapsed, and Mr. Galloway came out again.

"You can shut up, Roland. And then, take these letters to the post. Put the desks straight first; what a mess you get them into. Is that will engrossed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well! Be here in time in the morning. Good night."

"Good night, sir," responded Roland. "Yes! it's all very fine," he went on, as he opened the desks, and shoved everything in with his hands, indiscriminately, en masse, which was his way of putting things straight. "'Be here in time!' Of course! No matter what time I am let off the previous evening. If I stand this long—"

Roland finished his sentence by an emphatic turn of the key of the office-door, which expressed quite as much as words could have done; for he was already out of the room, his hat on his head, and the letters in his hand. Calling out lustily for the housekeeper, he flung the key to her, and bounded off in the direction of the post-office.

His way lay past Mrs. Jenkins's shop, which the maid had, for the hour, been left to attend to. She was doing it from a leaf taken out of Roland's own book—standing outside the door, and gazing all ways. It suddenly struck Roland that he could not do better than pay Jenkins a visit, just to ascertain how long he meant to absent himself. In he darted, with his usual absence of hesitation, and went on to the parlour. There was no hurry for the letters; the post did not close until nine.

The little parlour, dark by day, looked very comfortable now. A bright fire, a bright lamp, and a well-spread tea-table, at which Mrs. Jenkins sat. More comfortable than Jenkins himself did, who lay back in his easy-chair, white and wan, meekly enjoying a lecture from his wife. He started from it at the appearance of Roland, bowing in his usual humble fashion, and smiling a glad welcome.

"I say, Jenkins, I have come to know how long you mean to leave us to ourselves?" was Roland's greeting. "It's too bad, you know. How d'ye do, Mrs. Jenkins? Don't you look snug here? It's a nasty cutting night, and I have to tramp all the way to the post-office."

Free and easy Roland drew a chair forward on the opposite side of the hearth to Jenkins, Mrs. Jenkins and her good things being in the middle, and warmed his hands over the blaze. "Ugh!" he shivered, "I can't bear these keen, easterly winds. It's fine to be you, Jenkins! basking by a blazing fire, and junketing upon plates of buttered muffins!"

"Would you please to condescend to take a cup of tea with us, sir?" was Jenkins's answer. "It is just ready."

"I don't care if I do," said Roland. "There's nothing I like better than buttered muffins. We get them sometimes at home; but there's so many to eat at our house, that before a plate is well in, a dozen hands are snatching at it, and it's emptied. Lady Augusta knows no more about comfort than a cow does, and she will have the whole tribe of young ones in to meals."

"You'll find these muffins different from what you get at home," said Mrs. Jenkins, in her curt, snappish, but really not inhospitable way, as she handed the muffins to Roland. "I know what it is when things are left to servants, as they are at your place; they turn out uneatable—soddened things, with rancid butter, nine times out of ten, instead of good, wholesome fresh. Servants' cooking won't do for Jenkins now, and it never did for me."

"These are good, though!" exclaimed Roland, eating away with intense satisfaction. "Have you got any more downstairs? Mrs. Jenkins, don't I wish you could always toast muffins for me! Is that some ham?"

His eyes had caught a small dish of ham, in delicate slices, put there to tempt poor Jenkins. But he was growing beyond such tempting now, for his appetite wholly failed him. It was upon this point he had been undergoing Mrs. Jenkins's displeasure when Roland interrupted them. The question led to an excellent opportunity for renewing the grievance, and she was too persistent a diplomatist to let it slip. Catching up the dish, and leaving her chair, she held it out before Roland's eyes.

"Young Mr. Yorke, do you see anything the matter with that ham? Please to tell me."

"I see that it looks uncommonly good," replied Roland.

"Do you hear?" sharply ejaculated Mrs. Jenkins, turning short round upon her husband.

"My dear, I never said a word but what it was good; I never had any other thought," returned he, with deprecation. "I only said that I could not eat it. I can't—indeed, I can't! My appetite is gone."

