The doctor gave great hopes of Mr. Channing. His opinion was, that, had Mr. Channing come to these baths when he was first taken ill, his confinement would have been very trifling. "You will find the greatest benefit in a month," said the doctor, in answer to the anxious question, How long the restoration might be in coming. "In two months you will walk charmingly; in three, you will be well." Cheering news, if it could only be borne out.

"I will not have you say 'If,'" cried Mr. Huntley, who had made one in consultation with the doctor. "You are told that it will be so, under God's blessing, and all you have to do is to anticipate it."

Mr. Channing smiled. They were stationed round the open window of the sitting-room, he on the most comfortable of sofas, Mrs. Channing watching the gay prospect below, and thinking she should never tire of it. "There can be no hope without fear," said he.

"But I would not think of fear: I would bury that altogether," said Mr. Huntley. "You have nothing to do here but to take the remedies, look forward with confidence, and be as happy as the day's long."

"I will if I can," said Mr. Channing, with some approach to gaiety. "I should not have gone to the expense of coming here, but that I had great hopes of the result."

"Expense, you call it! I call it a marvel of cheapness."

"For your pocket. Cheap as it is, it will tell upon mine: but, if it does effect my restoration, I shall soon repay it tenfold."

"'If,' again! It will effect it, I say. What shall you do with Hamish, when you resume your place at the head of your office?"

"Let me resume it first, Huntley."

"There you go! Now, if you were only as sanguine and sure as you ought to be, I could recommend Hamish to something good to-morrow."

"Indeed! What is it?"

"But, if you persist in saying you shall not get well, or that there's a doubt whether you will get well, where's the use of my doing it? So long as you are incapacitated, Hamish must be a fixture in Guild Street."

"True."

"So I shall say no more about it at present. But remember, my old friend, that when you are upon your legs, and have no further need of Hamish—who, I expect, will not care to drop down into a clerk again, where he has been master—I may be able to help him to something; so do not let anticipations on his score worry you. I suppose you will be losing Constance soon?"

Mr. Channing gave vent to a groan: a sharp attack of his malady pierced his frame just then. Certain reminiscences, caused by the question, may have helped its acuteness; but of that Mr. Huntley had no suspicion.

In the evening, when Mrs. Channing was sitting under the acacia trees, Mr. Huntley joined her, and she took the opportunity of alluding to the subject. "Do not mention it again in the presence of my husband," she said: "talking of it can only bring it before his mind with more vivid force. Constance and Mr. Yorke have parted."

Had Mrs. Channing told him the cathedral had parted, Mr. Huntley could not have felt more surprise. "Parted!" he ejaculated. "From what cause?"

"It occurred through this dreadful affair of Arthur's. I fancy the fault was as much Constance's as Mr. Yorke's, but I do not know the exact particulars. He did not like it; he thought, I believe, that to marry a sister of Arthur's would affect his own honour—or she thought it. Anyway, they parted."

"Had William Yorke been engaged to my daughter, and given her up upon so shallow a plea, I should have been disposed to chastise him," intemperately spoke Mr. Huntley, carried away by his strong feeling.

"But, I say I fancy that the giving up was on Constance's side," repeated Mrs. Channing. "She has a keen sense of honour, and she knows the pride of the Yorkes."

"Pride, such as that, would be the better for being taken down a peg," returned Mr. Huntley. "I am sorry for this. The accusation has indeed been productive of serious effects. Why did not Arthur go to William Yorke and avow his innocence, and tell him there was no cause for their parting? Did he not do so?"

Mrs. Channing shook her head only, by way of answer; and, as Mr. Huntley scrutinized her pale, sad countenance, he began to think there must be greater mystery about the affair than he had supposed. He said no more.

On the third day he quitted Borcette, having seen them, as he expressed it, fully installed, and pursued his route homewards, by way of Lille, Calais, and Dover. Mr. Huntley was no friend to long sea passages: people with well-filled purses seldom are so.



CHAPTER XXXII.

AN OMINOUS COUGH.

"I say, Jenkins, how you cough!"

"Yes, sir, I do. It's a sign that autumn's coming on. I have been pretty free from it all the summer. I think the few days I lay in bed through that fall, must have done good to my chest; for, since then, I have hardly coughed at all. This last day or two it has been bad again."

"What cough do you call it?" went on Roland Yorke—you may have guessed he was the speaker. "A churchyard cough?"

"Well, I don't know, sir," said Jenkins. "It has been called that, before now. I dare say it will be the end of me at last."

"Cool!" remarked Roland. "Cooler than I should be, if I had a cough, or any plague of the sort, that was likely to be my end. Does it trouble your mind, Jenkins?"

"No, sir, not exactly. It gives me rather down-hearted thoughts now and then, till I remember that everything is sure to be ordered for the best."

"The best! Should you call it for 'the best' if you were to go off?" demanded Roland, drawing pen-and-ink chimneys upon his blotting-paper, with clouds of smoke coming out, as he sat lazily at his desk.

"I dare say, sir, if that were to happen, I should be enabled to see that it was for the best. There's no doubt of it."

"According to that theory, everything that happens must be for the best. You may as well say that pitching on to your head and half killing yourself, was for the best. Moonshine, Jenkins!"

"I think even that accident was sent for some wise purpose, sir. I know, in some respects, it was very palpably for the best. It afforded me some days of quiet, serious reflection, and it served to show how considerate everybody was for me."

"And the pain?"

"That was soon over, sir. It made me think of that better place where there will be no pain. If I am to be called there early, Mr. Roland, it is well that my thoughts should be led to it."

Roland stared with all his eyes. "I say, Jenkins, what do you mean? You have nothing serious the matter with you?"

"No, sir; nothing but the cough, and a weakness that I feel. My mother and brother both died of the same thing, sir."

"Oh, nonsense!" returned Roland. "Because one's mother dies, is that any reason why we should fall into low spirits and take up the notion that we are going to die, and look out for it? I am surprised at you, Jenkins."

"I am not in low spirits, sir; and I am sure I do not look out for it. I might have looked out for it any autumn or any spring of late, had I been that way inclined, for I have had the cough at those periods, as you know, sir. There's a difference, Mr. Roland, between looking out for a thing, and not shutting one's eyes to what may come."

"I say, old fellow, you just put all such notions away from you"—and Roland really meant to speak in a kindly, cheering spirit. "My father died of dropsy; and I may just as well set on, and poke and pat at myself every other morning, to see if it's not attacking me. Only think what would become of this office without you! Galloway would fret and fume himself into his tomb at having nobody but me in it."

A smile crossed Jenkins's face at the idea of the office, confided to the management of Roland Yorke. Poor Jenkins was one of the doubtful ones, from a sanitary point of view. Always shadowy, as if a wind would blow him away, and, for some years, suffering much from a cough, which only disappeared in summer, he could not, and did not, count upon a long life. He had quite recovered from his accident, but the cough had now come on with much force, and he was feeling unusually weak.

"You don't look ill, Jenkins."

"Don't I, sir? The Reverend Mr. Yorke met me, to-day—"

"Don't bring up his name before me!" interrupted Roland, raising his voice to anger. "I may begin to swear, perhaps, if you do."

"Why, what has he done?" wondered Jenkins.

"Never mind what he has done," nodded Roland. "He is a disgrace to the name of Yorke. I enjoyed the pleasure of telling him so, the other night, more than I have enjoyed anything a long while. He was so mad! If he had not been a parson, I shouldn't wonder but he'd have pitched into me."

"Mr. Roland, sir, you know the parties are waiting for that lease," Jenkins ventured to remind him.

"Let the parties wait," rejoined Roland. "Do they think this office is going to be hurried as if it were a common lawyer's? I say, Jenkins, where has old Galloway taken flight to, this afternoon?"

"He has an appointment with the surrogate," answered Jenkins. "Oh!—I quite forgot to mention something to you, Mr. Roland."

"Mention it now," said Roland.

"A person came this morning, sir, and was rather loud," said Jenkins, in a tone of deprecation, as if he would apologize for having to repeat the news. "He thought you were in, Mr. Roland, and that I was only denying you, and he grew insolent. Mr. Galloway happened to be in his room, unfortunately, and heard it, and he came out himself, and sent the person away. Mr. Galloway was very angry, and he desired me to tell you, sir, that he would not have that sort of people coming here."

Roland took up the ruler, and essayed to balance it on the edge of his nose. "Who was it?" asked he.

"I am not sure who it was, though I know I have seen the man, somewhere. I think he wanted payment of a bill, sir."

"Nothing more likely," rejoined Roland, with characteristic indifference. "I hope his head won't ache till he gets it! I am cleared out for some time to come. I'd like to know who the fellow was, though, Jenkins, that I might punish him for his impudence. How dared he come here?"

"I asked him to leave his name, sir, and he said Mr. Roland Yorke knew his name quite well enough, without having it left for him."

"As brassy as that, was he! I wish to goodness it was the fashion to have a cistern in your house-roofs!" emphatically added Roland.

