What could be the cause of her appearing there in that state? The cause was Roland. On the previous day, he had held a second conversation with his mother, picturing the glories of Port Natal in colours so vivid, that the thought nearly crossed my lady's mind, couldn't she go too, and make her fortune? She then inquired when he meant to start. "Oh," answered Roland, carelessly, "between now and a week's time." The real fact was, that he contemplated being away on the following morning, before my lady was up. Roland's motive was not an unfilial one. He knew how she excited herself over these partings; the violent, if short, grief to which she gave the reins; he remembered what it had been on the departure of his brother George. One other motive also held weight with him, and induced reticence. It was very desirable, remembering that he was not perfectly free from claims upon his purse, that he should depart, if not absolutely sub rosa, still without its being extensively known, and that, he knew, would be next door to an impossibility, were the exact period confided to my lady. Lady Augusta Yorke could not have kept a secret for a single hour, had it been to save her life. Accordingly, she retired to rest in blissful ignorance: and in ignorance she might have remained until he was fairly off, but for Roland's own want of caution. Up with daylight—and daylight, you know, does not surprise us too early when the dark days of November are at hand—Roland began turning over his drawers and closets, to pick out the few articles he meant to carry with him: the rest would be packed afterwards. This aroused his mother, whose room was underneath his, and she angrily wondered what he could be doing. Not for some time until after the noise had ceased did the faintest suspicion of the truth break upon her; and it might not then have done so, but for the sudden remembrance which rose in her mind of Roland's particularly affectionate farewell the night before. Lady Augusta rang her bell.

"Do you know what Mr. Roland is about in his room?" she inquired, when Martha answered it.

"Mr. Roland is gone out, my lady," was Martha's reply. "He came down to the kitchen and drank a cup of coffee; and then went out with a carpet-bag."

Lady Augusta became excited. "Where's he gone?" she wildly asked.

"Somewhere by rail, I think, my lady. He said, as he drank his coffee, that he hoped our heads wouldn't ache till he saw us again. Cook and me couldn't think what he meant, my lady."

My lady divined only too well. She gave a prolonged series of shrieks, jumped out of bed, flung on any clothes that came uppermost, and started in pursuit of him, to the intense wonder of Martha, and to the astonishment of Helstonleigh, as she flew wildly through the streets to the station. The sight of Hamish at a carriage-door guided her to her runagate son.

She sprang into the carriage—it was well, I say, that it was empty!—and overwhelmed him with a torrent of reproaches, all the while kissing and hugging him. Not two minutes could be given to their farewell, for the time was up, and Lady Augusta had to descend again, weeping bitterly.

"Take care of her home, Hamish," said Roland, putting his head out. "Mother dear, you'll live to say I have done well, yet. You'll see me come home, one of these fine days, with a covered waggon after me, bringing the bags of gold." Poor Roland!

The train steamed off, and Lady Augusta, to the discomfiture of Hamish, and the admiration of the porters and station boys, set off at full speed after it, wringing her hands, and tearing her hair, and sobbing and shrieking out that "She'd go—she'd go with it! that she should never see her darling boy again!" With some difficulty Hamish soothed her down to tolerable calmness, and put her into a fly.

They were scarcely beyond the station when she suddenly bent forward to Hamish, who sat on the seat opposite to her, and seized his hands. "Is it true that every one gets rich who goes to Port Natal?"

The question was a poser for sunny Hamish. He liked to scatter flowers in his path, rather than thorns. How could he tell that grieving woman, that Roland—careless, lazy, improvident Roland—would be almost sure to return in a worse plight than he had gone? "I have heard of people doing well at Port Natal," he answered; "and Roland is young and strong, and has years before him."

"I cannot think how so much money can be made," continued my lady, beginning to dry her tears. "There are no gold fields there, are there?"

"I think not," said Hamish.

"They must trade, then, I suppose. And, goodness me! what does Roland know about trading? Nothing. He talks of taking out tools and frying-pans."

"Frying-pans!" repeated Hamish, struck with the item.

"I am sure he said frying-pans. Oh dear!" sobbed Lady Augusta, "what a relief it would be if folks never had any children; or if boys did not possess wills of their own! Hamish, you have never given sorrow to your mother! I feel that you have not!"

Hamish smiled at her. "Now you know, Lady Augusta, that your children are your dearest treasures," cried he, soothingly. "You would be the most unhappy woman living if you had none."

"Ah! you can't judge, Mr. Hamish Channing. You have no children of your own."

"No," said Hamish, laughing, "but my turn may come some day. Dear Lady Augusta, if Roland has his faults, he has his good qualities. Look on the bright side of things. Look forward with hope to the time that you shall see him home safe and well again. It will be sure to come."

"You speak as if you believed it would."

"Of course I do," said Hamish. "And every one finds me a true prophet."

They were then passing the Hazledon Charity. At the iron gates of the inclosure, talking to an old man, stood the Rev. William Yorke. "Roland left a message for him!" exclaimed Hamish, half mockingly, as his eyes fell upon the clergyman.

Lady Augusta, impulse all over, suddenly put her head out at the window and stopped the fly. William Yorke, looking surprised to see who were its inmates, advanced to the door. The lady's tears flowed afresh.

"He is gone, William! My darling, self-willed, troublesome boy is gone, and I shall, perhaps, never see him more, till I am an old woman."

"Who is gone?" returned Mr. Yorke.

"Roland. Never was a mother so tried as I. He will soon be on the sea, ploughing his way to Port Natal. I wish there was no sea!—no Port Natals! He went off without saying a word to me, and he is GONE!"

Mr. Yorke, bewildered, turned his eyes on Hamish for explanation. He had never heard of the Port Natal project. Hamish nodded in confirmation.

"The best place for him," said Mr. Yorke. "He must work for his bread, there, before he eats it."

Lady Augusta shrieked. "How cruelly hard you are, William!"

"Not hard, Lady Augusta—kind," he gently said. "If your boys were brought up to depend upon their own exertions, they would make better men."

"You said you had a message for him from Roland," resumed Lady Augusta, looking at Hamish.

Hamish smiled significantly. "Not much of one," he said, and his lips, as he bent towards William Yorke, assumed an expression of sarcastic severity. "He merely requested me, after he was in the train, to give his love to the Rev. William Yorke, as a parting legacy."

Either the words or the tone, probably the latter, struck on the Rev. William Yorke's self-esteem, and flushed his cheek crimson. Since the rupture with Constance, Hamish, though not interfering in the remotest degree, had maintained a tone of quiet sarcasm to Mr. Yorke. And though Mr. Yorke did not like it, he could not prevent it.

"When does Mr. Channing return?" he abruptly asked of Hamish.

"We shall be expecting him shortly now."

Lady Augusta gave the signal for the fly to drive on. William Yorke put his hand over the door, and took hers as the man began to whip up his horse.

"Do not grieve too much after him, Lady Augusta. It may prove to be the best day's work Roland ever did. God has given him hands, and brains; and a good heart, as I verily believe. If he shall only learn their value out there, let his lines be ever so hard, he may come home a wise and a good man. One of my poor pensioners here said to me, not ten minutes ago, I was brought to know my Saviour, sir, through 'hard lines.' Lady Augusta, those 'hard lines' are never sent in vain."



CHAPTER LI.

AN ARRIVAL IN A FLY.

Was any one ever so ill-used as that unfortunate Mr. Galloway? On the morning which witnessed his troublesome clerk's departure, he set rather longer than usual over his breakfast, never dreaming of the calamity in store for him. That his thoughts were given to business, there was no doubt, for his newspaper lay untouched. In point of fact, his mind was absorbed by the difficulties which had arisen in his office, and the ways and means by which those difficulties might be best remedied.

That it would be impossible to get on with Roland Yorke alone, he had said to himself twenty times; and now he was saying it again, little supposing, poor unconscious man, that even Roland, bad as he was, had taken flight. He had never intended to get along with only Roland, but circumstances had induced him to attempt doing so for a time. In the first place, he had entertained hopes, until very recently, that Jenkins would recover; in the second place, failing Jenkins, there was no one in the wide world he would so soon have in his office as Arthur Channing—provided that Arthur could prove his innocence. With Arthur and Roland, he could go on very well, or with Jenkins and Roland; but poor Jenkins appeared to be passing beyond hope; and Arthur's innocence was no nearer the light than it had been, in spite of that strange restitution of the money. Moreover, Arthur had declined to return to the office, even to help with the copying, preferring to take it home. All these reflections were pressing upon Mr. Galloway's mind.

"I'll wait no longer," said he, as he brought them to a conclusion. "I'll go this very day after that young Bartlett. I think he might suit, with some drilling. If he turns out a second Yorke, I shall have a nice pair upon my hands. But he can't well turn out as bad as Roland: he comes of a more business-like stock."

This point settled, Mr. Galloway took up the Times. Something in its pages awoke his interest, and he sat longer over it than had been his wont since the departure of Jenkins. It was twenty minutes past nine by his watch when he started for his office.

"Now, I wonder how I shall find that gentleman?" soliloquized he, when he drew near. "Amusing himself, as usual, of course. He'll have made a show of putting out the papers, and there they will be, lying unopened. He'll be at Aunt Sally with the letters, or dancing a quadrille with the stools, or stretched three parts out of the window, saluting the passengers. I never thought he'd do me much good, and should not have taken him, but for the respect I owed the late Dr. Yorke. Now for it!"