Mrs. Jenkins put the dish down upon the table with a jerk. "That's how he goes on," said she to Roland. "It's enough to wear a woman's patience out! I get him muffins, I get him ham, I get him fowls, I get him fish, I get him puddings, I get him every conceivable nicety that I can think of, and not a thing will he touch. All the satisfaction I can get from him is, that 'his stomach turns against food!'"

"I wish I could eat," interposed Jenkins, mildly. "I have tried to do it till I can try no longer. I wish I could."

"Will you take some of this ham, young Mr. Yorke?" she asked. "He won't. He wants to know what scarcity of food is!"

"I'll take it all, if you like," said Roland. "If it's going begging."

Mrs. Jenkins accommodated him with a plate and knife and fork, and with some more muffins. Roland did ample justice to the whole, despatching it down with about six cups of good tea, well sugared and creamed. Jenkins looked on with satisfaction, and Mrs. Jenkins appeared to regard it in the light of a personal compliment, as chief of the commissariat department.

"And now," said Roland, turning back to the fire, "when are you coming out again, Jenkins?"

Jenkins coughed—more in hesitation for an answer, than of necessity. "I am beginning to think, sir, that I shall not get out again at all," he presently said.

"Holloa! I say, Jenkins, don't go and talk that rubbish!" was Roland's reply. "You know what I told you once, about that dropsy. I heard of a man that took it into his head to fancy himself dead. And he ordered a coffin, and lay down in it, and stopped in it for six days, only getting up at night to steal the bread and cheese! His folks couldn't think, at first, where the loaves went to. You'll be fancying the same, if you don't mind!"

"If I could only get a little stronger, sir, instead of weaker, I should soon be at my duty again. I am anxious enough sir, as you may imagine, for there's my salary, sir, coming to me as usual, and I doing nothing for it."

"It's just this, Jenkins, that if you don't come back speedily, I shall take French leave, and be off some fine morning. I can't stand it much longer. I can't tell you how many blessed hours at a stretch am I in that office with no one to speak to. I wish I was at Port Natal!"

"Sir," said Jenkins, thinking he would say a word of warning, in his kindly spirit: "I have heard that there's nothing more deceptive than those foreign parts that people flock to when the rage arises for them. Many a man only goes out to starve and die."

"Many a muff, you mean!" returned self-complaisant Roland. "I say, Jenkins, isn't it a shame about Arthur Channing? Galloway has his money back from the very thief himself, as the letter said, and yet the old grumbler won't speak out like a man, and say, 'Shake hands, old fellow,' and 'I know you are innocent, and come back to the office again.' Arthur would return, if he said that See if I don't start for Port Natal!"

"I wish Mr. Arthur was back again, sir. It would make me easier."

"He sits, and stews, and frets, and worries his brains about that office, and how it gets on without him!" tartly interposed Mrs. Jenkins. "A sick man can't expect to grow better, if he is to fret himself into fiddlestrings!"

"I wish," repeated poor Jenkins in a dreamy sort of mood, his eyes fixed on the fire, and his thin hands clasped upon his knees: "I do wish Mr. Arthur was back. In a little while he'd quite replace me, and I should not be missed."

"Hear him!" uttered Mrs. Jenkins. "That's how he goes on!"

"Well," concluded Roland, rising, and gathering up his letters, which he had deposited upon a side table, "if this is not a nice part of the world to live in, I don't know what is! Arthur Channing kept down under Galloway's shameful injustice; Jenkins making out that things are all over with him; and I driven off my head doing everybody's work! Good night, Jenkins. Good night, Mrs. J. That was a stunning tea! I'll come in again some night, when you have toasted muffins!"



CHAPTER XLIX.

A CHATEAU EN ESPAGNE.

A keen wind, blowing from the east, was booming through the streets of Helstonleigh, striking pitilessly the eyes and cheeks of the wayfarers, cutting thin forms nearly in two, and taking stout ones off their legs.

Blinded by the sharp dust, giving hard words to the wind, to the cold, to the post-office for not being nearer, to anything and everything, Roland Yorke dashed along, suffering nothing and no one to impede his progress. He flung the letters into the box at the post-office, when he reached that establishment, and then set off at the same pace back again.