"A what, sir?" cried Jenkins, lifting his eyes from his writing.

"A water-cistern, with a tap, worked by a string, at pleasure. You could give it a pull, you know, when such customers as those came, and they'd find themselves deluged. That would cool their insolence, if anything would. I'd get up a company for it, and take out a patent, if I only had the ready money."

Jenkins made no reply. He was applying himself diligently to his work, perhaps hoping that Mr. Roland Yorke might take the hint, and do the same. Roland actually did take it; at any rate, he dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote, at the very least, five or six words; then he looked up.

"Jenkins," began he again, "do you know much about Port Natal?"

"I don't know anything about it, sir; except that there is such a place."

"Why, you know nothing!" cried Roland. "I never saw such a muff. I wonder what you reckon yourself good for, Jenkins?"

Jenkins shook his head. No matter what reproach was brought against him, he received it meekly, as if it were his due. "I am not good for much, sir, beyond just my daily duty here. To know about Port Natal and those foreign places is not in my work, sir, and so I'm afraid I neglect them. Did you want any information about Port Natal, Mr. Roland?"

"I have got it," said Roland; "loads of it. I am not sure that I shan't make a start for it, Jenkins."

"For Port Natal, sir? Why! it's all the way to Africa!"

"Do you suppose I thought it was in Wales?" retorted Roland. "It's the jolliest opening for an enterprising man, is Port Natal. You may land there to-day with half-a-crown in your pocket, and come away in a year or two with your fortune made."

"Indeed!" ejaculated Jenkins. "How is it made, sir?"

"Oh, you learn all that when you get there. I shall go, Jenkins, if things don't look up a bit in these quarters."

"What things, sir?" Jenkins ventured to ask.

"Tin, for one thing; work for another," answered Roland. "If I don't get more of the one, and less of the other, I shall try Port Natal. I had a row with my lady at dinner-time. She thinks a paltry sovereign or two ought to last a fellow for a month. My service to her! I just dropped a hint of Port Natal, and left her weeping. She'll have come to, by this evening, and behave liberally."

"But about the work, sir?" said Jenkins. "I'm sure I make it as light for you as I possibly can. You have only had that lease, sir, all day yesterday and to-day."

"Oh, it's not just the amount of work, Jenkins," acknowledged Roland; "it's the being tied by the leg to this horrid old office. As good work as play, if one has to be in it. I have been fit to cut it altogether every hour, since Arthur Channing left: for you know you are no company, Jenkins."

"Very true, sir."

"If I could only get Arthur Channing to go with me, I'd be off to-morrow! But he laughs at it. He hasn't got half pluck. Only fancy, Jenkins! my coming back in a year or two with twenty thousand pounds in my pocket! Wouldn't I give you a treat, old chap! I'd pay a couple of clerks to do your work here, and carry you off somewhere, in spite of old Galloway, for a six-months' holiday, where you'd get rid of that precious cough. I would, Jenkins."

"You are very kind, sir—"

Jenkins was stopped by the "precious cough." It seemed completely to rack his frame. Roland looked at him with sympathy, and just then steps were heard to enter the passage, and a knock came to the office door.

"Who's come bothering now?" cried Roland. "Come in!"

Possibly the mandate was not heard, for poor Jenkins was coughing still. "Don't I tell you to come in?" roared out Roland. "Are you deaf?"

"Open the door. I don't care to soil my gloves," came the answer from the other side. And Mr. Roland slid off his stool to obey, rather less lazily than usual, for the voice was that of his mother, the Lady Augusta Yorke.

"A very dutiful son, you are, Mr. Roland!" was the salutation of Lady Augusta. "Forcing me up from dinner before I had finished!"

"I didn't do anything of the sort," said Roland.

"Yes, you did. With your threats about Port Natal! What do you know about Port Natal? Why should you go to Port Natal? You will break my heart with grief, that's what you will do."

"I was not going to start this afternoon," returned Roland. "But the fact is, mother, I shall have to go to Port Natal, or to some other port, unless I can get a little money to go on with here. A fellow can't walk about with empty pockets."

"You undutiful, extravagant boy!" exclaimed Lady Augusta. "I am worried out of my life for money, between you all. Gerald got two sovereigns from me yesterday. What money do you want?"

"As much as you can let me have," replied Mr. Roland.

Lady Augusta threw a five-pound note by his side upon the desk. "When you boys have driven me into the workhouse, you'll be satisfied, perhaps. And now hold your foolish tongue about Port Natal."

Roland gathered it up with alacrity and a word of thanks. Lady Augusta had turned to Jenkins.

"You are the best off, Jenkins; you have no children to disturb your peace. You don't look well, Jenkins."

"Thank you kindly, my lady, I feel but poorly. My cough has become troublesome again."

"He has just been saying that he thought the cough was going to take him off," interposed Roland.

Lady Augusta laughed; she supposed it was spoken in jest; and desired her son to open the door for her. Her gloves were new and delicate.

"Had you chosen to remain at the dinner-table, as a gentleman ought, I should have told you some news, Mr. Roland," said Lady Augusta.

Roland was always ready for news. He opened his eyes and ears. "Tell it me now, good mother. Don't bear malice."

"Your uncle Carrick is coming here on a visit."

"I am glad of that; that's good!" cried Roland. "When does he come? I say, mother, don't be in a hurry! When does he come?"

But Lady Augusta apparently was in a hurry, for she did not wait to reply. Roland looked after her, and saw her shaking hands with a gentleman, who was about to enter.

"Oh, he's back, is he!" cried unceremonious Roland. "I thought he was dead and buried, and gone to heaven."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

NO SENIORSHIP FOR TOM CHANNING.

Shaking hands with Lady Augusta Yorke as she turned out of Mr. Galloway's office, was Mr. Huntley. He had only just arrived at Helstonleigh; had not yet been home; but he explained that he wished to give at once a word of pleasant news to Constance Channing of her father and mother, and, on his way to the Boundaries, was calling on Mr. Galloway.

"You will find Miss Channing at my house," said Lady Augusta, after some warm inquiries touching Mr. and Mrs. Channing. "I would offer to go back there with you, but I am on my way to make some calls." She turned towards the town as she spoke, and Mr. Huntley entered the office.

"I thought you were never coming home again!" cried free Roland. "Why, you have been away three months, Mr. Huntley!"

"Very nearly. Where is Mr. Galloway?"

"In his skin," said Roland.

Jenkins looked up deprecatingly, as if he would apologize for the rudeness of Roland Yorke. "Mr. Galloway is out, sir. I dare say he will not be away more than half an hour."

"I cannot wait now," said Mr. Huntley. "So you are one less in this office than you were when I left?"

"The awfullest shame!" struck in Roland. "Have you heard that Galloway lost a bank-note out of a letter, sir?"

"Yes. I have heard of it from Mr. Channing."

"And they accused Arthur Channing of taking it!" exclaimed Roland. "They took him up for it; he was had up twice to the town-hall, like any felon. You may be slow to believe it, Mr. Huntley, but it's true."

"It was Butterby, sir," interposed Jenkins. "He was rather too officious over it, and acted without Mr. Galloway's orders."

"Don't talk rubbish, Jenkins," rebuked Roland. "You have defended Galloway all through the piece, but he is as much to blame as Butterby. Why did he turn off Channing?"

"You do not think him guilty, Roland, I see," said Mr. Huntley.

"I should hope I don't," answered Roland. "Butterby pitched upon Arthur, because there happened to be nobody else at hand to pitch upon; just as he'd have pitched upon you, Mr. Huntley, had you happened to be in the office that afternoon."

"Mr. Arthur Channing was not guilty, I am sure, sir; pray do not think him so," resumed Jenkins, his eye lighting as he turned to Mr. Huntley. And Mr. Huntley smiled in response to the earnestness. He believe Arthur Channing guilty!

He left a message for Mr. Galloway, and quitted the office. Roland, who was very difficult to settle to work again, if once disturbed from it, strided himself across his stool, and tilted it backwards.

"I'm uncommonly glad Carrick's coming!" cried he. "Do you remember him, Jenkins?"

"Who, sir?"

"That uncle of mine. He was at Helstonleigh three years ago."

"I am not sure that I do, sir."

"What a sieve of a memory you must have! He is as tall as a house. We are not bad fellows for height, but Carrick beats us. He is not married, you know, and we look to him to square up many a corner. To do him justice, he never says No, when he has the cash, but he's often out at elbows himself. It was he who bought George his commission and fitted him out; and I know my lady looks to him to find the funds Gerald will want to make him into a parson. I wonder what he'll do for me?"

Jenkins was about to answer, but was stopped by his cough. For some minutes it completely exhausted him; and Roland, for want of a hearer, was fain to bring the legs of his stool down again, and apply himself lazily to his work.