It was all very well for Mr. Galloway to say, "Now for it," and to put his hand stealthily upon the door-handle, with the intention of pouncing suddenly upon his itinerant pupil. But the door would not open. Mr. Galloway turned, and turned, and shook the handle, as our respected friend Mr. Ketch did when he was locked up in the cloisters, but he turned it to no purpose.

"He has not come yet!" wrathfully exclaimed Mr. Galloway. "All the work of the office on his shoulders and mine, the most busy time of the whole year, and here's half-past nine, and no appearance of him! If I live this day out, I'll complain to Lady Augusta!"

At this moment the housekeeper's little maid came running forward. "Where's Mr. Yorke?" thundered the proctor, in his anger, as if the child had the keeping of him.

"Please, sir, he's gone to Port Natal."

"Gone to—what?" uttered Mr. Galloway.

She was unlocking the door, and then stood back to curtsey while Mr. Galloway entered, following in after him—an intelligent child for her years.

"Please, sir, Mr. Yorke came round this morning, while me and missis was a dusting of the place, and he said we was to tell Mr. Galloway, when he come, that he had gone to Port Natal, and left his compliments."

"It is not true!" cried Mr. Galloway. "How dare he play these tricks?" he added, to himself.

"Please, sir, missis said she thought it was true, 'cause he had a carpet-bag," returned the young servant.

Mr. Galloway stared at the child. "You go round at once to Lady Augusta's," said he, "and ask what Mr. Yorke means by being so late. I desire that he will come immediately."

The child flew off, and Mr. Galloway, hardly knowing what to make of matters, proceeded to do what he ought to have found done. He and Jenkins had duplicate keys to the desks, letter-box, etc. Since Jenkins's illness, his keys had been in the possession of Roland.

Presently the child came back again.

"Please, sir, her ladyship's compliments, and Mr. Roland have gone to Port Natal."

The consternation that this would have caused Mr. Galloway, had he believed it, might have been pitiable. An intimation that our clerk, who was in the office last night, pursuing his legitimate work, has "gone to Port Natal," as we might say of some one who goes to make a morning call at the next door, is not very credible. Neither did Mr. Galloway give credence to it.

"Did you see her ladyship?" he asked.

"Please, sir, I saw one of the servants, and she went to her ladyship, and brought out the message."

The young messenger retired, leaving Mr. Galloway to his fate. He persisted in assuming that the news was too absurd to be correct; but a dreadful inward misgiving began to steal over him.

The question was set at rest by the Lady Augusta. Feeling excessively vexed with Roland for not having informed Mr. Galloway of his intended departure—as from the message, it would appear he had not done—she determined to go round; and did so, following closely on the heels of the maid. Her ladyship had already wonderfully recovered her spirits. They were of a mercurial nature, liable to go up and down at touch; and Hamish had contrived to cheer her greatly.

"What does all this mean? Where's Roland?" began Mr. Galloway, showing little more deference to her ladyship, in his flurry, than he might have shown to Roland himself.

"Did you not know he was going?" she asked.

"I know nothing. Where is he gone?"

"He has started for Port Natal; that is, he has started for London, on his way to it. He went by the eight o'clock train."

Mr. Galloway sat down in consternation. "My lady, allow me to inquire what sort of behaviour you call this?"

"Whether it is good or bad, right or wrong, I can't help it," was the reply of Lady Augusta. "I'm sure I have enough to bear!" she added, melting into tears. "Of course he ought to have informed you of his intention, Mr. Galloway. I thought he did. He told me he had done so."

A reminiscence of Roland's communication crossed Mr. Galloway's mind; of his words, "Don't say I did not give you notice, sir." He had paid no heed to it at the time.

"He is just another of my headstrong boys," grumbled Lady Augusta. "They are all specimens of wilfulness. I never knew that it was this morning he intended to be off, until he was gone, and I had to run after him to the station. Ask Hamish Channing."

"He must be mad!" exclaimed Mr. Galloway.

"He says great fortunes are made, out at Port Natal. I don't know whether it is so."

"Great fortunes made!" irascibly responded Mr. Galloway. "Pittances, that folks go out with, are lost, when they are such as he. That's what it is. Harem-scarem chaps, who won't work, can do no good at Port Natal. Great fortunes made, indeed! I wonder that you can be led away by notions so wild and extravagant, Lady Augusta!"

"I am not led away by them," peevishly returned Lady Augusta, a recollection of her own elation on the point darting unpleasantly to her mind. "Where would have been the use of my holding out against it, when he had set his heart upon the thing? He would have gone in spite of me. Do you not think fortunes are made there, Mr. Galloway?"

"I am sure they are not, by such as Roland," was the reply. "A man who works one hour in the day, and plays eleven, would do less good at Port Natal than he would in his own country. A business man, thoroughly industrious, and possessing some capital, may make something at Port Natal, as he would at any other port. In the course of years he might realize a fortune—in the course of years, I say, Lady Augusta."

This was not precisely the prospect Roland had pictured to Lady Augusta, or to which her own imagination had lent its hues, and she stood in consternation almost equal to Mr. Galloway's. "What on earth will he do, then, when he gets there?" ejaculated she.

"Find out his mistake, my lady, and come home without a coat to his back, as hundreds have done before him, and worked their passage home, to get here. It is to be hoped he will have to do the same. It will teach him what work is."

"There never was such an unhappy mother as I am!" bewailed my lady. "They will do just as they like, and always would, from George downwards: they won't listen to me. Poor dear boy! reduced, perhaps, to live on brown bread and pea-soup!"

"And lucky to get that!" cried angry Mr. Galloway. "But the present question, Lady Augusta, is not what he may do when he gets to Port Natal, but what am I to do without him here. Look at the position it has placed me in!"

Lady Augusta could give neither help nor counsel. In good truth, it was not her fault. But she saw that Mr. Galloway seemed to think it was hers, or that it was partially hers. She departed home again, feeling cross with Roland, feeling damped about his expedition, and beginning to fancy that Port Natal might not, after all, bring her diamonds to wear, or offer her streets paved with malachite marble.

Mr. Galloway sat down, and reiterated the question in relation to himself, which Lady Augusta had put regarding Roland when he should arrive at Port Natal—What on earth was he to do? He could not close his office; he could not perform its various duties himself; he could not be out of doors and in, at one and the same time, unless, indeed, he cut himself in two! What was he to do?

It was more than Mr. Galloway could tell. He put his two hands upon his knees, and stared in consternation, feeling himself grow hot and cold alternately. Could Roland—then whirling along in the train, reclining at his ease, his legs up on the opposite cushion as he enjoyed a luxurious pipe, to the inestimable future benefit of the carriage—have taken a view of Mr. Galloway and his discomfiture, his delight would have been unbounded.

"Incorrigible as he was, he was better than nobody," ejaculated Mr. Galloway, rubbing up his flaxen curls. "He could keep office, if he did not do much in it; he received and answered callers; he went out on hasty messages; and, upon a pinch, he did accomplish an hour or so's copying. I am down on my beam-ends, and no mistake. What a simpleton the fellow must be! Port Natal, indeed, for him! If Lord Carrick were not own brother to my lady, he might have the sense to stop it. Why—"

Arrival the first, and no one to answer it but Mr. Galloway! A fly had driven up and stopped at the door. No one appeared to be getting out of it, so Mr. Galloway, perforce, proceeded to see what it wanted. It might contain one of the chapter, or the dean himself!

But, by the time he reached the pavement, the inmates were descending. A short lady, in a black bonnet and short black skirts, had let herself out on the opposite side, and had come round to assist somebody out on this. Was it a ghost, or was it a man? His cheeks were hollow and hectic, his eyes were glistening as with fever, his chest heaved. He had a fur boa wrapped round his neck, and his overcoat hung loosely on his tall, attenuated form, which seemed too weak to support itself, or to get down the fly steps without being lifted.

"Now don't you be in a hurry!" the lady was saying, in a cross tone. "You'll come pitch into the mud with your nose. Can't you wait? It's my belief you are wanting to do it. Here, let me get firm hold of you; you know you are as weak as ever was a rat!"

You may recognize the voice as belonging to Mrs. Jenkins, and that poor shadow could be no one but Jenkins himself, for there certainly was not another like it in all Helstonleigh. Mr. Galloway stood in astonishment, wondering what this new move could mean. The descent accomplished, Jenkins was conducted by his wife through the passage to the office. He went straight to his old place at his desk, and sat down on his stool, his chest palpitating, his breath coming in great sighs. Laying his hat beside him, he turned respectfully to Mr. Galloway, who had followed him in, speaking with all his native humility:

"I have come, sir, to do what I can for you in this emergency."

And there he stopped—coughing, panting, shaking; looking like a man more fit to be lying on his death-bed than to be keeping office. Mr. Galloway gazed at him with compassion. He said nothing. Jenkins at that moment could neither have heard nor answered, and Mrs. Jenkins was out, paying the driver.

The paroxysm was not over when she came in. She approached Jenkins, slightly shook him—her mode of easing the cough—dived in his pockets for his silk handkerchief, with which she wiped his brow, took off the fur from his neck, waited until he was quiet, and began:

"I hope you are satisfied! If you are not, you ought to be. Who's to know whether you'll get back alive? I don't."

"What did he come for?" asked Mr. Galloway.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Jenkins, "that's just what I want to know! As if he could do any good in the state he is! Look at him, sir."