Roland was in a state of inward commotion. He thought himself the most injured, the most hard-worked, the most-to-be-pitied fellow under the sun. The confinement in the office, with the additional work he had to get through there, was his chief grievance; and a grievance it really was to one of Roland's temperament. When he had Arthur Channing and Jenkins for his companions in it, to whom he could talk as he pleased, and who did all the work, allowing Roland to do all the play, it had been tolerably bearable; but that state of things was changed, and Roland was feeling that he could bear it no longer.

Another thing that Roland would perhaps be allowed to bear no longer was—immunity from his debts. They had grown on him latterly, as much as the work had. Careless Roland saw no way out of that difficulty, any more than he did out of the other, except by an emigration to that desired haven which had stereotyped itself on the retina of his imagination in colours of the brightest phantasy—Port Natal. For its own sake, Roland was hurrying to get to it, as well as that it might be convenient to do so.

"Look here," said he to himself, as he tore along, "even if Carrick were to set me all clear and straight—and I dare say he might, if I told him the bother I am in—where would be the good? It would not forward me. I wouldn't stop at Galloway's another month to be made into a royal duke. If he'd take back Arthur with honours, and Jenkins came out of his cough and his thinness and returned, I don't know but I might do violence to my inclination and remain. I can't, as it is. I should go dead with the worry and the work."

Roland paused, fighting for an instant with a puff of wind and dust. Then he resumed:

"I'd pay my debts if I could; but, if I can't, what am I to do but leave them unpaid? Much better get the money from Carrick to start me off to Port Natal, and set me going there. Then, when I have made enough, I'll send the cash to Arthur, and get him to settle up for me. I don't want to cheat the poor wretches out of their money; I'd rather pay 'em double than do that. Some of them work hard enough to get it: almost as hard as I do at Galloway's; and they have a right to their own. In three months' time after landing, I shall be able to do the thing liberally. I'll make up my mind from to-night, and go: I know it will be all for the best. Besides, there's the other thing."

What the "other thing" might mean, Mr. Roland did not state more explicitly. He came to another pause, and then went on again.

"That's settled. I'll tell my lady to-night, and I'll tell Galloway in the morning; and I'll fix on the time for starting, and be off to London, and see what I can do with Carrick. Let's see! I shall want to take out lots of things. I can get them in London. When Bagshaw went, he told me of about a thousand. I think I dotted them down somewhere: I must look. Rum odds and ends they were: I know frying-pans were amongst them, Carrick will go with me to buy them, if I ask him; and then he'll pay, if it's only out of politeness. Nobody sticks out for politeness more than Carrick. He—"

Roland's castles in the air were suddenly cut short. He was passing a dark part near the cathedral, when a rough hand—rough in texture, not in motion—was laid upon his shoulder, and a peculiar piece of paper thrust upon him. The assailant was Hopper, the sheriff's officer.

Roland flew into one of his passions. He divined what it was, perfectly well: nothing less than one of those little mandates from our Sovereign Lady the Queen, which, a short time back, had imperilled Hamish Channing. He repaid Hopper with a specimen of his tongue, and flung the writ back at him.

"Now, sir, where's the good of your abusing me, as if it was my fault?" returned the man, in a tone of remonstrance. "I have had it in my pocket this three weeks, Mr. Yorke, and not a day but I could have served it on you: but I'm loth to trouble young gentlemen such as you, as I'm sure many of you in this town could say. I have got into displeasure with our folk about the delay in this very paper, and—in short, sir, I have not done it, till I was obliged."

"You old preacher!" foamed Roland. "I have not tipped you with half-a-crown lately, and therefore you can see me!"

"Mr. Yorke," said the man, earnestly, "if you had filled my hands with half-crowns yesterday, I must have done this to-day. I tell you, sir, I have got into a row with our people over it; and it's the truth. Why don't you, sir—if I may presume to give advice—tell your little embarrassments to your mother, the Lady Augusta? She'd be sure to see you through them."