At this very moment, which was not much past two o'clock in the day, Bywater had Charley Channing pinned against the palings underneath the elm trees. He had him all to himself. No other boys were within hearing; though many were within sight; for they were assembling in and round the cloisters after their dinner.

"Now, Miss Charley, it's the last time I'll ask you, as true as that we are living here! You are as obstinate as a young mule. I'll give you this one chance, and I'll not give you another. I'd advise you to take it, if you have any regard for your skin."

"I don't know anything, Bywater."

"You shuffling little turncoat! I don't know that there's any fire in that kitchen chimney of the old dean's, but I am morally certain that there is, because clouds of black smoke are coming out of it. And you know just as well who it was that played the trick to my surplice. I don't ask you to blurt it out to the school, and I won't bring your name up in it at all; I won't act upon what you tell me. There!"

"Bywater, I don't know; and suspicion goes for nothing. Gaunt said it did not."

Bywater gave Charley a petulant shake. "I say that you know morally, Miss Channing. I protest that I heard you mention the word 'surplice' to Gerald Yorke, the day there was that row in the cloisters, when Roland Yorke gave Tod a thrashing and I tore the seat out of my pants. Gerald Yorke looked ready to kill you for it, too! Come, out with it. This is about the sixth time I have had you in trap, and you have only defied me."

"I don't defy you, Bywater. I say that I will not tell. I would not if I knew. It is no business of mine."

"You little ninny! Don't you see that your obstinacy is injuring Tom Channing? Yorke is going in for the seniorship; is sure to get it—if it's true that Pye has given the promise to Lady Augusta. But, let it come out that he was the Jack-in-the-box, and his chance falls to the ground. And you won't say a word to do good to your brother!"

Charley shook his head. He did not take the bait. "And Tom himself would be the first to punish me for doing wrong! He never forgives a sneak. It's of no use your keeping me, Bywater."

"Listen, youngster. I have my suspicions; I have had them all along; and I have a clue—that's more. But, for a certain reason, I think my suspicions and my clue point to the wrong party; and I don't care to stir in it till I am sure. One—two—three! for the last time. Will you tell me?"

"No."

"Then, look you, Miss Charley Channing. If I do go and denounce the wrong party, and find out afterwards that it is the wrong one, I'll give you as sweet a drubbing as you ever had, and your girl's face shan't save you. Now go."

He propelled Charley from him with a jerk, and propelled him against Mr. Huntley, who was at that moment turning the corner close to them, on his way from Mr. Galloway's office.

"You can't go through me, Charley," said Mr. Huntley. "Did you think I was made of glass, Bywater?"

"My patience!" exclaimed Bywater. "Why, Harry was grumbling, not five minutes ago, that you were never coming home at all, Mr. Huntley."

"He was, was he? Is he here?"

"Oh, he's somewhere amongst the ruck of them," cried Bywater, looking towards the distant boys. "He wants you to see about this bother of the seniorship. If somebody doesn't, we shall get up a mutiny, that's all. Here, Huntley," he shouted at the top of his voice, "here's an arrival from foreign parts!"

Some of the nearer boys looked round, and the word was passed to Huntley. Harry Huntley and the rest soon surrounded him, and Mr. Huntley had no reason to complain of the warmth of his reception. When news had recently arrived that Mr. Huntley was coming home, the boys had taken up the hope of his interference. Of course, schoolboy-like, they all entered upon it eagerly.

"Stop, stop, stop!" said Mr. Huntley. "One at a time. How can I hear, if you all talk together? Now, what's the grievance?"

They detailed it as rationally and with as little noise as it was in their nature to do. Huntley was the only senior present, but Gaunt came up during the conference.

"It's all a cram, Mr. Huntley," cried Tod Yorke. "My brother Gerald says that Jenkins dreamt it."

"I'll 'dream' you, if you don't keep your tongue silent, Tod Yorke," reprimanded Gaunt. "Take yourself off to a distance, Mr. Huntley," he added, turning to that gentleman, "it is certain that Lady Augusta said it; and we can't think she'd say it, unless Pye promised it. It is unfair upon Charming and Huntley."

A few more words given to the throng, upon general matters—for Mr. Huntley touched no more on the other topic—and then he continued his way to Lady Augusta's. As he passed the house of the Reverend Mr. Pye, that gentleman was coming out of it. Mr. Huntley, a decisive, straightforward man, entered upon the matter at once, after some moments spent in greeting.

"You will pardon my speaking of it to you personally," he said, when he had introduced the subject, "In most cases I consider it perfectly unjustifiable for the friends of boys in a public school to interfere with the executive of its master; but this affair is different. Is it, or is it not correct, that there is an intention afloat to exalt Yorke to the seniorship?"

"Mr. Huntley, you must be aware that in no case can the head-master of a public school allow himself to be interfered with, or questioned," was the reply of the master.

"I hope you will meet this amicably," returned Mr. Huntley.

"I have no other wish than to be friendly; quite so. We all deem ourselves under obligations to you, Mr. Pye, and esteem you highly; we could not have, or wish, a better preceptor for our sons. But in this instance, my duty is plain. The injustice—if any such injustice is contemplated—tells particularly upon Tom Channing and my son. Mr. Channing does not give ear to it; I would rather not; nevertheless, you must pardon me for acting, in the uncertainty, as though it had foundation. I presume you cannot be ignorant of the dissatisfied feeling that reigns in the school?"

"I have intimated that I will not be questioned," said Mr. Pye.

"Quite right. I merely wished to express a hope that there may be no foundation for the rumour. If Tom Channing and Harry forfeit their rights legally, through want of merit, or ill conduct, it is not I that would urge a word in their favour. Fair play's a jewel: and the highest boy in the school should have no better chance given him than the lowest. But if the two senior boys do not so forfeit their rights, Yorke must not be exalted above them."

"Who is to dictate to me?" demanded Mr. Pye. "Certainly not I," replied Mr. Huntley, in a courteous but firm tone. "Were the thing to take place, I should simply demand, through the Dean and Chapter, that the charter of the school might be consulted, as to whether its tenets had teen strictly followed."

The head-master made no reply. Neither did he appear angry; only impassible. Mr. Huntley had certainly hit the right nail on the head; for the master of Helstonleigh College school was entirely under the control, of the Dean and Chapter.

"I can speak to you upon this all the more freely and with better understanding, since it is not my boy who stands any chance," said Mr. Huntley, with a cordial smile. "Tom Channing heads him on the rolls."

"Tom Channing will not be senior; I have no objection to affirm so much to you," observed the master, falling in with Mr. Huntley's manner, "This sad affair of his brother Arthur's debars him."

"It ought not to debar him, even were Arthur guilty," warmly returned Mr. Huntley.

"In justice to Tom Channing himself, no. But," and the master dropped his voice to a confidential tone, "it is necessary sometimes to study the prejudices taken up by a school; to see them, and not to appear to see them—if you understand me. Were Tom Channing made head of the school, part of the school would rise up in rebellion; some of the boys would, no doubt, be removed from it. For the peace of the school alone, it could not be done. The boys would not now obey him as senior, and there would be perpetual warfare, resulting we know not in what."

"Arthur Channing was not guilty. I feel as sure of it as I do of my own life."

"He is looked upon as guilty by those who must know best, from their familiarity with the details," rejoined Mr. Pye, "For my own part, I have no resource but to believe him so, I regard it as one of those anomalies which you cannot understand, or would believe in, but that it happens under your own eye; where the moment's yielding to temptation is at variance with the general character, with the whole past life. Of course, in these cases, the disgrace is reflected upon relatives and connections, and they have to suffer for it. I cannot help the school's resenting it upon Tom."

"It will be cruel to deprive Tom of the seniorship upon these grounds," remonstrated Mr. Huntley.

"To himself individually," assented the master. "But it is well that one, promoted to a foundation-school's seniorship, should be free from moral taint. Were there no feeling whatever against Tom Channing in the school, I do not think I could, consistently with my duty and with a due regard to the fitness of things, place him as senior. I am sorry for the boy; I always liked him; and he has been of good report, both as to scholarship and conduct."

"I know one thing," said Mr. Huntley: "that you may search the school through, and not find so good a senior as Tom Channing would make."

"He would have made a very good one, there's no doubt. Would have ruled the boys well and firmly, though without oppression. Yes, we lose a good senior in Tom Channing."

There was no more to be said. Mr. Huntley felt that the master was thoroughly decided; and for the other matter, touching Yorke, he had done with it until the time of appointment. As he went musing on, he began to think that Mr. Pye might be right with regard to depriving Tom of the seniorship, however unjust it might appear to Tom himself. Mr. Huntley remembered that not one of the boys, except Gaunt, had mentioned Tom Channing's name in his recent encounter with them; they had spoken of the injustice of exalting Yorke over Harry Huntley. He had not noticed it at the time.