Poor Jenkins, who was indeed a sight to be looked at, turned his wan face upon Mr. Galloway.

"I cannot do much sir, I know; I wish I could: but I can sit in the office—at least, I hope I can—just to take care of it while you are out, sir, until you can find somebody to replace Mr. Roland."

"How did you know he was gone off?" demanded Mr. Galloway.

"It was in this way," interposed Mrs. Jenkins, ages before poor Jenkins could gain breath to answer. "I was on my hands and knees, brushing the fluff off my drawing-room carpet this morning, when I heard something tearing up the stairs at the rate of a coach-and-six. Who should it be but young Mr. Yorke, on his way to Jenkins in bed, without saying so much as 'With your leave,' or 'By your leave.' A minute or two, and down he came again, gave me a little touch of his impudence, and was gone before I could answer. Well, sir, I kept on at my room, and when it was done I went downstairs to see about the breakfast, never suspecting what was going on with him"—pointing her finger at Jenkins. "I was pouring out his tea when it was ready to take up to him, and putting a bit of something on a plate, which I intended to make him eat, when I heard somebody creeping down the stairs—stumbling, and panting, and coughing—and out I rushed. There stood he—he, Mr. Galloway! dressed and washed, as you see him now! he that has not got up lately till evening, and me dressing him then! 'Have you took leave of your senses?' said I to him. 'No,' said he, 'my dear, but I must go to the office to-day: I can't help myself. Young Mr. Yorke's gone away, and there'll be nobody.' 'And good luck go with him, for all the use he's of here, getting you out of your bed,' said I. If Jenkins were as strong as he used to be, Mr. Galloway, I should have felt tempted to treat him to a shaking, and then, perhaps, he'd have remembered it!"

"Mr. Roland told me he was going away, sir, and that you had nobody to replace him; indeed, I gathered that you were ignorant of the step," struck in the quiet, meek voice of poor Jenkins. "I could not stay away, sir, knowing the perplexity you would be put to."

"No, it's my belief he could not," tartly chimed in Jenkins's lady. "He would have tantalized himself into a fever. Why, Mr. Galloway, had I marched him back to his bed and turned the key upon him, he'd have been capable of letting himself down by a cord from his window, in the face and eyes of all the street. Now, Jenkins, I'll have none of your contradiction! you know you would."

"My dear, I am not contradicting; I am not well enough to contradict," panted poor Jenkins.

"He would have come off there and then, all by himself: he would, Mr. Galloway, as I am a living sinner!" she hotly continued. "It's unbeknown how he'd have got here—holding on by the wall, like a snail, or fastening himself on to the tail of a cart; but try at it, in some way, he would! Be quiet, Jenkins! How dare you attempt to interrupt!"

Poor Jenkins had not thought to interrupt; he was only making a movement to pull off his great-coat. Mrs. Jenkins resumed:

"'No,' said I to him; 'if you must go, you shall be conveyed there, but you don't start without your breakfast.' So I sat him down in his chair, Mr. Galloway, and gave him his breakfast—such as it was! If there's one thing that Jenkins is obstinate in, above all others, it's about eating. Then I sent Lydia for a fly, and wrapped up his throat in my boa—and that he wanted to fight against!—and here he is!"

"I wished to get here, sir, before you did," cried Jenkins, meekly. "I knew the exertion would set me coughing at first, but, if I had sat awhile before you saw me, I should not have seemed so incapable. I shall be better presently, sir."

"What are you at with that coat?" tartly asked Mrs. Jenkins. "I declare your hands are never at rest. Your coat's not to come off, Jenkins. The office is colder than our parlour, and you'll keep it on."

Jenkins, humbly obeying, began to turn up the cuffs. "I can do a little writing, sir," he said to Mr. Galloway, "Is there anything that is in a hurry?"

"Jenkins," said Mr. Galloway, "I could not suffer you to write; I could not keep you here. Were I to allow you to stop, in the state you are, just to serve me, I should lay a weight upon my conscience."

Mrs. Jenkins looked up in triumph. "You hear, Jenkins! What did I tell you? I said I'd let you have your way for once—'twas but the cost of the fly; but that if Mr. Galloway kept you here, once he set eyes on your poor creachy body, I'd eat him."

"Jenkins, my poor fellow!" said Mr. Galloway, gravely, "you must know that you are not in a state to exert yourself. I shall not forget your kindness; but you must go back at once. Why, the very draught from the frequent opening of the door would do you an injury; the exertion of speaking to answer callers would be too much for you."

"Didn't I tell you so, Jenkins, just in them very words?" interrupted the lady.

"I am aware that I am not strong, sir," acknowledged Jenkins to Mr. Galloway, with a deprecatory glance towards his wife to be allowed to speak. "But it is better I should be put to a trifle of inconvenience than that you should, sir. I can sit here, sir, while you are obliged to be out, or occupied in your private room. What could you do, sir, left entirely alone?"

"I don't know what I can do," returned Mr. Galloway, with an acidity of tone equal to that displayed by Mrs. Jenkins, for the question recalled all the perplexity of his position. "Sacrifice yourself to me, Jenkins, you shall not. What absurd folly can have taken off Roland Yorke?" he added. "Do you know?"

"No, sir, I don't. When Mr. Roland came in this morning, and said he was really off, you might have knocked me down with a feather. He would often get talking about Port Natal, but I never supposed it would come to anything. Mr. Roland was one given to talk."

"He had some tea at our house the other night, and was talking about it then," struck in Mrs. Jenkins. "He said he was worked to death."

"Worked to death!" satirically repeated Mr. Galloway.

"I'm afraid, sir, that, through my unfortunate absence, he has found the work heavier, and he grew dissatisfied," said Jenkins. "It has troubled me very much."

"You spoilt him, Jenkins; that's the fact," observed Mr. Galloway. "You did his work and your own. Idle young dog! He'll get a sickener at Port Natal."

"There's one thing to be thankful for, sir," said patient Jenkins, "that he has his uncle, the earl, to fall back upon."

"Hark at him!" interrupted Mrs. Jenkins. "That's just like him! He'd be 'thankful' to hear that his worst enemy had an uncle to fall back upon. That's Jenkins all over. But now, what is to be the next movement?" she sharply demanded. "I must get back to my shop. Is he to come with me, or to stop here—a spectacle for every one that comes in?"

But at this moment, before the question could be decided—though you may rest assured Mrs. Jenkins would only allow it to be decided in her own way—hasty footsteps were heard in the passage, and the door was thrown open by Arthur Charming.



CHAPTER LII.

A RELIC FROM THE BURIAL-GROUND.

When Hamish Charming joined the breakfast-table at home that morning at nine o'clock, he mentioned his adventure at the station with Lady Augusta Yorke. It was the first intimation they had received of Roland's departure; indeed, the first that some of them had heard of his intention to depart.

Arthur laid down his knife and fork. To him alone could the full consequences of the step present themselves, as regarded Mr. Galloway.

"Hamish! he cannot actually have gone?"

"That he is actually off by the train to London, I can certify," was the reply of Hamish. "Whether he will be off to Port Natal, is another thing. He desired me to tell you, Arthur, that he should write his adieu to you from town."

"He might have come to see me," observed Arthur, a shade of resentment in his tone. "I never thought he would really go."

"I did," said Hamish, "funds permitting him. If Lord Carrick will supply those, he'll be off by the first comfortable ship that sails. His mind was so completely bent upon it."

"What can he think of doing at Port Natal?" inquired Constance, wonderingly.

"Making his fortune." But Hamish laughed as he said it. "Wherever I may have met him latterly, his whole talk has been of Port Natal. Lady Augusta says he is going to take out frying-pans to begin with."

"Hamish!"

"She said so, Constance. I have no doubt Roland said so to her. I should like to see the sort of cargo he will lay in for the start."

"What does Mr. Galloway say to it, I wonder?" exclaimed Arthur, that gentleman's perplexities presenting themselves to his mind above everything else. "I cannot think what he will do."

"I have an idea that Mr. Galloway is as yet unaware of it," said Hamish. "Roland assured me that no person whatever knew of his departure, except Jenkins. He called upon him on his way to the station."

"Unaware of it!" Arthur fell into consternation great as Mr. Galloway's, as he repeated the words. Was it possible that Roland had stolen a march on Mr. Galloway? He relapsed into silence and thought.

"What makes you so sad?" Constance asked of Arthur later, when they were dispersing to their several occupations.

"I am not sad, Constance; only thoughtful. I have been carrying on an inward battle," he added, half laughingly.

"With your conscience?"

"With my spirit. It is a proud one yet, in spite of all I have had to tame it; a great deal more rebellious than I like it to be."

"Why, what is the matter, Arthur?"

"Constance, I think I ought to come forward and help Mr. Galloway out of this strait. I think my duty lies in doing it."

"To return to his office, you mean?"

"Yes; until he can see his way out of the wood. But it goes against the grain."

"Arthur dear, I know you will do it," she gently said. "Were our duty always pleasant to us, where would be the merit in fulfilling it?"

"I shall do it," he answered. "To that I have made up my mind. The difficulty is, Constance, to do it with a good grace."

She looked at him with a loving smile. "Only try. A firm will, Arthur, will conquer even a rebellious spirit."