"How dare you mention the Lady Augusta to me?" thundered haughty Roland. "Is it fitting that the Lady Augusta's name should be bandied in such transactions as these? Do you think I don't know what's due to her better than that? If I have got into embarrassment, I shall not drag my mother into it."

"Well, sir, you know best. I did not mean to offend you, but the contrary. Mind, Mr. Roland Yorke!" added Hopper, pointing to the writ, which still lay where it had been flung: "you can leave it there if you choose, sir, but I have served it upon you."

Hopper went his way. Roland caught up the paper, tore it to pieces with his strong hands, and tossed them after the man. The wind took up the quarrel, and scattered the pieces indiscriminately, right and left. Roland strode on.

"What a mercy that there's a Port Natal to be off to!" was his comment.

Things were not particularly promising at home, when Roland entered, looking at them from a quiet, sociable point of view. Lady Augusta was spending the evening at the deanery, and the children, from Gerald downwards, were turning the general parlour into a bear-garden. Romping, quarrelling, shouting and screaming, they were really as unrestrained as so many young bears. It would often be no better when Lady Augusta was at home. How Gerald and Tod contrived to do their lessons amidst it was a marvel to every one. Roland administered a few cuffs, to enjoin silence, and then went out again, he did not much care where. His feet took him to the house of his friend, Knivett, with whom he spent a pleasant evening, the topics of conversation turning chiefly upon the glories of Port Natal, and Roland's recent adventure with Hopper. Had anything been wanted to put the finishing touch to Roland's resolution, that little adventure would have supplied it.

It was past ten when he returned home. The noisy throng had dispersed then, all except Gerald. Gerald had just accomplished his tasks, and was now gracefully enjoying a little repose before the fire; his head on the back of my lady's low embroidered chair, and his feet extended on either hob.

"What's for supper?" asked Roland, turning his eyes on the cloth, which bore traces that a party, and not a scrupulously tidy one, had already partaken of that meal.

"Bones," said Gerald.

"Bones?" echoed Roland.

"Bones," rejoined Gerald. "They made a show of broiling some downstairs, but they took good care to cut off the meat first. Where all the meat goes to in this house, I can't think. If a good half of the leg of mutton didn't go down from dinner to-day, I possessed no eyes."

"They are not going to put me off with bones," said Roland, ringing the bell. "When a man's worked within an ace of his life, he must eat. Martha,"—when the maid appeared—"I want some supper."

"There's no meat in the house, sir. There were some broiled bo—"

"You may eat the bones yourself," interrupted Roland. "I never saw such a house as this! Loads of provisions come into it, and yet there's rarely anything to be had when it's wanted. You must go and order me some oysters. Get four dozen. I am famished. If I hadn't had a substantial tea, supplied me out of charity, I should be fainting before this! It's a shame! I wonder my lady puts up with you two incapable servants."

"There are no oysters to be had at this time, Mr. Roland," returned Martha, who was accustomed to these interludes touching the housekeeping. "The shop shuts up at ten."

Roland beat on the floor with the heel of his boot. Then he turned round fiercely to Martha. "Is there nothing in the house that's eatable?"

"There's an apple pie, sir."

"Bring that, then. And while I am going into it, the cook can do me some eggs and ham."

Gerald had turned round at this, angry in his turn, "If there's an apple pie, Martha, why could you not have produced it for our supper? You know we were obliged to put up with cheese and butter!"

"Cook told me not to bring it up, Master Gerald. My lady gave no orders. Cook says if she made ten pies a day they'd get eaten, once you young gentlemen knew of their being in the house."

"Well?" said Gerald. "She doesn't provide them out of her own pocket."

Roland paid his court to the apple pie, Gerald joining him. After it was finished, they kept the cook employed some time with the eggs and ham. Then Gerald, who had to be up betimes for morning school, went to bed; and I only hope he did not suffer from nightmare.

Roland took up his place before the fire, in the same chair and position vacated by Gerald. Thus he waited for Lady Augusta. It was not long before she came in.

"Come and sit down a bit, good mother," said Roland. "I want to talk to you."