He proceeded to Lady Augusta's, and Constance was informed of his visit. She had three pupils at Lady Augusta's now, for that lady had kindly insisted that Constance should bring Annabel to study with her daughters, during the absence of Mrs. Channing. Constance left them to themselves and entered the drawing-room. Pretty Constance! so fresh, so lovely, in her simple muslin dress, and her braided hair. Mr. Huntley caught her hands, and imprinted a very fatherly kiss upon her fair forehead.

"That is from the absentees, Constance. I told them I should give it to you. And I bring you the bravest news, my dear. Mr. Channing was already finding benefit from his change; he was indeed. There is every hope that he will be restored."

Constance was radiant with delight. To see one who had met and stayed with her father and mother at their distant sojourn, was almost like seeing her parents themselves.

"And now, my dear, I want a word with you about all those untoward trials and troubles, which appear to have come thickly during my absence," continued Mr. Huntley. "First of all, as to yourself. What mischief-making wind has been arising between you and William Yorke?"

The expression of Constance's face changed to sadness, and her cheeks grew crimson.

"My dear, you will not misunderstand me," he resumed. "I heard of these things at Borcette, and I said that I should undertake to inquire into them in the place of your father: just as he, health permitting him, would have undertaken for me in my absence, did any trouble arise to Ellen. Is it true that you and Mr. Yorke have parted?"

"Yes," faltered Constance.

"And the cause?"

Constance strove to suppress her tears. "You can do nothing, Mr. Huntley; nothing whatever. Thank you all the same."

"He has made this accusation upon Arthur the plea for breaking off his engagement?"

"I could not marry him with this cloud upon me," she murmured. "It would not be right."

"Cloud upon you!" hastily ejaculated Mr. Huntley. "The accusation against Arthur was the sole cause, then, of your parting?"

"Yes; the sole cause which led to it."

Mr. Huntley paused, apparently in thought. "He is presented to Hazeldon Chapel, I hear. Did his rupture with you take place after that occurrence?"

"I see what you are thinking," she impulsively cried, caring too much for Mr. Yorke not to defend him. "The chief fault of the parting was mine. I felt that it would not do to become his wife, being—being—" she hesitated much—"Arthur's sister. I believe that he also felt it. Indeed, Mr. Huntley, there is no help for it; nothing can be done."

"Knowing what I do of William Yorke, I am sure that the pain of separation must be keen, whatever may be his pride. Constance, unless I am mistaken, it is equally keen to you."

Again rose the soft damask blush to the face of Constance. But she answered decisively. "Mr. Huntley, I pray you to allow the subject to cease. Nothing can bring about the renewal of the engagement between myself and Mr. Yorke. It is irrevocably at an end."

"Until Arthur shall be cleared, you mean?"

"No," she answered—a vision of Hamish and his guilt flashing across her—"I mean for good."

"Why does not Arthur assert his innocence to Mr. Yorke? Constance, I am sure you know, as well as I do, that he is not guilty. Has he asserted it?"

She made no answer.

"As I would have wished to serve you, so will I serve Arthur," said Mr. Huntley. "I told your father and mother, Constance, that I should make it my business to investigate the charge against him; I shall leave not a stone unturned to bring his innocence to light."

The avowal terrified Constance, and she lost her self-possession. "Oh don't! don't!" she uttered. "You must not, indeed! you do not know the mischief it might do."

"Mischief to what?—to whom?" exclaimed Mr. Huntley.

Constance buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The next moment she had raised it, and taken Mr. Huntley's hand between hers. "You are papa's friend! You would do us good and not harm—is it not so?" she beseechingly said.

"My dear child," he exclaimed, quite confounded by her words—her distress: "you know that I would not harm any of you for the world."

"Then pray do not seek to dive into that unhappy story," she whispered. "It must not be too closely looked into."

And Mr. Huntley quitted Constance, as a man who walks in a dream, so utterly amazed was he. What did it all mean?

As he was going through the cloisters—his nearest way to the town—Roland Yorke came flying up. With his usual want of ceremony, he passed his arm within Mr. Huntley's. "Galloway's come in now," he exclaimed, "and I am off to the bank to pay in a bag of money for him. Jenkins told him you had called. Just hark at that clatter!"

The clatter, alluded to by Mr. Roland, was occasioned by the tramp of the choristers on the cloister flags. They were coming up behind, full speed, on their way from the schoolroom to enter the cathedral, for the bell had begun for service.

"And here comes that beautiful relative of mine," continued Roland, as he and Mr. Huntley passed the cathedral entrance, and turned into the west quadrangle of the cloisters. "Would you credit it, Mr. Huntley, that he has turned out a sneak? He has. He was to have married Constance Channing, you know, and, for fear Arthur should have touched the note, he has declared off it. If I were Constance, I would never allow the fellow to speak to me again."

Apparently it was the course Mr. Roland himself intended to observe. As the Rev. Mr. Yorke, who was coming in to service, drew near, Roland strode on, his step haughty, his head in the air, which was all the notice he vouchsafed to take. Probably the minor canon did not care very much for Mr. Roland's notice, one way or the other; but his eye lighted with pleasure at the sight of Mr. Huntley, and he advanced to him, his hand outstretched.

But Mr. Huntley—a man given to show in his manner his likes and dislikes—would not see the hand, would not stop at all, but passed Mr. Yorke with a distant bow. That gentleman had fallen pretty deeply in his estimation, since he had heard of the rupture with Constance Channing. Mr. Yorke stood for a moment as if petrified, and then strode on his way with a step as haughty as Roland's.

Roland burst into a glow of delight. "That's the way to serve him, Mr. Huntley! I hope he'll get cut by every good man in Helstonleigh."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

GERALD YORKE MADE INTO A "BLOCK."

The Rev. Mr. Yorke, in his surplice and hood, stood in his stall in the cathedral. His countenance was stern, absorbed; as that of a man who is not altogether at peace with himself. Let us hope that he was absorbed in the sacred service in which he was taking a part: but we all know, to our cost, that the spirit will wander at these times, and worldly thoughts obtrude themselves. The greatest divine that the Church can boast, is not always free from them.

Not an official part in the service was Mr. Yorke taking, that afternoon; the duty was being performed by the head-master, whose week it was to take it. Very few people were at service, and still less of the clergy; the dean was present, but not one of the chapter.

Arthur Channing sat in his place at the organ. Arthur's thoughts, too, were wandering; and—you know it is of no use to make people out to be better than they are—wandering to things especially mundane. Arthur had not ceased to look out for something to do, to replace the weekly funds lost when he left Mr. Galloway's. He had not yet been successful: employment is more easily sought than found, especially by one lying under doubt, as he was. But he had now heard of something which he hoped he might gain.

Jenkins, saying nothing to Roland Yorke, or to any one else, had hurried to Mr. Channing's house that day between one and two o'clock; and hurrying there and back had probably caused that temporary increase of cough, which you heard of a chapter or two back. Jenkins's errand was to inform Arthur that Dove and Dove (solicitors in the town, who were by no means so dove-like as their name) required a temporary clerk, and he thought Arthur might suit them. Arthur had asked Jenkins to keep a look-out for him.

"Is one of their clerks leaving?" Arthur inquired.

"One of them met with an accident last night up at the railway-station," replied Jenkins. "Did you not hear of it, sir?"

"I heard of that. I did not know who was hurt. He was trying to cross the line, was he not?"

"Yes, sir. It was Marston. He had been out with some friends, and had taken, it is thought, more than was good for him. A porter pulled him back, but Marston fell, and the engine crushed his foot. He will be laid up two months, the doctor says, and Dove and Dove are looking out for some one to fill his place for the time. If you would like to take it, sir, you could be looking out for something else while you are there. You would more readily get the two hours' daily leave of absence from a place like that, where they keep three or four clerks, than you would from where they keep only one."

"If I like to take it!" repeated Arthur. "Will they like to take me? That's the question. Thank you, Jenkins; I'll see about it at once."

He was not able to do so immediately after Jenkins left; for Dove and Dove's offices were situated at the other end of the town, and he might not be back in time for service. So he waited and went first to college, and sat, I say, in his place at the organ, his thoughts filled, in spite of himself, with the new project.

The service came to an end: it had seemed long to Arthur—so prone are we to estimate time by our own feelings—and his voluntary, afterwards, was played a shade faster than usual. Then he left the cathedral by the front entrance, and hastened to the office of Dove and Dove.

Arthur had had many a rebuff of late, when bent on a similar application, and his experience taught him that it was best, if possible, to see the principals: not to subject himself to the careless indifference or to the insolence of a clerk. Two young men were writing at a desk when he entered. "Can I see Mr. Dove?" he inquired.

The elder of the writers scrutinized him through the railings of the desk. "Which of them?" asked he.

"Either," replied Arthur. "Mr. Dove, or Mr. Alfred Dove. It does not matter."

"Mr. Dove's out, and Mr. Alfred Dove's not at home," was the response. "You'll have to wait, or to call again."

He preferred to wait: and in a very few minutes Mr. Dove came in. Arthur was taken into a small room, so full of papers that it seemed difficult to turn in it, and there he stated his business.