Arthur knew it. He knew how to set about it. And a little later, he was on his way to Close Street, with the best grace in the world. Not only in appearance, mind you, but inwardly. It is a GREAT thing, reader, to conquer the risings of a proud spirit! To bring it from its haughty, rebellious pedestal, down to cordiality and love. Have you learnt the way?

Some parchments under his arm, for he had stayed to collect them together, Arthur bounded in to Mr. Galloway's. The first object his eyes fell on was that shadowy form, coughing and panting. "Oh, Jenkins!" he involuntarily uttered, "what do you do out of your house?"

"Anxiety for me has brought him out," said Mr. Galloway. "How can I scold him?"

"I could not rest, sir, knowing my master was alone in his need," cried Jenkins to Arthur. "What is to become of the office, sir, with no one in it?"

"But he is not alone," said Arthur; and, if he had wanted a reward for coming forward, that moment would have supplied it, in satisfying poor Jenkins. "If you will allow me, sir," Arthur added, turning frankly to Mr. Galloway, "I will take my place here, until you shall be suited."

"Thank you," emphatically replied Mr. Galloway. "It will relieve me from a serious embarrassment."

Arthur went to his old desk, and sat down on his old stool, and began settling the papers and other things on it, just as though he had not been absent an hour. "I must still attend the cathedral as usual, sir," he observed to Mr. Galloway; "but I can give you the whole of my remaining time. I shall be better for you than no one."

"I would rather have you here than any one else, Channing; he"—laying his hand on Jenkins's shoulder—"excepted. I offered that you should return before."

"I know you did, sir," replied Arthur, in a brief tone—one that seemed to intimate he would prefer not to pursue the subject.

"And now are you satisfied?" struck in Mrs. Jenkins to her husband.

"I am more than satisfied," answered Jenkins, clasping his hands. "With Mr. Arthur in the office, I shall have no fear of its missing me, and I can go home in peace, to die."

"Please just to hold your tongue about dying," reprimanded Mrs. Jenkins. "Your business is to get well, if you can. And now I am going to see after a fly. A pretty dance I should have had here, if he had persisted in stopping, bringing him messes and cordials every half-hour! Which would have worn out first, I wonder—the pavement or my shoes?"

"Channing," said Mr. Galloway, "let us understand each other. Have you come here to do anything there may be to do—out of doors as well as in? In short, to be my clerk as heretofore?"

"Of course I have, sir; until"—Arthur spoke very distinctly—you shall be able to suit yourself; not longer."

"Then take this paper round to Deering's office, and get it signed. You will have time to do it before college."

Arthur's answer was to put on his hat, and vault away with the paper. Jenkins turned to Mr. Galloway as soon as they were alone. "Oh, sir, keep him in your office!" he earnestly said. "He will soon be of more value to you than I have ever been!"

"That he will not, Jenkins. Nor any one else."

"Yes, he will, sir! He will be able to replace you in the chapter house upon any emergency, and I never could do that, you know, sir, not being a gentleman. When you have him to yourself alone, sir, you will see his value; and I shall not be missed. He is steady and thoughtful beyond his years, sir, and every day will make him older."

You forget the charge against him, Jenkins. Until he shall be cleared of that—if he can be cleared of it—he will not be of great value to any one; certainly not to me."

"Sir," said Jenkins, raising his wan face, its hectic deepening, find his eye lighting, while his voice sunk to a whisper, so deep as to savour of solemnity, "that time will come! He never did it, and he will as surely be cleared, as that I am now saying it! Sir, I have thought much about this accusation; it has troubled me in sleep; but I know that God will bring the right to light for those who trust in Him. If any one ever trusted in God, it is Mr. Arthur Channing. I lie and think of all this, sir. I seem to be so near God, now," Jenkins went on dreamily, "that I know the right must come to light; that it will come in God's own good time. And I believe I shall live to see it!"

"You have certainly firm faith in his innocence, Jenkins. How then do you account for his very suspicious manner?"

"It does not weigh with me, sir. I could as soon believe a good wholesome apple-tree would bring forth poison, as that Mr. Arthur would be guilty of a deliberately bad action. Sometimes I have thought, sir, when puzzling over it, that he may be screening another. There's no telling how it was. I hear, sir, that the money has been returned to you."

"Yes. Was it he who told you?"

"It was Mr. Roland Yorke who told me, sir. Mr. Roland is another, sir, who has had firm faith in his innocence from the first."

"Much his faith goes for!" ejaculated Mr. Galloway, as he came back from his private room with a letter, which he handed to Jenkins, who was skilled in caligraphy. "What do you make of it?" he asked. "It is the letter which came with the returned money."

"It is a disguised hand, sir—there's no doubt of that," replied Jenkins, when he had surveyed it critically. "I do not remember to have seen any person write like it."

Mr. Galloway took it back to his room, and presently a fly drove up with Mrs. Jenkins inside it. Jenkins stood at the office door, hat in hand, his face turned upon the room. Mrs. Jenkins came up and seized his arm, to marshal him to the fly.

"I was but taking a farewell of things, sir," he observed to Mr. Galloway. "I shall never see the old spot again."

Arthur arrived just as Jenkins was safely in. He put his hand over the door. "Make yourself easy, Jenkins; it will all go on smoothly here. Good-bye, old fellow! I'll come and see you very soon."

"How he breaks, does he not, sir?" exclaimed Arthur to Mr. Galloway.

"Ay! he's not long for this world!"

The fly proceeded on its way; Mrs. Jenkins, with her snappish manner, though really not unkind heart, lecturing Jenkins on his various shortcomings until it drew up at their own door. As Jenkins was being helped down from it, one of the college boys passed at a great speed; a railroad was nothing to it. It was Stephen Bywater. Something, legitimate or illegitimate, had detained him, and now the college bell was going.

He caught sight of Jenkins, and, hurried as he was, much of punishment as he was bargaining for, it had such an effect upon him, that he pulled up short. Was it Jenkins, or his ghost? Bywater had never been so struck with any sight before.

The most appropriate way in which it occurred to him to give vent to his surprise, was to prop his back against the shop door, and indulge in a soft, prolonged whistle. He could not take his eyes from Jenkins's face. "Is it you, or your shadow, Jenkins?" he asked, making room for the invalid to pass.

"It's myself, sir, thank you. I hope you are well, sir."

"Oh, I'm always jolly," replied Bywater, and then he began to whistle again.

He followed Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins into the shop with his eyes; that is, they followed Jenkins. Bywater had heard, as a matter of necessity, of Jenkins's illness, and had given as much thought to it as he would have done if told Jenkins had a headache; but to fancy him like this had never occurred to Bywater.

Now somewhere beneath Bywater's waistcoat, there really was a little bit of heart; and, as he thus looked, a great fear began to thump against it. He followed Jenkins into the parlour. Mrs. Jenkins, after divesting Jenkins of his coat, and her boa, planted him right before the fire in his easy-chair, with a pillow at his back, and was now whisking down into the kitchen, regardless of certain customers waiting in the shop to be served.

Bywater, unasked, sat himself in a chair near to poor Jenkins and his panting breath, and indulged in another long stare. "I say, Jenkins," said he, "what's the matter with you?"

Jenkins took the question literally. "I believe it may be called a sort of decline, sir. I don't know any other name for it."

"Shan't you get well?"

"Oh no, sir! I don't look for that, now."

The fear thumped at Bywater's heart worse than before. A past vision of locking up old Ketch in the cloisters, through which pastime Jenkins had come to a certain fall, was uncomfortably present to Bywater just then. He had been the ringleader.

"What brought it on?" asked he.

"Well, sir, I suppose it was to come," meekly replied Jenkins. "I have had a bad cough, spring and autumn, for a long while now, Master Bywater. My brother went off just the same, sir, and so did my mother."

Bywater pushed his honest, red face, forward; but it did not look quite so impudent as usual. "Jenkins," said he, plunging headlong into the fear, "DID—THAT—FALL—DO—IT?"

"Fall, sir! What fall?"

"That fall down from the organ loft. Because that was my fault. I had the most to do with locking up the cloisters, that night."

"Oh, bless you, sir, no! Never think that. Master Bywater"—lowering his voice till it was as grave as Bywater's—"that fall did me good—good, sir, instead of harm."

"How do you make out that?" asked Bywater, drawing his breath a little easier.

"Because, sir, in the few days' quiet that I had in bed, my thoughts seemed in an unaccountable manner to be drawn to thinking of heaven. I can't rightly describe, sir, how or why it could have been. I remember his lordship, the bishop, talked to me a little bit in his pleasant, affable way, about the necessity of always, being prepared; and my wife's Bible lay on the drawers by my bed's head, and I used to pick up that. But I don't think it was either of those causes much; I believe, sir, that it was God Himself working in my heart. I believe He sent the fall in His mercy. After I got up, I seemed to know that I should soon go to Him; and—I hope it is not wrong to say it—I seemed to wish to go."

Bywater felt somewhat puzzled. "I am not speaking about your heart and religion, and all that, Jenkins. I want to know if the fall helped to bring on this illness?"

"No, sir; it had nothing to do with it. The fall hurt my head a little—nothing more; and I got well from it directly. This illness, which has been taking me off, must have been born with me."

"Hoo—" Bywater's shout, as he tossed up his trencher, was broken in upon by Mrs. Jenkins. She had been beating up an egg with sugar and wine, and now brought it in in a tumbler.

"My dear," said Jenkins, "I don't feel to want it."