"My dear, I am not in a talking humour," she answered. "My head aches, and I shall be glad to get to bed. It was a stupid, humdrum evening"

She was walking to the side table to light her bed-candle, but Roland interposed. He drew the couch close to the fire, settled his mother in it, and took his seat with her. She asked him what he had to say so particularly that night.

"I am going to tell you what it is. But don't you fly out at me, mother dear," he coaxingly added. "I find I can't get along here at all, mother, and I shall be off to Port Natal."

Lady Augusta did fly out—with a scream, and a start from her seat. Roland pulled her into it again.

"Now, mother, just listen to me quietly. I can't bear my life at Galloway's. I can't do the work. If I stopped at it, I'm not sure but I should do something desperate. You wouldn't like to see your son turn jockey, and ride in a pink silk jacket and yellow breeches on the race-course; and you wouldn't like to see him enlist for a soldier, or run away for a sailor! Well, worse than that might come, if I stopped at Galloway's. Taking it at the very best, I should only be worked into my grave."

"I will not hear another word, Roland," interrupted Lady Augusta. "How can you be so wicked and ungrateful?"

"What is there wicked in it?" asked Roland. "Besides, you don't know all. I can't tell you what I don't owe in Helstonleigh, and I've not a sixpence to pay it with. You wouldn't like to see me marched off to prison, mother."

Lady Augusta gave another shriek.

"And there's a third reason why I wish to be away," went on Roland, drowning the noise. "But I'll not go into that, because it concerns myself alone."

Of course the announcement that it concerned himself alone, only made my lady the more inquisitive to hear it. She peremptorily ordered Roland to disclose it to her.

But Roland could be as peremptory as she, and he declined, in positive terms, to explain further.

"It would not afford you any pleasure, mother," he said, "and I should not have mentioned it but as an additional reason why I must be off."

"You unhappy boy! You have been doing something dreadful!"

"It's not over-good," acknowledged Roland. "Perhaps I'll write you word all about it from London. I've not smothered William Yorke, or set old Galloway's office on fire, and those respected gentlemen are my two betes noires. So don't look so scared, mother."

"Roland!" uttered Lady Augusta, as the fact struck her, "if you go off in this manner, all the money that was paid with you to Mr. Galloway will be lost! I might as well have sent it down the gutter."

"So I said at the time," answered cool Roland. "Never mind that, mother. What's that paltry hundred or two, compared with the millions I shall make? And as to these folks that I owe money to—"

"They'll be coming upon me," interposed Lady Augusta. "Heaven knows, I have enough to pay."

"They will do nothing of the sort," said Roland. "You have no legal right to pay my debts. Not one of them but has been contracted since I was of age. If they come to you, tell them so."

"Roland, Lord Carrick gave you money once or twice when he was here," resumed Lady Augusta, "I know he did. What have you done with it all?"

"Money melts," responded Roland. "Upon my word of honour, I do believe it must melt at times; it vanishes so quickly."

My lady could not cavil at the assertion. She was only too much given to the same belief herself. Roland continued:

"In a little while—about three months, as I calculate—after my arrival at Port Natal, I shall be in a position to send funds home to pay what I owe; and be assured, I will faithfully send them. There is the finest opening, mother, at Port Natal! Fortunes are being made there daily. In a few years' time I shall come home with my pockets lined, and shall settle down by you for life."

"If I could only think the prospect was so good a one!" exclaimed Lady Augusta.

"It is good," said Roland emphatically. "Why, mother, Port Natal is all the rage: hundreds are going out. Were there no reasons to urge me away, you would be doing the most unwise thing possible to stand in the light of my going. If I were at something that I liked, that I was not worked to death at; if I did not owe a shilling; if my prospects here, in short, were first-rate, and my life a bower of rose-leaves, I should do well to throw it all up for Port Natal."

"But in what manner are these great fortunes made?" wondered Lady Augusta.

"Of course, I shall acquire all that information. Stuck in this know-nothing Helstonleigh, I can only state the fact that they are made. I dare say I can find an opening for one or two of the boys out there."