"You are a son of Mr. Channing's, I believe," said Mr. Dove. He spoke morosely, coarsely; and he had a morose, coarse countenance—a sure index of the mind, in him, as in others. "Was it you who figured in the proceedings at the Guildhall some few weeks ago?"

You may judge whether the remark called up the blood to Arthur's face. He suppressed his mortification, and spoke bravely.

"It was myself, sir. I was not guilty. My employment in your office would be the copying of deeds solely, I presume; that would afford me little temptation to be dishonest, even were I inclined to be so."

Had any one paid Arthur in gold to keep in that little bit of sarcasm, he could not have done so. Mr. Dove caught up the idea that the words were uttered in sarcasm, and scowled fitfully.

"Marston was worth twenty-five shillings a week to us: and gained it. You would not be worth half as much."

"You do not know what I should be worth, sir, unless you tried me. I am a quick and correct copyist; but I should not expect to receive as much as an ordinary clerk, on account of having to attend the cathedral for morning and afternoon service. Wherever I go, I must have that privilege allowed me."

"Then I don't think you'll get it with us. But look here, young Channing, it is my brother who undertakes the engaging and management of the clerks—you can speak to him."

"Can I see him this afternoon, sir?"

"He'll be in presently. Of course, we could not admit you into our office unless some one became security. You must be aware of that."

The words seemed like a checkmate to Arthur. He stopped in hesitation. "Is it usual, sir?"

"Usual—no! But it is necessary in your case"

There was a coarse, pointed stress upon the "your," natural to the man. Arthur turned away. For a moment he felt that to Dove and Dove's he could not and would not go; every feeling within him rebelled against it. Presently the rebellion calmed down, and he began to think about the security.

It would be of little use, he was sure, to apply to Mr. Alfred Dove—who was a shade coarser than Mr. Dove, if anything—unless prepared to say that security could be given. His father's he thought he might command: but he was not sure of that, under present circumstances, without first speaking to Hamish. He turned his steps to Guild Street, his unhappy position pressing with unusual weight upon his feelings.

"Can I see my brother?" he inquired of the clerks in the office.

"He has some gentlemen with him just now, sir. I dare say you can go in."

There was nothing much amiss in the words; but in the tone there was. It was indicative of slight, of contempt. It was the first time Arthur had been there since the suspicion had fallen on him, and they seemed to stare at him as if he had been a hyena; not a respectable hyena either.

He entered Hamish's room. Hamish was talking with two gentlemen, strangers to Arthur, but they were on the point of leaving. Arthur stood away against the wainscoting by the corner table, waiting until they were gone, his attitude, his countenance, his whole appearance indicative of depression and sadness.

Hamish closed the door and turned to him. He laid his hand kindly upon his shoulder; his voice was expressive of the kindest sympathy. "So you have found your way here once more, Arthur! I thought you were never coming again. What can I do for you, lad?"

"I have been to Dove and Dove's. They are in want of a clerk. I think perhaps they would take me; but, Hamish, they want security."

"Dove and Dove's," repeated Hamish. "Nice gentlemen, both of them!" he added, in his half-pleasant, half-sarcastic manner. "Arthur, boy, I'd not be under Dove and Dove if they offered me a gold nugget a day, as weighty as the Queen's crown. You must not go there."

"They are not agreeable men; I know that; they are not men who are liked in Helstonleigh, but what difference will that make to me? So long as I turn out their parchments properly engrossed, that is all I need care for."

"What has happened? Why are you looking so sad?" reiterated Hamish, who could not fail to perceive that there was some strange grief at work.

"Is my life so sunny just now, that I can always be as bright as you?" retorted Arthur—for Hamish's undimmed gaiety did sometimes jar upon his wearied spirit. "I shall go to Dove and Dove's if they will take me," he added, resolutely. "Will you answer for me, Hamish, in my father's name?"

"What amount of security do they require?" asked Hamish. And it was a very proper, a very natural question; but even that grated on Arthur's nerves.

"Are you afraid of me?" he rejoined. "Or do you fear my father would be?"

"I dare say they would take my security," was Hamish's reply. "I will answer for you to any amount. That is," and again came his smile, "to any amount they may deem me good for. If they don't like mine, I can offer my father's. Will that do, Arthur?"

"Thank you; that is all I want."

"Don't go to Dove and Dove's, old boy," Hamish said again, as Arthur was leaving the room. "Wait patiently for something better to turn up. There's no such great hurry. I wish there was room for you to come here!"

"It is only a temporary thing; it is not for long," replied Arthur; and he went out.

On going back to Dove and Dove's, the first person he saw, upon opening the door of the clerks' room, was Mr. Alfred Dove. He appeared to be in a passion over something that had gone wrong, and was talking fast and furiously.

"What do you want?" he asked, wheeling round upon Arthur. Arthur replied by intimating that he would be glad to speak with him.

"Can't you speak, then?" returned Mr. Alfred Dove. "I am not deaf."

Thus met, Arthur did not repeat his wish for privacy. He intimated his business, uncertain whether Mr. Alfred Dove had heard of it or not; and stated that the security could be given.

"I don't know what you mean about 'security,'" was Mr. Alfred Dove's rejoinder. "What security?"

"Mr. Dove said that if I came into your office security would be required," answered Arthur. "My friends are ready to give it."

"Mr. Dove told you that, did he? Just like him. He has nothing to do with the details of the office. Did he know who you are?"

"Certainly he did, sir."

"I should have thought not," offensively returned Mr. Alfred Dove. "You must possess some assurance, young man, to come after a place in a respectable office. Security, or no security, we can't admit one into ours, who lies under the accusation of being light-fingered."

It was the man all over. Hamish had said, "Don't go to Dove and Dove's." Mr. Alfred Dove stood with his finger pointing to the door, and the two clerks stared in an insolent manner at Arthur. With a burning brow and rising spirit, Arthur left the room, and halted for a moment in the passage outside. "Patience, patience," he murmured to himself; "patience, and trust in God!" He turned into the street quickly, and ran against Mr. Huntley.

For a minute he could not speak. That gentleman detected his emotion, and waited till it was over. "Have you been insulted, Arthur?" he breathed.

"Not much more so than I am now getting accustomed to," was the answer that came from his quivering lips. "I heard they wanted a clerk, and went to offer myself. I am looked upon as a felon now, Mr. Huntley."

"Being innocent as the day."

"I am innocent, before God," spoke Arthur, in the impulse of his emotion, in the fervency of his heart. That he spoke but the solemn truth, it was impossible to doubt, even had Mr. Huntley been inclined to doubt; and Arthur may be excused for forgetting his usual caution in the moment's bitterness.

"Arthur," said Mr. Huntley, "I promised your father and mother that I should do all in my power to establish your innocence. Can you tell me how I am to set about it?"

"You cannot do it at all, Mr. Huntley. Things must remain as they are."

"Why?"

"I cannot explain why. I can only repeat it."

"There is some strange mystery attaching to this."

Arthur did not gainsay it.

"Arthur, if I am to allow the affair to rest as I find it, you must at least give me a reason why I may not act. What is it?"

"Because the investigation could only cause tenfold deeper trouble. You are very good to think of helping me, Mr. Huntley, but I must fight my own battle. Others must be quiet in this matter—for all our sakes."

Mr. Huntley gazed after Arthur as he moved away. Constance first! Arthur next! What could be the meaning of it all? Where did the mystery lie? A resolution grew up in Mr. Huntley's heart that he would fathom it, for private reasons of his own; and, in the impulse of the moment, he bent his steps there and then, towards the police-station, and demanded an interview with Roland Yorke's bete noire, Mr. Butterby.

But the cathedral is not quite done with for the afternoon.

Upon the conclusion of service, the dean lingered a few minutes in the nave, speaking to one of the vergers. When he turned to continue his way, he encountered the Rev. Mr. Pye, who had been taking off his surplice in the vestry. The choristers had been taking off their surplices also, and were now trooping through the cloisters back to the schoolroom, not more gently than usual. The dean saluted Mr. Pye, and they walked out together.

"It is impossible to keep them quiet unless one's eye is continually upon them!" exclaimed the head-master, half apologetically, as they came in view of the rebels. He had a great mind to add, "And one's cane."

"Boys will be boys," said the dean. "How has this foolish opinion arisen among them, that the names, standing first on the roll for the seniorship, will not be allowed to compete for it?" continued he, with much suavity.

Mr. Pye looked rather flushed. "Really I am unable to say, Mr. Dean. It is difficult to account for all the notions taken up by schoolboys."

"Boys do take up strange notions," blandly assented the dean. "But, I think, were I you, Mr. Pye, I would set their minds at rest in this respect. You have not yet deemed it worth while, I dare say: but it may perhaps be as well to do so. When the elders of a school once take up the idea that their studies may not meet with due reward, it tends to render them indifferent. I remember once—it was just after I came here as dean, many years ago—the head-master of the school exalted a boy to be senior who stood sixth or seventh on the rolls, and was positively half an idiot. But those times are past."