"Not want it!" said Mrs. Jenkins resolutely. And in two seconds she had taken hold of him, and it was down his throat. "I can't stop parleying here all day, with my shop full of customers." Bywater laughed, and she retreated.

"If I could eat gold, sir, she'd get it for me," said Jenkins; "but my appetite fails. She's a good wife, Master Bywater."

"Stunning," acquiesced Bywater. "I wouldn't mind a wife myself, if she'd feed me up with eggs and wine."

"But for her care, sir, I should not have lasted so long. She has had great experience with the sick."

Bywater did not answer. Rising to go, his eyes had fixed themselves upon some object on the mantelpiece as pertinaciously as they had previously been fixed upon Jenkins's face. "I say, Jenkins, where did you get this?" he exclaimed.

"That, sir? Oh, I remember. My old father brought it in yesterday. He had cut his hand with it. Where now did he say he found it? In the college burial-ground, I think, Master Bywater."

It was part of a small broken phial, of a peculiar shape, which had once apparently contained ink; an elegant shape, it may be said, not unlike a vase. Bywater began turning it about in his fingers; he was literally feasting his eyes upon it.

"Do you want to keep it, Jenkins?"

"Not at all, sir. I wonder my wife did not throw it away before this."

"I'll take it, then," said Bywater, slipping it into his pocket. "And now I'm off. Hope you'll get better, Jenkins."

"Thank you, sir. Let me put the broken bottle in paper, Master Bywater. You will cut your fingers if you carry it loose in your pocket."

"Oh, that be bothered!" answered Bywater. "Who cares for cut fingers?"

He pushed himself through Mrs. Jenkins's customers, with as little ceremony as Roland Yorke might have used, and went flying towards the cathedral. The bell ceased as he entered. The organ pealed forth; and the dean and chapter, preceded by some of the bedesmen, were entering from the opposite door. Bywater ensconced himself behind a pillar, until they should have traversed the body, crossed the nave, and were safe in the choir. Then he came out, and made his way to old Jenkins the bedesman.

The old man, in his black gown, stood near the bell ropes, for he had been one of the ringers that day. Bywater noticed that his left hand was partially tied up in a handkerchief.

"Holloa, old Jenkins," said he, sotte voce, "what have you done with your hand?"

"I gave it a nasty cut yesterday, sir, just in the ball of the thumb. I wrapped my handkerchief round it just now, for fear of opening it again, while I was ringing the bell. See," said he, taking off the handkerchief and showing the cut to Bywater.

"What an old muff you must be, to cut yourself like that!"

"But I didn't do it on purpose," returned the old man. "We was ordered into the burial-ground to put it a bit to rights, and I fell down with my hand on a broken phial. I ain't as active as I was. I say, though, sir, do you know that service has begun?"

"Let it begin," returned careless Bywater. "This was the bottle you fell over, was it not? I found it on Joe's mantelpiece, just now."

"Ay, that was it. It must have laid there some time. A good three months, I know."

Bywater nodded his head. He returned the bottle to his pocket, and went to the vestry for his surplice. Then he slid into college under the severe eyes of the Reverend Mr. Pye, which were bent upon him from the chanting-desk, and ascended, his stall just in time to take his part in the Venite, exultemus Domino.



CHAPTER LIII.

THE RETURN HOME.

It almost seemed, to Mr. Channing's grateful heart, as if the weather had prolonged its genial warmth on purpose for him. A more charming autumn had never been known at Borcette, and up to the very hour of Mr. Channing's departure, there were no signs of winter. Taking it as a whole, it had been the same at Helstonleigh. Two or three occasional wet days, two or three cold and windy ones; but they soon passed over and people remarked to each other how this fine weather would shorten the winter.

Never did November turn out a more lovely day than the one that was to witness Mr. Channing's return. The sun shone brightly; the blue sky was without a cloud. All Nature seemed to have put on a smiling face to give him welcome. And yet—to what was he returning?

For once in his life, Hamish Channing shrank from meeting his father and mother. How should he break the news to them? They were arriving full of joy, of thankfulness at the restoration to health of Mr. Channing: how could Hamish mar it with the news regarding Charles? Told it must be; and he must be the one to do it. In good truth, Hamish was staggered at the task. His own hopeful belief that Charley would some day "turn up," was beginning to die out; for every hour that dragged by, without bringing him, certainly gave less and less chance of it. And even if Hamish had retained hope himself, it was not likely he could impart it to Mr. or Mrs. Channing.

"I shall get leave from school this afternoon," Tom suddenly exclaimed that morning at breakfast.

"For what purpose?" inquired Hamish.

"To go up to the station and meet them."

"No, Tom. You must not go to the station."

"Who says so?" sharply cried Tom.

"I do," replied Hamish.

"I dare say! that's good!" returned Tom, speaking in his hasty spirit. "You know you are going yourself, Hamish, and yet you would like to deprive me of the same pleasure. Why, I wouldn't miss being there for anything! Don't say, Hamish, that you are never selfish."

Hamish turned upon him with a smile, but his tone changed to sadness. "I wish with all my heart, Tom, that you or some one else, could go and meet them, instead of myself, and undertake what I shall have to do. I can tell you I never had a task imposed upon me that I found so uncongenial as the one I must go through this day."

Tom's voice dropped a little of its fierce shade. "But, Hamish, there's no reason why I should not meet them at the station. That will not make it the better or the worse for you."

"I will tell you why I think you should not," replied Hamish; "why it will be better that you should not. It is most desirable that they should be home, here, in this house, before the tidings are broken to them. I should not like them to hear of it in the streets, or at the station; especially my mother."

"Of course not," assented Tom.

"And, were you at the station," quietly went on Hamish to him, "the first question would be, 'Where's Charley?' If Tom Channing can get leave of absence from school, Charley can."

"I could say—"

"Well?" said Hamish, for Tom had stopped.

"I don't know what I could say," acknowledged Tom.

"Nor I. My boy, I have thought it over, and the conclusion I come to, if you appear at the station, is this: either that the tidings must be told to them, then and there, or else an evasion, bordering upon an untruth. If they do not see you there, they will not inquire particularly after Charles; they will suppose you are both in school."

"I declare I never set my mind upon a thing but something starts in to frustrate it!" cried Tom, in vexation. But he relinquished his intention from that moment.

Chattering Annabel threw up her head. "As soon as papa and mamma come home, we shall put on mourning, shall we not? Constance was talking about it with Lady Augusta."

"Do not talk of mourning, child," returned Hamish. "I can't give him up, if you do."

Afternoon came, and Hamish proceeded alone to the station. Tom, listening to the inward voice of reason, was in school, and Arthur was occupied in the cathedral; the expected hour of their arrival was towards the close of afternoon service. Hamish had boasted that he should walk his father through Helstonleigh for the benefit of beholders, if happily he came home capable of walking; but, like poor Tom and his plan, that had to be relinquished. In the first half-dozen paces they would meet half a dozen gossipers, and the first remark from each, after congratulations, would be, "What a sad thing this is about your little Charles!" Hamish lived in doubt whether it might not, by some untoward luck, come out at the station, in spite of his precaution in keeping away Tom.

But, so far, all went well. The train came in to its time, and Hamish, his face lighted with excitement, saw his father once more in possession of his strength, descending without assistance from the carriage, walking alone on the platform. Not in the full strength and power of old; that might never be again. He stooped slightly, and moved slowly, as if his limbs were yet stiff, limping a little. But that he was now in a sound state of health was evident; his face betrayed it. Hamish did not know whose hands to clasp first; his, or his mother's.

"Can you believe that it is myself, Hamish?" asked Mr. Channing, when the first few words of thankful greeting had passed.

"I should hide my head for ever as a false prophet if it could be any one else," was the reply of Hamish. "You know I always said you would so return. I am only in doubt whether it is my mother."

"What is the matter with me, Hamish?" asked Mrs. Channing. "Because you would make about two of the thin, pale, careworn Mrs. Channing who went away," cried he, turning his mother round to look at her, deep love shining out from his gay blue eyes. "I hope you have not taken to rouge your cheeks, ma'am, but I am bound to confess they look uncommonly like it."

Mrs. Channing laughed merrily. "It has done me untold good, Hamish, as well as papa; it seems to have set me up for years to come. Seeing him grow better day by day would have effected it, without any other change."

Mr. Channing had actually gone himself to see after the luggage. How strange it seemed! Hamish caught him up. "If you can give yourself trouble now, sir, there's no reason that you should do so, while you have your great lazy son at your elbow."

"Hamish, boy, I am proud of doing it."

It was soon collected. Hamish hastily, if not carelessly, told a porter to look to it, took Mr. Channing's arm, and marched him to the fly, which Mrs. Channing had already found. Hamish was in lively dread of some officious friend or other coming up, who might drop a hint of the state of affairs.

"Shall I help you in, father!"

"I can help myself now, Hamish. I remember you promised me I should have no fly on my return. You have thought better of it."

"Yes, sir, wishing to get you home before bed-time, which might not be the case if you were to show yourself in the town, and stop at all the interruptions."

Mr. Channing stepped into the fly. Hamish followed, first giving the driver a nod. "The luggage! The luggage!" exclaimed Mrs. Channing, as they moved off.

"The porter will bring it, mother. He would have been a month putting it on to the fly."

How could they suppose anything was the matter? Not a suspicion of it ever crossed them. Never had Hamish appeared more light-hearted. In fact, in his self-consciousness, Hamish a little overdid it. Let him get them home before the worst came!