Lady Augusta—persuadable as ever was a child—began to look upon the plan with less prejudiced eyes—as Roland would have styled it. As to Roland, so fully had he become imbued with the golden harvest to be gathered at Port Natal, that had an angel descended to undeceive him, he would have refused to listen.

"There will be the losing you, Roland," said Lady Augusta, hesitating whether she should scold or cry.

"Law, what's that?" returned Roland, slightingly. "You'll get over that in a day, and return thanks that there's one source of trouble less. Look here! If I were in the luck of having a good commission given me in some crack Indian regiment, would you not say, 'Oh be joyful,' and start me off at once? What are you the worse for George's being away? Mother!" he added somewhat passionately, "would you like to see me tied down for life to an old proctor's office?"

"But, Roland, you cannot go out without money. There'll be your outfit and your passage; and you can't land with empty pockets."

"As to an outfit," said Roland, "you must not run your head upon such a one as George had. A few new shirts, and a pair or two of waterproof boots—that will be about all I shall want. I remember shirts and waterproof boots were mentioned by Bagshaw. What I shall chiefly want to buy will be tools, and household utensils: frying-pans, and items of that sort."

"Frying-pans!" ejaculated Lady Augusta.

"I am sure frying-pans were mentioned," answered Roland. "Perhaps it was only one, though, for private use. I'll hunt up Bagshaw's list, and look it over."

"And where's the money to come from?" repeated my lady.

"I shall get it of Lord Carrick. I know he'll give me what I want. I often talked to him about Port Natal when he was here."

"I had a letter from him to-day," said Lady Augusta. "He will be returning to Ireland next week."

"Will he, though?" uttered Roland, aroused by the information. "I have no time to lose, then."

"Well, Roland I must hear more about this to-morrow, and consider it over," said my lady, rising to retire. "I have not said yet you are to go, mind."

"I shall go, whether you say it or not," replied frank Roland. "And when I come home with my pockets lined, a rich man for life, the first thing I'll buy shall be a case of diamonds for you."

"Stupid boy!" said she laughing. "I shall be too old to wear diamonds then."

"Oh no, you won't."

My lady gave him a hearty kiss, and went to bed and to sleep. Roland's visions were not without their effect upon her, and she had a most delightful dream of driving about in a charming city, whose streets were paved with malachite marble, brilliant to look upon. How many times Roland had dreamt that Port Natal was paved with gold, he alone knew.

Had Roland been troubled with over-sensitiveness in regard to other people's feelings, and felt himself at a loss how to broach the matter to Mr. Galloway, he might have been pleased to find that the way was, in a degree, paved to him. On the following morning Mr. Galloway was at the office considerably before his usual hour; consequently, before Roland Yorke. Upon looking over Roland's work of the previous day, he found that a deed—a deed that was in a hurry, too—had been imperfectly drawn out, and would have to be done over again. The cause must have been sheer carelessness, and Mr. Galloway naturally felt angered. When the gentleman arrived, he told him what he thought of his conduct, winding up the reproaches with a declaration that Roland did him no service at all, and would be as well out of the office as in it.

"I am glad of that, sir," was Roland's answer. "What I was about to tell you will make no difference, then. I wish to leave, sir."

"Do you?" retorted Mr. Galloway.

"I am going to leave, sir," added Roland, rather improving upon the assertion. "I am going to Port Natal."

Mr. Galloway was a little taken aback. "Going to where?" cried he.

"To Port Natal."

"To Port Natal!" echoed Mr. Galloway in the most unbounded astonishment, for not an inkling of Roland's long-thought-of project had ever reached him. "What on earth should you want there?"

"To make my fortune," replied Roland.

"Oh!" said Mr. Galloway. "When do you start?"

"It is quite true, sir," continued Roland. "Of course I could not go without informing you."

"Do you start to-day?" repeated Mr. Galloway, in the same mocking tone.