"Certainly they are," remarked the master.

"It was an unpleasant duty I had to perform then," continued the dean, in the same agreeable tone, as if he were relating an anecdote: "unpleasant both for the parents of the boy, and for the head-master. But, as I remark, such things could not occur now. I think I would intimate to the king's scholars that they have nothing to fear."

"It shall be done, Mr. Dean," was the response of the master; and they exchanged bows as the dean turned into the deanery. "She's three parts a fool, is that Lady Augusta," muttered the master to the cloister-flags as he strode over them. "Chattering magpie!"

As circumstances had it, the way was paved for the master to speak at once. Upon entering the college schoolroom, in passing the senior desk, he overheard whispered words of dispute between Gerald Yorke and Pierce senior, touching this very question, the seniorship. The master reached his own desk, gave it a sharp rap with a cane that lay near to hand, and spoke in his highest tone, looking red and angry.

"What are these disputes that appear to have been latterly disturbing the peace of the school? What is that you are saying, Gerald Yorke?—that the seniorship is to be yours?"

Gerald Yorke looked red in his turn, and somewhat foolish. "I beg your pardon, sir; I was not saying precisely that," he answered with hesitation.

"I think you were saying precisely that," was the response of the master. "My ears are quicker than you may fancy, Mr. Yorke. If you really have been hugging yourself with the notion that the promotion will be yours, the sooner you disabuse your mind of it, the better. Whoever gains the seniorship will gain it by priority of right, by scholarship, or by conduct—as the matter may be. Certainly not by anything else. Allow me to recommend you, one and all"—and the master threw his eyes round the desks generally, and gave another emphatic stroke with the cane—"that you concern yourselves with your legitimate business; not with mine."

Gerald did not like the reproof, or the news. He remained silent and sullen until the conclusion of school, and then went tearing home.

"A pretty block you have made of me!" he uttered, bursting into the presence of Lady Augusta, who had just returned home, and sat fanning herself on a sofa before an open window.

"Why, what has taken you?" returned her ladyship.

"It's a shame, mother! Filling me up with the news that I was to be senior? And now Pye goes and announces that I'm a fool for supposing so, and that it's to go in regular rotation."

"Pye does not mean it," said my lady. "There, hold your tongue, Gerald. I am too hot to talk."

"I know that every fellow in the school will have the laugh at me, if I am to be made a block of, like this!" grumbled Gerald.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE EARL OF CARRICK.

On a fine afternoon in August—and the month was now drawing towards its close—the 2.25 train from London steamed into the station at Helstonleigh, eight minutes behind time, and came to a standstill. Amongst the passengers who alighted, was a gentleman of middle age, as it is called—in point of fact, he had entered his fiftieth year, as the peerage would have told any curious inquirer. As he stepped out of a first-class carriage, several eyes were drawn towards him, for he was of notable height, towering above every one; even above Roland Yorke, who was of good height himself, and stood on the platform waiting for him.

It was the Earl of Carrick, brother to Lady Augusta Yorke, and much resembling her—a pleasant, high cheek-boned, easy face, betraying more of good humour than of high or keen intellect, and nothing of pride. The pride of the young Yorkes was sometimes talked of in Helstonleigh, but it came from their father's side, not from Lady Augusta's. The earl spoke with a slight brogue, and shook both Roland's hands heartily, as soon as he found that it was to Roland they belonged.

"Sure then! but I didn't know ye, Roland! If ye had twenty years more on to ye're head, I should have thought it was ye're father."

"Have I grown like him, Uncle Carrick?"

"Ye've grown out of knowledge, me boy. And how's ye're mother, and how are the rest of ye?"

"Stunning," responded Roland. "They are all outside. She would bring up the whole caravan. The last time the lot came to the station, the two young ones got upon the line to dance a hornpipe on the rails; so she has kept them by her, and is making Gerald and Tod look after them. Where's your luggage, Uncle Carrick? Have you brought a servant?"

"Not I," replied the earl. "Servants are only troubles in other folk's houses, and me bit of luggage isn't so much but I can look after it meself. I hope they put it in," he continued, looking about amid the boxes and portmanteaus, and unable to see his own.

The luggage was found at last, and given in charge of a porter; and Lord Carrick went out to meet his relatives. There were enough of them to meet—the whole caravan, as Roland had expressed it. Lady Augusta sat in her barouche—her two daughters and Constance and Annabel Channing with her. Little Percy and Frank, two most troublesome children, were darting in and out amidst the carriages, flys, and omnibuses; and Gerald and Tod had enough to do to keep them out of danger. It was so like Lady Augusta—bringing them all to the station to welcome their uncle! Warm-hearted and impulsive, she had little more judgment than a child. Constance had in vain protested against herself and Annabel being pressed into the company; but her lady-ship looked upon it as a sort of triumphal expedition, and was deaf to remonstrances.

The earl, warm-hearted and impulsive also, kissed them all, Constance included. She could not help herself; before she was aware of the honour intended her, the kiss was given—a hearty smack, as all the rest had. The well-meaning, simple-minded Irishman could not have been made to understand why he should not give a kiss of greeting to Constance as readily as he gave it to his sister, or his sister's daughters. He protested that he remembered Constance and Annabel well. It may be questioned whether there was not more of Irish politeness than of truth in the assertion, though he had seen them occasionally, during his visit of three years ago.

How were they all to get home? In and on the barouche, as all, except Roland, had come, to the gratification of the curious town? Lord Carrick wished to walk; his long legs were cramped: but Lady Augusta would not hear of it, and pulled him into the carriage, Gerald, Percy, and Frank were fighting for places on the box beside the driver, Tod intending to hang on behind, as he had done in coming, when the deep-toned college bell struck out a quarter to three, and the sound came distinctly to their ears, borne from the distance. It put a stop to the competition, so far as Gerald was concerned. He and Tod, startled half out of their senses, for they had not observed the lapse of time, set off on foot as hard as they could go.

Meanwhile, Roland, putting aside the two young ones with his strong hand, chose to mount the box himself; at which they both began to shriek and roar. Matters were compromised after a while; Percy was taken up by Roland, and Frank was, by some process of packing, stowed away inside. Then the cargo started! Lady Augusta happy as a princess, with her newly-met brother and her unruly children, and not caring in the least for the gaze of the people who stood in the street, or came rushing to their windows and doors to criticise the load.

Crowded as the carriage was, it was pleasanter to be in it, on that genial day, than to be at work in close rooms, dark shops, or dull offices. Amongst others, who were so confined and hard at work, was Jenkins at Mr. Galloway's. Poor Jenkins had not improved in health during the week or two that had elapsed since you last saw him. His cough was more troublesome still, and he was thinner and weaker. But Jenkins, humble and conscientious, thinking himself one who was not worth thinking of at all in comparison with others, would have died at his post rather than give in. Certainly, Arthur Channing had been discharged at a most inopportune moment, for Mr. Galloway, as steward to the Dean and Chapter, had more to do about Michaelmas, than at any other time of the year. From that epoch until November, when the yearly audit took place, there was a good deal of business to be gone through.

On this afternoon, Jenkins was particularly busy. Mr. Galloway was away from home for a day or two—on business connected with that scapegrace cousin of his, Roland Yorke proclaimed; though whether Mr. Roland had any foundation for the assertion, except his own fancy, may be doubted—and Jenkins had it all upon his own shoulders. Jenkins, unobtrusive and meek though he was, was perfectly competent to manage, and Mr. Galloway left him with entire trust. But it is one thing to be competent to manage, and another thing to be able to do two persons' work in one person's time; and, that, Jenkins was finding this afternoon. He had letters to write; he had callers to answer; he had the general business of the office to attend to; he had the regular deeds to prepare and copy. The copying of those deeds was the work belonging to Roland Yorke. Roland did not seem to be in a hurry to come to them. Jenkins cast towards them an anxious eye, but Jenkins could do no more, for his own work could not be neglected. He felt very unwell that afternoon—oppressed, hot, unable to breathe. He wiped the moisture from his brow three or four times, and then thought he might be the better for a little air, and opened the window. But the breeze, gentle as it was, made him cough, and he shut it again.

Of course, no one, knowing Mr. Roland Yorke, could be surprised at his starting to the station to meet Lord Carrick, instead of to the office to do his work. He had gone home at one o'clock that day, as usual. Not that there was any necessity for his doing so, for the dinner hour was postponed until later, and it would have furthered the business of the office had he remained for once at his post. Had any one suggested to Roland to do so, he would have thought he was going to be worked to death. About twenty minutes past three he came clattering in.

"I say, Jenkins, I want a holiday this afternoon."

Jenkins, albeit the most accommodating spirit in the world, looked dubious, and cast a glance at the papers on Roland's desk. "Yes, sir. But what is to be done about the Uphill farm leases?"