"We find you all well, I conclude!" said Mrs. Channing. "None of them came up with you! Arthur is in college, I suppose, and Tom and Charles are in school."

"It was Arthur's hour for college," remarked Hamish, ignoring the rest of the sentence. "But he ought to be out now. Arthur is at Galloway's again," he added. "He did not write you word, I believe, as you were so shortly expected home."

Mr. Channing turned a glance on his son, quick as lightning. "Cleared, Hamish?"

"In my opinion, yes. In the opinion of others, I fear not much more than he was before."

"And himself?" asked Mr. Channing. "What does he say now?"

"He does not speak of it to me."

Hamish put his head out at the window, nodding to some one who was passing. A question of Mr. Channing's called it in again.

"Why has he gone back to Galloway's?"

Hamish laughed. "Roland Yorke took an impromptu departure one fine morning, for Port Natal, leaving the office and Mr. Galloway to do the best they could with each other. Arthur buried his grievances and offered himself to Mr. Galloway in the emergency. I am not quite sure that I should have been so forgiving."

"Hamish! He has nothing to forgive Mr. Galloway. It is on the other side."

"I am uncharitable, I suppose," remarked Hamish. "I cannot like Mr. Galloway's treatment of Arthur."

"But what is it you say about Roland Yorke and Port Natal?" interposed Mrs. Channing. "I do not understand."

"Roland is really gone, mother. He has been in London these ten days, and it is expected that every post will bring news that he has sailed. Roland has picked up a notion somewhere that Port Natal is an enchanted land, converting poor men into rich ones; and he is going to try what it will do for him, Lord Carrick fitting him out. Poor Jenkins is sinking fast."

"Changes! changes!" remarked Mr. Channing. "Go away only for two or three months, and you must find them on return. Some gone; some dying; some—"

"Some restored, who were looked upon as incurable," interrupted Hamish. "My dear father, I will not have you dwell on dark things the very moment of your arrival; the time for that will come soon enough."

Judy nearly betrayed all; and Constance's aspect might have betrayed it, had the travellers been suspicious. She, Constance, came forward in the hall, white and trembling. When Mrs. Channing shook hands with Judy, she put an unfortunate question—"Have you taken good care of your boy?" Judy knew it could only allude to Charles, and for answer there went up a sound, between a cry and a sob, that might have been heard in the far-off college schoolroom. Hamish took Judy by the shoulders, bidding her go out and see whether any rattletraps were left in the fly, and so turned it off.

They were all together in the sitting-room—Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Hamish, Constance, Arthur, and Annabel; united, happy, as friends are and must be when meeting after a separation; talking of this and of that, giving notes of what had occurred on either side. Hamish showed himself as busy as the rest; but Hamish felt all the while upon a bed of thorns, for the hands of the timepiece were veering on for five, and he must get the communication over before Tom came in. At length Mrs. Channing went up to her room, accompanied by Constance; Annabel followed. And now came Hamish's opportunity. Arthur had gone back to Mr. Galloway's, and he was alone with his father. He plunged into it at once; indeed, there was no time for delay.

"Father!" he exclaimed, with deep feeling, his careless manner changing as by magic: "I have very grievous news to impart to you. I would not enter upon it before my mother: though she must be told of it also, and at once."

Mr. Channing was surprised; more surprised than alarmed. He never remembered to have seen Hamish betray so much emotion. A thought crossed his mind that Arthur's guilt might have been brought clearly to light.

"Not that," said Hamish. "It concerns—Father, I do not like to enter upon it! I shrink from my task. It is very bad news indeed."

"You, my children, are all well," cried Mr. Channing, hastily speaking the words as a fact, not as a question. "What other 'very bad' news can be in store for me?"

"You have not seen us all," was Hamish's answer. And Mr. Channing, alarmed, now looked inquiringly at him. "It concerns Charles. An—an accident has happened to him."

Mr. Channing sat down and shaded his eyes. He was a moment or two before he spoke. "One word, Hamish; is he dead?"

Hamish stood before his father and laid his hand affectionately upon his shoulder. "Father, I wish I could have prepared you better for it!" he exclaimed, with emotion. "We do not know whether he is dead or alive."

Then he explained—explained more in summary than in detail—touching lightly upon the worst features of the case, enlarging upon his own hopeful view of it. Bad enough it was, at the best, and Mr. Channing found it so. He could feel no hope. In the revulsion of grief, he turned almost with resentment upon Hamish.

"My son, I did not expect this treatment from you."

"I have taken enough blame to myself; I know he was left in my charge," sadly replied Hamish; "but, indeed, I do not see how I could have helped it. Although I was in the room when he ran out of it, I was buried in my own thoughts, and never observed his going. I had no suspicion anything was astir that night with the college boys. Father, I would have saved his life with my own!"

"I am not blaming you for the fact, Hamish; blame is not due to you. Had I been at home myself, I might no more have stopped his going out than you did. But you ought to have informed me of this instantly. A whole month, and I to be left in ignorance!"

"We did it for the best. Father, I assure you that not a stone has been left unturned to find him; alive, or—or dead. You could not have done more had you hastened home; and it has been so much suspense and grief spared to you."

Mr. Channing relapsed into silence. Hamish glanced uneasily to that ever-advancing clock. Presently he spoke.

"My mother must be told before Tom comes home. It will be better that you take the task upon yourself, father. Shall I send her in?"

Mr. Channing looked at Hamish, as if he scarcely understood the meaning of the words. From Hamish he looked to the clock. "Ay; go and send her."

Hamish went to his mother's room, and returned with her. But he did not enter. He merely opened the door, and shut her in. Constance, with a face more frightened than ever, came and stood in the hall. Annabel stood there also. Judy, wringing her hands, and sending off short ejaculations in an undertone, came to join them, and Sarah stood peeping out from the kitchen door. They remained gazing at the parlour door, dreading the effect of the communication that was going on inside.

"If it had been that great big Tom, it wouldn't matter so much," wailed Judith, in a tone of resentment. "The missis would know that he'd be safe to turn up, some time or other; a strong fellow like him!"

A sharp cry within the room. The door was flung open, and Mrs. Channing came forth, her face pale, her hands lifted. "It cannot be true! It cannot be! Hamish! Judith! Where is he?"

Hamish folded her hands in his, and gently drew her in again. They all followed. No reason why they should not, now that the communication was made. Almost at the same moment, Mr. Huntley arrived.

Of course, the first thought that had occurred to the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Channing was, that had they been at home to direct affairs in the search, Charley would have been found. It is the thought that would occur to us all: we never give others credit for doing as much as we should have done. "This might have been tried, and the other might have been tried." It makes little difference when told that they have been tried; for then we fall back upon some other suggestion. Mrs. Channing reproached Hamish with keeping it from them.

"My dear lady, you must blame me, not him," interposed Mr. Huntley. "Left to himself, Hamish would have started Arthur off to you, post haste. It was I who suggested the desirability of keeping you in ignorance; it was I who brought Hamish to see it: and I know that, when the brunt of your grief shall have passed, you will acknowledge that it was the best, the wisest, and the kindest course."

"But there are so many things that we could have suggested; that perhaps none but a father or mother would think of!" urged Mrs. Channing, lifting her yearning face. They wished they could see her weep.

"You could have suggested nothing that has not been done," returned Mr. Huntley. "Believe me, dear Mrs. Channing! We have had many good counsellors. Butterby has conducted the search."

Mr. Channing turned to them. He was standing at the far window. "I should like to see Butterby."

"He will be here in an hour's time," said Hamish. "I knew you would wish to see him, and I requested him to come."

"The worst feature of the whole," put in Judith, with as much acrimony as ever was displayed by Mr. Ketch, "is that them boys should not have got their deserts. They have not as much as had a birching; and I say that the college masters ought to be hooted. I'd 'ghost' 'em!"

"The punishment lies in abeyance for the present," explained Hamish. "A different punishment from any the head-master could inflict will be required, should—should—" Hamish stopped. He did not like to say, in the presence of his mother, "should the body be found." "Some of them are suffering pretty well, as it is," he continued, after a brief pause. "Master Bill Simms lay in bed for a week with fright, and they were obliged to have Mr. Hurst to him. Report goes, that Hurst soundly flogged his son, by way of commencing his share."

A pushing open of the outer door, a bang, and hasty footsteps in the hall. Tom had arrived. Tom, with his sparkling eyes, his glowing face. They sparkled for his father only in that first moment; his father, who turned and walked to meet him.

"Oh, papa! What baths those must be!" cried honest Tom. "If ever I get rich, I'll go over there and make them a present of a thousand pounds. To think that nothing else should have cured you!"

"I think something else must have had a hand in curing me, Tom."

Tom looked up inquiringly. "Ah, papa! You mean God."

"Yes, my boy. God has cured me. The baths were only instruments in His hands."



CHAPTER LIV.

"THE SHIP'S DROWNED."

Rejecting all offers of refreshment—the meal which Constance had planned, and Judith prepared, both with so much loving care—Mr. Channing resolved to seek out Butterby at once. In his state of suspense, he could neither wait, nor eat, nor remain still; it would be a satisfaction only to see Butterby, and hear his opinion.

Mr. Huntley accompanied him; scarcely less proud than Hamish would have been, to walk once more arm in arm with Mr. Channing. But, as there is not the least necessity for our going to the police-station, for Mr. Butterby could tell us no more than we already know; we will pay a short visit to Mr. Stephen Bywater.