"No, I don't," said Roland. "But I shall start, sir, before long, and I beg you to believe me. I have talked Lady Augusta over to the plan, and I shall get the money for it from Lord Carrick. I might drum on here all my life and never rise to be anything better than a proctor, besides having my life worked out of me; whereas, if I can get to Port Natal, my fortune's made. Hundreds and thousands of enterprising spirits are emigrating there, and they are all going to make their fortunes."

Had Mr. Galloway not been angry, he would have laughed out-right. "Yorke," said he, "did you ever hear of a sickness that fell suddenly upon this kingdom, some years ago? It was called the gold fever. Hundreds and thousands, as you phrase it, caught the mania, and flocked out to the Australian gold-diggings, to 'make their fortunes' by picking up gold. Boy!"—laying his hand on Roland's shoulder—"how many of those, think you, instead of making their fortunes, only went out TO DIE?"

"That was not Port Natal, sir."

"It was not. But, unless some of you wild young men come to your senses, we shall have a second edition of the Australian madness at Port Natal. Nothing can be more futile than these visionary schemes, Roland Yorke; they are like the apples of Sodom—fair and promising to the eye, ashes to the taste. Do not you be deceived by them."

"One must get on at Port Natal, sir."

"If one does not get 'off,'" returned Mr. Galloway, in a cynical tone that chafed Roland's ear. "The stream that flocked out to the gold-diggings all thought they should get on—each individual was fully persuaded that he should come home in a year or two with a plum in each of his breeches pockets. Where one made his way, Roland—made wealth—many starved; died; vanished, it was not known how; were never heard of by their friends, or saw old England again. What good do you suppose you could do at Port Natal?"

"I intend to do a great deal," said Roland.

"But suppose you found you could do none—suppose it, I say—what would become of you out in a strange place, without money, and without friends?"

"Well," returned Roland, who was never at a loss for an answer: "if such an impossible thing as a failure were to turn up, I should come back to my Uncle Carrick, and make him start me in something else."

"Ah!" mockingly observed Mr. Galloway, "a rolling stone gathers no moss. Meanwhile, Mr. Roland Yorke, suppose you come down from the clouds to your proper business. Draw out this deed again, and see if you can accomplish it to a little better purpose than you did yesterday."

Roland, liking the tone less and less, sat down and grew sullen. "Don't say I did not give you notice, sir," he observed.

But Mr. Galloway vouchsafed no reply. Indeed, it may be questioned if he heard the remark, for he went into his own room at the moment Roland spoke, and shut the door after him.

"Mocking old caterpillar!" grumbled angry Roland. "No fortunes at Port Natal! I'd go off, if it was only to tantalize him!"



CHAPTER L.

REALLY GONE!

Mrs. Jenkins had many virtues. Besides the cardinal one which has been particularly brought under the reader's notice—that of keeping her husband in due subjection—she also possessed, in an eminent degree, the excellent quality of being a most active housewife. In fact, she had the bump of rule and order, and personally superintended everything—with hands and tongue.

Amongst other careful habits, was that of never letting any one put a finger on her best sitting-room, for the purpose of cleaning it, except herself. She called it her drawing-room—a small, pretty room over the shop, very well furnished. It was let to Mr. Harper, with the bedroom behind it. Had Lydia dared even to wipe the dust off a table, it might have cost her her place. Mrs. Jenkins was wont to slip her old buff dressing-gown over her clothes, after she was dressed in a morning, and take herself to this drawing-room. Twice a week it was carefully swept, and on those occasions a large green handkerchief, tied cornerwise upon Mrs. Jenkins's head, to save her cap from dust, was added to her costume.

On the morning following Roland's communication to Mr. Galloway, Mrs. Jenkins was thus occupied—a dust-pan in one hand, a short hand-broom in the other—for you may be sure she did not sweep her carpets with those long, slashing, tear-away brooms that wear out a carpet in six months—and the green kerchief adjusted gracefully over her ears—when she heard a man's footsteps clattering up the stairs. In much astonishment as to who could have invaded the house at that hour, Mrs. Jenkins rose from her knees and flung open the door.

It was Roland Yorke, coming up at full speed, with a carpet-bag in his hand. "Whatever do you want?" exclaimed she. "Is anything the matter?"