"Now, Jenkins, it's not a bit of good for you to begin to croak! If I gave in to you, you'd get as bad as Galloway. When I have my mind off work, I can't settle to it again, and it's of no use trying. Those Uphill deeds are not wanted before to-morrow."

"But they are wanted by eleven o'clock, sir, so that they must be finished, or nearly finished, to-night. You know, sir, there has been a fuss about them, and early to-morrow, is the very latest time they must be sent in."

"I'll get up, and be here in good time and finish them," said Roland. "Just put it to yourself, Jenkins, if you had an uncle that you'd not seen for seventeen ages, whether you'd like to leave him the minute he puts his foot over the door-sill."

"I dare say I should not, sir," said good-natured Jenkins, turning about in his mind how he could make time to do Roland's work. "His lordship is come, then, Mr. Roland?"

"His lordship's come, bag and baggage," returned Roland. "I say, Jenkins, what a thousand shames it is that he's not rich! He is the best-natured fellow alive, and would do anything in the world for us, if he only had the tin."

"Is he not rich, sir?"

"Why, of course he's not," confidentially returned Roland. "Every one knows the embarrassments of Lord Carrick. When he came into the estates, they had been mortgaged three deep by the last peer, my grandfather—an old guy in a velvet skull-cap, I remember, who took snuff incessantly—and my uncle, on his part, had mortgaged them three deep again, which made six. How Carrick manages to live nobody knows. Sometimes he's in Ireland, in the tumble-down old homestead, with just a couple of servants to wait upon him; and sometimes he's on the Continent, en garcon—if you know what that means. Now and then he gets a windfall when any of his tenants can be brought to pay up; but he is the easiest-going coach in life, and won't press them. Wouldn't I!"

"Some of those Irish tenants are very poor, sir, I have heard."

"Poor be hanged! What is a man's own, ought to be his own. Carrick says there are some years that he does not draw two thousand pounds, all told."

"Indeed, sir! That is not much for a peer."

"It's not much for a commoner, let alone a peer," said Roland, growing fierce. "If I were no better off than Carrick, I'd drop the title; that's what I'd do. Why, if he could live as a peer ought, do you suppose we should be in the position we are? One a soldier; one (and that's me) lowered to be a common old proctor; one a parson; and all the rest of it! If Carrick could be as other earls are, and have interest with the Government, and that, we should stand a chance of getting properly provided for. Of course he can make interest with nobody while his estates bring him in next door to nothing."

"Are there no means of improving his estates, Mr. Roland?" asked Jenkins.

"If there were, he's not the one to do it. And I don't know that it would do him any material good, after all," acknowledged Roland. "If he gets one thousand a year, he spends two; and if he had twenty thousand, he'd spend forty. It might come to the same in the long run, so far as he goes: we might be the better for it, and should be. It's a shame, though, that we should need to be the better for other folk's money; if this were not the most unjust world going, everybody would have fortunes of their own."

After this friendly little bit of confidence touching his uncle's affairs, Roland prepared to depart. "I'll be sure to come in good time In the morning, Jenkins, and set to it like a brick," was his parting salutation.

Away he went. Jenkins, with his aching head and his harassing cough, applied himself diligently, as he ever did, to the afternoon's work, and got through it by six o'clock, which was later than usual. There then remained the copying, which Mr. Roland Yorke ought to have done. Knowing the value of Roland's promises, and knowing also that if he kept this promise ever so strictly, the amount of copying was more than could be completed in time, if left to the morning, Jenkins did as he had been aware he must do, when talking with Roland—took it home with him.

The parchments under his arm, he set out on his walk. What could be the matter with him, that he felt so weak, he asked himself as he went along. It must be, he believed, having gone without his dinner. Jenkins generally went home to dinner at twelve, and returned at one; occasionally, however, he did not go until two, according to the exigencies of the office; this day, he had not gone at all, but had cut a sandwich at breakfast-time and brought it with him in his pocket.

He had proceeded as far as the elm trees in the Boundaries—for Jenkins generally chose the quiet cloister way for his road home—when he saw Arthur Channing advancing towards him. With the ever-ready, respectful, cordial smile with which he was wont to greet Arthur whenever he saw him, Jenkins quickened his steps. But suddenly the smile seemed to fix itself upon his lips; and the parchments fell from his arm, and he staggered against the palings. But that Arthur was at hand to support him, he might have fallen to the ground.

"Why, what is it, Jenkins?" asked Arthur, kindly, when Jenkins was beginning to recover himself.

"Thank you, sir; I don't know what it could have been. Just as I was looking at you, a mist seemed to come before my eyes, and I felt giddy. I suppose it was a sort of faintness that came over me. I had been thinking that I felt weary. Thank you very much, sir."

"Take my arm, Jenkins," said Arthur, as he picked up the parchments, and took possession of them. "I'll see you home."

"Oh no, sir, indeed," protested simple-hearted Jenkins; "I'd not think of such a thing. I should feel quite ashamed, sir, at the thought of your being seen arm-in-arm with me in the street. I can go quite well alone; I can, indeed, sir."

Arthur burst out laughing. "I wish you wouldn't be such an old duffer, Jenkins—as the college boys have it! Do you suppose I should let you go home by yourself? Come along."

Drawing Jenkins's arm within his own, Arthur turned with him. Jenkins really did not like it. Sensitive to a degree was he: and, to his humble mind, it seemed that Arthur was out of place, walking familiarly with him.

"You must have been doing something to tire yourself," said Arthur as they went along.

"It has been a pretty busy day, sir, now Mr. Galloway's away. I did not go home to dinner, for one thing."

"And Mr. Roland Yorke absent for another, I suppose?"

"Only this afternoon, sir. His uncle, Lord Carrick, has arrived. Oh, sir!" broke off Jenkins, stopping in a panic, "here's his lordship the bishop coming along! Whatever shall you do?"

"Do!" returned Arthur, scarcely understanding him. "What should I do?"

"To think that he should see you thus with the like of me!"

It amused Arthur exceedingly. Poor, lowly-minded Jenkins! The bishop appeared to divine the state of the case, for he stopped when he came up. Possibly he was struck by the wan hue which overspread Jenkins's face.

"You look ill, Jenkins," he said, nodding to Arthur Channing. "Keep your hat on, Jenkins—keep your hat on."

"Thank you, my lord," replied Jenkins, disregarding the injunction touching his hat. "A sort of faintness came over me just now under the elm trees, and this gentleman insisted upon walking home with me, in spite of my protestations to—"

Jenkins was stopped by a fit of coughing—a long, violent fit, sounding hollow as the grave. The bishop watched him till it was over. Arthur watched him.

"I think you should take better care of yourself, Jenkins," remarked his lordship. "Is any physician attending you?"

"Oh, my lord, I am not ill enough yet for that. My wife made me go to Mr. Hurst the other day, my lord, and he gave me a bottle of something. But he said it was not medicine that I wanted."

"I should advise you to go to a physician, Jenkins. A stitch in time saves nine, you know," the bishop added, in his free good humour.

"So it does, my lord. Thank your lordship for thinking of me," added Jenkins, as the bishop said good afternoon, and pursued his way. And then, and not till then, did Jenkins put on his hat again.

"Mr. Arthur, would you be so kind as not to say anything to my wife about my being poorly?" asked Jenkins, as they drew near to his home. "She'd be perhaps, for saying I should not go again yet to the office; and a pretty dilemma that would put me in, Mr. Galloway being absent. She'd get so fidgety, too: she kills me with kindness, if she thinks I am ill. The broth and arrowroot, and other messes, sir, that she makes me swallow, are untellable."

"All right," said Arthur.

But the intention was frustrated. Who should be standing at the shop-door but Mrs. Jenkins herself. She saw them before they saw her, and she saw that her husband looked like a ghost, and was supported by Arthur. Of course, she drew her own conclusions; and Mrs. Jenkins was one who did not allow her conclusions to be set aside. When Jenkins found that he was seen and suspected, he held out no longer, but honestly confessed the worst—that he had been taken with a giddiness.

"Of course," said Mrs. Jenkins, as she pushed a chair here and another there, partly in temper, partly to free the narrow passage through the shop to the parlour. "I have been expecting nothing less all day. Every group of footsteps slower than usual, I have thought it was a shutter arriving and you on it, dropped dead from exhaustion. Would you believe"—turning short round on Arthur Channing—"that he has been such a donkey as to fast from breakfast time? And with that cough upon him!"

"Not quite so fast, my dear," deprecated Jenkins. "I ate the paper of sandwiches."

"Paper of rubbish!" retorted Mrs. Jenkins. "What good do sandwiches do a weakly man? You might eat a ton-load, and be none the better for it. Well, Jenkins, you may take your leave of having your own way."