That gentleman stood in the cloisters, into which he had seduced old Jenkins, the bedesman, having waited for the twilight hour, that he might make sure no one else would be there. Ever since the last day you saw old Jenkins in the cathedral, he had been laid up in his house, with a touch of what he called his "rheumatiz." Decrepit old fellows were all the bedesmen, monopolizing enough "rheumatiz" between them for half the city. If one was not laid up, another would be, especially in winter. However, old Jenkins had come out again to-day, to the gratification of Mr. Bywater, who had been wanting him. The cloisters were all but dark, and Mr. Ketch must undoubtedly be most agreeably engaged, or he would have shut up before.

"Now then, old Jenkins!" Bywater was saying. "You show me the exact spot, and I'll give you sixpence for smoke."

Old Jenkins hobbled to one of the mullioned windows near to the college entrance, and looked over into the dim graveyard. "'Twas about four or five yards off here," said he.

"But I want to know the precise spot," returned Bywater. "Get over, and show me!"

The words made old Jenkins laugh. "Law, sir! me get over there! You might as well ask me to get over the college. How am I to do it?"

"I'll hoist you up," said Bywater.

"No, no," answered the man. "My old bones be past hoisting now. I should never get back alive, once I were propelled over into that graveyard."

Bywater felt considerably discomfited. "What a weak rat you must be, old Jenkins! Why, it's nothing!"

"I know it ain't—for you college gents. 'Twouldn't have been much for me when I was your age. Skin and clothes weren't of much account to me, then."

"Oh, it's that, is it?" returned Bywater, contemptuously. "Look here, old Jenkins! if your things come to grief, I'll get my uncle to look you out some of his old ones. I'll give you sixpence for baccy, I say!"

The old bedesman shook his head. "If you give me a waggin load of baccy, I couldn't get over there. You might just as good put a babby in arms on the ground, and tell it to walk!"

"Here! get out of the way for an old muff!" was Bywater's rejoinder; and in a second he had mounted the window-frame, and dropped into the burial-ground. "Now then, old Jenkins, I'll go about and you call out when I come to the right spot."

By these means, Bywater arrived at a solution of the question, where the broken phial was found; old Jenkins pointing out the spot, to the best of his ability. Bywater then vaulted back again, and alighted safe and sound in the cloisters. Old Jenkins asked for his sixpence.

"Why, you did not earn it!" said Bywater. "You wouldn't get over!"

"A sixpence is always useful to me," said the old man; "and some of you gents has 'em in plenty. I ain't paid much; and Joe, he don't give me much. 'Tain't him; he'd give away his head, and always would—it's her. Precious close she is with the money, though she earns a sight of it, I know, at that shop of her'n, and keeps Joe like a king. Wine, and all the rest of it, she's got for him, since he was ill. 'There's a knife and fork for ye, whenever ye like to come,' she says to me, in her tart way. But deuce a bit of money will she give. If it weren't for one and another friend giving me an odd sixpence now and then, Master Bywater, I should never hardly get any baccy!"

"There; don't bother!" said Bywater, dropping the coin into his hand.

"Why, bless my heart, who's this, a prowling in the cloisters at this hour?" exclaimed a well-known cracked voice, advancing upon them with shuffling footsteps. "What do you do here, pray?"

"You would like to know, wouldn't you, Mr. Calcraft?" said Bywater. "Studying architecture. There!"

Old Ketch gave a yell of impotent rage, and Bywater decamped, as fast as his legs would carry him, through the west door.

Arrived at his home, or rather his uncle's, where he lived—for Bywater's paternal home was in a far-away place, over the sea—he went straight up to his own room, where he struck a match, and lighted a candle. Then he unlocked a sort of bureau, and took from it the phial found by old Jenkins, and a smaller piece which exactly fitted into the part broken. He had fitted them in ten times before, but it appeared to afford him satisfaction, and he now sat down and fitted them again.

"Yes," soliloquized he, as he nursed one of his legs—his favourite attitude—"it's as sure as eggs. And I'd have had it out before, if that helpless old muff of a Jenkins had been forthcoming. I knew it was safe to be somewhere near the college gates; but it was as Well to ask."

He turned the phial over and over between his eye and the candle, and resumed;

"And now I'll give Mr. Ger a last chance. I told him the other day that if he'd only speak up like a man to me, and say it was an accident, I'd drop it for good. But he won't. And find it out, I will. I have said I would from the first, just for my own satisfaction: and if I break my word, may they tar and feather me! Ger will only have himself to thank; if he won't satisfy me in private, I'll bring it against him in public. I suspected Mr. Ger before; not but that I suspected another; but since Charley Channing——Oh! bother, though! I don't want to get thinking of him!"

Bywater locked up his treasures, and descended to his tea. That over, he had enough lessons to occupy him for a few hours, and keep him out of mischief.

Meanwhile Mr. Channing's interview with the renowned Mr. Butterby had brought forth nothing, and he was walking back home with Mr. Huntley. Mr. Huntley strove to lead his friend's thoughts into a different channel: it seemed quite a mockery to endeavour to whisper hope for Charley.

"You will resume your own place in Guild Street at once?" he observed.

"To-morrow, please God."

They walked a few steps further in silence; and then Mr. Channing entered upon the very subject which Mr. Huntley was hoping he would not enter upon. "I remember, you spoke, at Borcette, of having something in view for Hamish, should I be able to attend to business again. What is it?"

"I did," said Mr. Huntley; "and I am sorry that I did. I spoke prematurely."

"I suppose it is gone?"

"Well—no; it is not gone," replied Mr. Huntley, who was above equivocation. "I do not think Hamish would suit the place."

Mr. Channing felt a little surprised. There were few places that Hamish might not suit, if he chose to exercise his talents. "You thought he would suit then?" he remarked.

"But circumstances have since induced me to alter my opinion," said Mr. Huntley. "My friend," he more warmly added to Mr. Channing, "you will oblige me by allowing the subject to drop. I candidly confess to you that I am not so pleased with Hamish as I once was, and I would rather not interfere in placing him elsewhere."

"How has he offended you? What has he done?"

"Nay, that is all I will say. I could not help giving you a hint, to account for what you might have thought caprice. Hamish has not pleased me, and I cannot take him by the hand. There, let it rest."

Mr. Channing was content to let it rest. In his inmost heart he entertained no doubt that the cause of offence was in some way connected with Mr. Huntley's daughter. Hamish was poor: Ellen would be rich; therefore it was only natural that Mr. Huntley should consider him an ineligible parti for her. Mr. Channing did not quite see what that had to do with the present question; but he could not, in delicacy, urge it further.

They found quite a levee when they entered: the Reverend Mr. Pye, Mr. Galloway—who had called in with Arthur upon leaving the office for the night—and William Yorke. All were anxious to welcome and congratulate Mr. Channing; and all were willing to tender a word of sympathy respecting Charles. Possibly Mr. Yorke had also another motive: if so, we shall come to it in due time.

Mr. Pye stayed only a few minutes. He did not say a word about the seniorship, neither did Mr. Channing to him. What, indeed, could either of them say? The subject was unpleasant on both sides; therefore it was best avoided. Tom, however, thought differently.

"Papa!" he exclaimed, plunging into it the moment Mr. Pye's back was turned, "you might have taken the opportunity to tell him that I shall leave the school. It is not often he comes here."

"But you are not going to leave the school," said Mr. Channing.

"Yes, I am," replied Tom, speaking with unmistakable firmness. "Hamish made me stay on, until you came home; and I don't know how I have done it. It is of no use, papa! I cannot put up with the treatment—the insults I receive. It was bad enough to lose the seniorship, but that is as nothing to the other. And to what end should I stop, when my chance of the exhibition is gone?"

"It is not gone, Tom. Mr. Huntley—as word was written to me at Borcette—has declined it for his son."

"It is not the less gone for me, papa. Let me merit it as I will, I shall not be allowed to receive it, any more than I did the seniorship. I am out of favour, both with master and boys; and you know what that means, in a public school. If you witnessed the way I am served by the boys, you would be the first to say I must leave." "What do they do?" asked Mr. Channing.

"They do enough to provoke my life out of me," said Tom, falling into a little of his favourite heat. "Were it myself only that they attacked, I might perhaps stop and brave it out; but it is not so. They go on against Arthur in a way that would make a saint mad."

"Pooh, pooh!" interposed Mr. Galloway, who was standing by. "If I am content to accept Arthur's innocence, surely the college school may be."

Mr. Channing turned to the proctor. "Do you now believe him innocent?"

"I say I am content to accept his innocence," was the reply of Mr. Galloway; and Arthur, who was within hearing, could only do as he had had to do so many times before—school his spirit to patience. "Content to accept," and open exculpation, were essentially different things.

"Let me speak with you a minute, Galloway," said Mr. Channing, taking the proctor's arm and leading him across the hall to the drawing-room. "Tom," he added, looking back, "you shall tell me of these grievances another time."

The drawing-room door closed upon them, and Mr. Channing spoke with eagerness. "Is it possible that you still suspect Arthur to have been guilty?"

"Channing, I am fairly puzzled," returned Mr. Galloway, "His own manner, relating to it, has not changed, and that manner is not compatible with innocence, You made the same remark yourself, at the time."

"But you have had the money returned to you, I understand."

"I know I have."