"The matter is, that I want to say a word to Jenkins," replied Roland. "I know he must be in bed, so I just ran straight through the shop and came up."

"I'm sure you are very polite!" exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins. "For all you knew, I might have been in the room."

"So you might!" cried easy Roland. "I never thought of that. I should not have swallowed you, Mrs. Jenkins. Take care! I have hardly a minute to spare. I shall lose the train."

On he went, up the second flight of stairs, without the slightest hesitation, and into Jenkins's room, ignoring the ceremony of knocking. Poor Jenkins, who had heard the colloquy, and recognized Roland's voice, was waiting for him with wondering eyes.

"I am off, Jenkins," said Roland, advancing and bending over the bed." I wouldn't go without just saying a word to you."

"Off where, sir?" returned Jenkins, who could not have looked more bewildered had he been suddenly aroused from sleep.

"To Port Natal. I am sick and tired of everything here, so I'm off at last."

Jenkins was struck dumb. Of course, the first thought that passed through his mind was Mr. Galloway's discomfiture, unless he was prepared for it. "This is very sudden, sir!" he cried, when speech came to him. "Who is replacing you at the office?"

"No one," replied Roland. "That's the primest bit in the whole play. Galloway will know what work is, now. I told him yesterday morning that I should go, but he went into a tantrum, and didn't take it in earnest. He pointed out to me about sixty things as my day's work to-day, when he left the office last night; errands to go upon, and writings to do, and answers to give, and the office to mind! A glorious commotion there'll be, when he finds it's all thrown upon his own hands. He'll see how he likes work!"

Jenkins could do nothing but stare. Roland went on:

"I have just slipped round there now, to leave a message, with my compliments. It will turn his hair green when he hears it, and finds I am really gone. Do you feel any better, Jenkins?"

The question was put in a different tone; a soft, gentle tone—one in which Roland rarely spoke. He had never seen Jenkins look so ill as he was looking now.

"I shall never feel any better in this world, sir."

"Well, give us your hand, Jenkins; I must be off. You are the only one, old fellow, that I have said good-bye to. You have been a good lot, Jenkins, and done things for me that other clerks would not. Good luck to you, old chap, whether you go into the next world, or whether you stop in this!"

"God bless you, Mr. Roland! God bless you everywhere!"

Roland leapt down the stairs. Mrs. Jenkins stood at the drawing-room door. "Good-bye," said he to her. "You see I should not have had time to eat you. What d'ye call that thing you have got upon your head, Mrs. Jenkins? Only wear it to church next Sunday, and you'll set the fashion."

Away he tore to the station. The first person he saw there, officials excepted, was Hamish Channing, who had gone to it for the purpose of seeing a friend off by the train. The second, was Lady Augusta Yorke.

Hamish he saw first, as he was turning away from getting his ticket. "Hamish," said he, "you'll tell Arthur that I did not come round to him for a last word; I shall write it from London."

"Roland"—and Hamish spoke more gravely than was his wont—"you are starting upon a wild-goose scheme."

"It is not," said Roland; "why do you preach up nonsense? If the worst came to the worst, I should come back to Carrick, and he'd set me on my legs again. I tell you, Hamish, I have a hundred reasons to urge me away from Helstonleigh."

"Is this carpet-bag all your luggage?"

"All I am taking with me. The rest will be sent afterwards. Had I despatched the bellman about the town to announce my departure, I might have been stopped; so I have told no one, except poor harmless Jenkins."

Of course it never occurred to proud and improvident Roland that it was possible to travel in any carriage but a first-class one. A first-class ticket he took, and a first-class compartment he entered. Fortunately it was an empty one. Hamish was filling up the door, talking to him, when sounds of distress were heard coming swiftly along the platform. Before Hamish had time to see what caused them, they were close upon his ear, and he found himself vehemently pushed aside, just as Roland himself might have pushed him. He turned with surprise. Panting, breathless, in tears, wailing out that she should never see her darling son again, stood the Lady Augusta Yorke.