"Well, that surely is a proof that the thief could not have been Arthur."

"Pardon me," replied Mr. Galloway, "It may be a proof as much against him as for him: it may have come from himself."

"Nay, where was Arthur to find twenty pounds to send to you?"

"There are two ways in which he might find it. But"—Mr. Galloway broke off abruptly—"I do not like to urge these things on you; they can only inflict pain."

"Not greater pain than I have already undergone," was Mr. Channing's answer. "Tell me, I pray you, all your thoughts—all you suspect: just as though you were speaking to any indifferent friend. It is right that I should know it. Yes, come in, Huntley," Mr. Channing added, for Mr. Huntley at that moment opened the door, unconscious that any private conference was going forward. "I have no secrets from you. Come in. We are talking of Arthur."

"I was observing that there are two means by which the money could have come from Arthur," resumed Mr. Galloway, when Mr. Huntley had entered. "The one, by his never having used the note originally taken; the other, by getting a friend to return it for him. Now, my opinion is, that he did not pursue the first plan, I believe that, if he took the note, he used it. I questioned him on the evening of its arrival, and at the first moment his manner almost convinced me that he was innocent. He appeared to be genuinely surprised at the return of the money, and ingenuously confessed that he had not possessed any to send. But his manner veered again—suddenly, strangely—veered round to all its old unsatisfactory suspiciousness; and when I hinted that I should recall Butterby to my counsels, he became agitated, as he had done formerly. My firm belief," Mr. Galloway added, laying his hand impressively upon Mr. Channing—"my firm belief is, that Arthur did get the money sent back to me through a friend."

"But what friend would be likely to do such a thing for him?" debated Mr. Channing, not in the least falling in with the argument. "I know of none."

"I think"—and Mr. Galloway dropped his voice—"that it came from Hamish."

"From Hamish!" was Mr. Channing's echo, in a strong accent of dissent. "That is nonsense. Hamish would never screen guilt. Hamish has not twenty pounds to spare."

"He might spare it in the cause of a brother; and for a brother's sake he might even screen guilt," pursued Mr. Galloway. "Honourable and open as Hamish is, I must still express my belief that the twenty pounds came from him."

"Honourable and open as Hamish is!" the words grated on Mr. Huntley, and a cynical expression rose to his face. Mr. Channing observed it. "What do you think of it?" he involuntarily asked.

"I have never had any other opinion but that the money did come from Hamish," drily remarked Mr. Huntley. And Mr. Channing, in his utter astonishment, could not answer.

"Hamish happened to call in at my office the afternoon that the money was received," resumed Mr. Galloway. "It was after I had spoken to Arthur. I had been thinking it over, and came to the conclusion that if it had come from Arthur, Hamish must have done it for him. In the impulse of the moment, I put the question to him—Had he done it to screen Arthur? And Hamish's answer was a mocking one."

"A mocking one!" repeated Mr. Channing. "A mocking, careless answer; one that vexed me, I know, at the time. The next day I told Arthur, point blank, that I believed the money came from Hamish. I wish you could have seen his flush of confusion! and, deny it, he did not. Altogether, my impression against Arthur was rather confirmed, than the contrary, by the receipt of the money; though I am truly grieved to have to say it."

"And you think the same!" Mr. Channing exclaimed to Mr. Huntley.

"Never mind what I think," was the answer. "Beyond the one opinion I expressed, I will not be drawn into the discussion. I did not intend to say so much: it was a slip of the tongue."

Mr. Huntley was about to leave the room as he spoke, perhaps lest he should make other "slips;" but Mr. Channing interposed and drew him back. "Stay, Huntley," he said, "we cannot rest in this uncertainty. Oblige me by remaining one instant, while I call Hamish."

Hamish entered in obedience. He appeared somewhat surprised to see them assembled in conclave, looking so solemn; but he supposed it related to Charles. Mr. Channing undeceived him.

"Hamish, we are speaking of Arthur. Both these gentlemen have expressed a belief—"

"I beg your pardon," interrupted Mr. Huntley. "I said that I should be obliged if you would leave me out of the discussion."

"What does it signify?" returned Mr. Channing, his tone one of haste. "Hamish, Mr. Galloway has expressed to me a belief that you have so far taken part with Arthur in that unhappy affair, as to send back the money to him."

"Oh, indeed!" said Hamish; and his manner was precisely what Mr. Galloway had described it to have been at the time; light, mocking, careless. "Mr. Galloway did me the honour to express something of the same belief, I remember."

"Did you send it, Hamish?" asked his father, a severe look crossing his face.

"No, sir, I did not," emphatically replied Hamish. And Mr. Huntley turned and bent his keen eye upon him. In his heart of hearts he believed it to be a deliberate falsehood.

"I did not send the money, and I do not know who did send it," went on Hamish. "But, as we are upon the subject, perhaps I may be allowed to express my opinion that, if there were as much labour taken to establish Arthur's innocence, as it seems to me there is to prove him guilty, he might have been cleared long ago."

That the remark was aimed at Mr. Galloway, there was no doubt. Mr. Huntley answered it; and, had they been suspicious, they might have detected a covert meaning in his tone.

"You, at any rate, must hold firm faith in his innocence."

"Firm and entire faith," distinctly assented Hamish. "Father," he added, impulsively turning to Mr. Channing, "put all notion of Arthur's guilt from you, at once and for ever. I would answer for him with my life."

"Then he must be screening some one," cried Mr. Galloway. "It is one thing or the other. Hamish, it strikes me you know. Who is it?"

A red flush mounted to Hamish's brow, but he lapsed into his former mocking tone. "Nay," said he, "I can tell nothing about that."

He left the room as he spoke, and the conference broke up. It appeared that no satisfactory solution could be come to, if they kept it on till midnight. Mr. Galloway took leave, and hastened home to dinner.

"I must be going also," remarked Mr. Huntley. Nevertheless, he returned with Mr. Channing to the other room.

"You told me at Borcette that you were fully persuaded of Arthur's innocence; you were ready to ridicule me for casting a doubt upon it," Mr. Channing remarked to him in a low tone, as they crossed the hall.

"I have never been otherwise than persuaded of it," said Mr. Huntley. "He is innocent as you, or as I."

"And yet you join Mr. Galloway in assuming that he and Hamish sent back the money! The one assertion is incompatible with the other."

Mr. Huntley laid his hand upon Mr. Channing's shoulder. "My dear friend, all that you and I can do, is to let the matter rest. We should only plunge into shoals and quicksands, and lose our way in them, were we to pursue it."

They had halted at the parlour door to speak. Judith came bustling up at that moment from the kitchen, a letter in her hand, looking as if in her hurry she might have knocked them over, had they not made way for her to enter.

"Bad luck to my memory, then! It's getting not worth a button. Here, Master Arthur. The postman gave it me at the door, just as I had caught sight of the fly turning the corner with the master and missis. I slipped it into my pocket, and never thought of it till this minute."

"So! it has come at last, has it?" cried Arthur, recognising Roland Yorke's handwriting.

"Is he really off?" inquired Tom.

"Yes, he is really off," replied Arthur, opening the letter and beginning to glance over the contents. "He has sailed in the ship Africa. Don't talk to me, Tom. What a long letter!"

They left him to read it in peace. Talking together—Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Mr. Huntley, William Yorke, Hamish, Constance—all were in a group round the fire, paying no attention to him. No attention, until an exclamation caused them to turn.

An exclamation half of distress, half of fear. Arthur had risen from his chair, and stood, the picture of excitement, his face and lips blanching.

"What is the matter?" they exclaimed.

"Roland—the ship—Roland"—and there Arthur stopped, apparently unable to say more.

"Oh, it's drowned! it's drowned!" cried quick Annabel. "The ship's drowned, and Roland with it!" And Arthur sank back in his chair again, and covered his face with his hands.



CHAPTER LV.

NEWS FROM ROLAND.

You will like to look over Arthur's shoulder, as he reads the letter just received from Roland Yorke.

"DEAR OLD CHUM,"

"By the time you get this letter, I shall be ploughing the waves of the briny deep, in the ship Africa. You will get the letter on Wednesday night. That is, you ought to get it; for I have desired Carrick to post it accordingly, and I'm sure he'll do it if he does not forget. And old Galloway will get a letter at the same time, and Lady Augusta will get one. I shall have been off more than twenty-four hours, for we leave Gravesend on Tuesday at noon. Carrick has behaved like a trump. He has bought me all the things I asked him, and paid my passage-money, and given me fifty pounds in my pocket to land with; so I am safe to get on. The only thing he stood out about was the frying-pans. He couldn't see of what use they'd be, he said. So we made a compromise, and I am taking out only four-and-twenty, instead of the forty dozen that I had thought of. I could not find Bagshaw's list, and the frying-pans are about all I am taking, in the shape of utensils, except a large tool-chest, which they palmed off upon Carrick, for it was as dear as fire's hot."

"I dare say you have been vowing vengeance upon me, for not coming round to see you before I started; but I stopped away on purpose, for I might have let out something that I did not care to let out then; and that's what I am writing for."

"Old fellow, I have been fit to kill myself. All that bother that they laid upon you about the bank-note ought to have fallen upon me, for it was I who took it. There! the confession's made. And now explode at me for ten minutes, with all your energy and wrath, before you read on. It will be a relief to your feelings and to mine. Perhaps if you'd go out of the way to swear a bit, it mightn't be amiss."