Poor Jenkins might have deferentially intimated that he never did have it. Mrs. Jenkins resumed:

"He said he'd carry a sandwich with him this morning, instead of coming home to dinner. I said, 'No.' And afterwards I was such a simpleton as to yield! And here's the effects of it! Sit yourself down in the easy-chair," she added, taking Jenkins by the arms and pushing him into it. "And I'll make the tea now," concluded she, turning to the table where the tea-things were set out. "There's some broiled fowl coming up for you."

"I don't feel as if I could eat this evening," Jenkins ventured to say.

"Not eat!" she repeated with emphasis. "You had better eat—that's all. I don't want to have you falling down exhausted here, as you did in the Boundaries."

"And as soon as you have had your tea, you should go to bed," put in Arthur.

"I can't, sir. I have three or four hours' work at that deed. It must be done." "At this?" returned Arthur, opening the papers he had carried home. "Oh, I see; it is a lease. I'll copy this for you, Jenkins. I have nothing to do to-night. You take your ease, and go to bed."

And in spite of their calls, Jenkins's protestations against taking up his time and trouble, and Mrs. Jenkins's proffered invitation to partake of tea and broiled fowl, Arthur departed carrying off the work.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

ELLEN HUNTLEY.

"A pretty time o' day this is to deliver the letters. It's eleven o'clock!"

"I can't help it. The train broke down, and was three hours behind its time."

"I dare say! You letter-men want looking up: that's what it is. Coming to folks's houses at eleven o'clock, when they have been waiting and looking ever since breakfast-time!"

"It's not my fault, I say. Take the letter."

Judith received it with a grunt, for it was between her and the postman that the colloquy had taken place. A delay had occurred that morning in the delivery, and Judith was resenting it, feeling half inclined to reject the letter, now that it had come. The letters from Germany arrived irregularly; sometimes by the afternoon post at four, sometimes by the morning; the only two deliveries in Helstonleigh. A letter had been fully expected this morning, and when the time passed over, they supposed there was none.

It was directed to Miss Channing. Judith, who was quite as anxious about her master's health as the children were, went off at once with it to Lady Augusta Yorke's, just as she was, without the ceremony of putting on a bonnet. Though she did wear a mob-cap and a check apron, she looked what she was—a respectable servant in a respectable family; and the Boundaries so regarded her, as she passed through them, letter in hand. Martha, Lady Augusta's housemaid, answered the door, presenting a contrast to Judith. Martha wore a crinoline as big as her lady's, and a starched-out muslin gown over it, with flounces and frillings, for Martha was "dressed" for the day. Her arms, red and large, were displayed beneath her open sleeves, and something that looked like a bit of twisted lace was stuck on the back of her head. Martha called it a "cap." Judith was a plain servant, and Martha was a fashionable one; but I know which looked the better of the two.

Judith would not give in the letter. She asked for the young mistress, and Constance came to her in the hall. "Just open it, please, Miss Constance, and tell me how he is," said she anxiously; and Constance broke the seal of the letter.

"Borcette. Hotel Rosenbad, September, 18—."

"My Dear Child,—Still better and better! The improvement, which I told you in my last week's letter had begun to take place so rapidly as to make us fear it was only a deceitful one, turns out to have been real. Will you believe it, when I tell you that your papa can walk! With the help of my arm, he can walk across the room and along the passage; and to-morrow he is going to try to get down the first flight of stairs. None but God can know how thankful I am; not even my children. If this change has taken place in the first month (and it is not yet quite that), what may we not expect in the next—and the next? Your papa is writing to Hamish, and will confirm what I say."

This much Constance read aloud. Judith gave a glad laugh. "It's just as everybody told the master," said she. "A fine, strong, handsome man, like him, wasn't likely to be laid down for life like a baby, when he was hardly middle-aged. These doctors here be just so many muffs. When I get too old for work, I'll go to Germany myself, Miss Constance, and ask 'em to make me young again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ye have given her up, I understand, Master William?"

"Master William" vouchsafed no reply. He deemed it a little piece of needless impertinence.

"Bad taste!" continued Lord Carrick. "If I were only twenty years younger, and she'd not turn up her nose at me for a big daft of an Irishman, you'd not get her, me lad. She's the sweetest little thing I have come across this many a day."

To which the Rev. William Yorke condescended no answer, unless a haughty gesture expressive of indignation might be called one, as he brushed past Lord Carrick into the breakfast-room.

At that very hour, and in a breakfast-room also—though all signs of the meal had long been removed—were Mr. Huntley and his daughter. The same praise, just bestowed by Lord Carrick upon Constance Channing, might with equal justice be given to Ellen Huntley. She was a lovely girl, three or four years older than Harry, with pretty features and soft dark eyes. What is more, she was a good girl—a noble, generous-hearted girl, although (you know no one is perfection) with a spice of self-will. For the latter quality I think Ellen was more indebted to circumstances than to Nature. Mrs. Huntley was dead, and a maiden sister of Mr. Huntley's, older than himself, resided with them and ruled Ellen; ruled her with a tight hand; not a kind one, or a judicious one; and that had brought out Miss Ellen's self-will. Miss Huntley was very starched, prim, and stiff—very unnatural, in short—and she wished to make Ellen the same. Ellen rebelled, for she much disliked everything artificial. She was truthful, honest, straightforward; not unlike the character of Tom Channing. Miss Huntley complained that she was too straightforward to be ladylike; Ellen said she was sure she should never be otherwise than straightforward, so it was of no use trying. Then Miss Huntley would take offence, and threaten Ellen with "altering her will," and that would vex Ellen more than anything. Young ladies rarely care for money, especially when they have plenty of it; and Ellen Huntley would have that, from her father. "As if I cared for my aunt's money!" she would say. "I wish she may not leave it to me." And she was sincere in the wish. Their controversies frequently amused Mr. Huntley. Agreeing in heart and mind with his daughter, he would yet make a playful show of taking his sister's part. Miss Huntley knew it to be show—done to laugh at her—and would grow as angry with him as she was with Ellen.

Mr. Huntley was not laughing, however, this morning. On the contrary, he appeared to be in a very serious, not to say solemn mood. He slowly paced the room, as was his custom when anything disturbed him, stopping at moments to reflect, buried in thought. Ellen sat at a table by the window, drawing. The house was Mr. Huntley's own—a white villa with a sloping lawn in front. It was situated outside the town, on a gentle eminence, and commanded a view of the charming scenery for which the county was famous.

Ellen, who had glanced up two or three times, concerned to see the very stern, perplexed look on her father's face, at length spoke, "Is anything the matter, papa?"

Mr. Huntley did not answer. He was standing close to the table then, apparently looking at Ellen, at her white morning dress and its blue ribbons: it, and she altogether, a fair picture. Probably he saw neither her nor her dress—he was too deeply absorbed.

"You are not ill, are you, papa?"

"Ill!" he answered, rousing himself. "No, Ellen, I am not ill."

"Then you have had something to vex you, papa?"

"I have," emphatically replied Mr. Huntley. "And the worst is, that my vexation will not be confined to myself, I believe. It may extend to you, Ellen."

Mr. Huntley's manner was so serious, his look so peculiar as he gazed at her, that Ellen felt a rush of discomfort, and the colour spread itself over her fair face. She jumped to the conclusion that she had been giving offence in some way—that Miss Huntley must have been complaining of her.

"Has my aunt been telling you about last night, papa? Harry had two of the college boys here, and I unfortunately laughed and talked with them, and she said afterwards I had done it on purpose to annoy her. But I assure you, papa—"

"Never mind assuring me, child," interrupted Mr. Huntley. "Your aunt has said nothing to me; and if she had, it would go in at one ear and out at the other. It is worse business than any complaint that she could bring."

Ellen laid down her pencil, and gazed at her father, awe-struck at his strange tone. "What is it?" she breathed.

But Mr. Huntley did not answer. He remained perfectly still for a few moments, absorbed in thought: and then, without a word of any sort to Ellen, turned round to leave the room, took his hat as he passed through the hall, and left the house.

Can you guess what it was that was troubling Mr. Huntley? Very probably, if you can put, as the saying runs, this and that together.

Convinced, as he was, that Arthur Channing was not, could not be guilty of taking the bank-note, yet puzzled by the strangely tame manner in which he met the charge—confounded by the behaviour both of Arthur and Constance relating to it—Mr. Huntley had resolved, if possible, to dive into the mystery. He had his reasons for it. A very disagreeable, a very improbable suspicion, called forth by the facts, had darted across his mind; therefore he resolved to penetrate to it. And he set to work. He questioned Mr. Galloway, he questioned Butterby, he questioned Jenkins, and he questioned Roland Yorke. He thus became as thoroughly conversant with the details of the transaction as it was possible for any one, except the actual thief, to be; and he drew his own deductions. Very reluctantly, very slowly, very cautiously, were they drawn, but very surely. The behaviour of Arthur and Constance could only have one meaning: they were screening the real culprit. And that culprit must be Hamish Channing.

Unwilling as Mr. Huntley was to admit it, he had no resource but to do so. He grew as certain of it as he was of his own life. He had loved and respected Hamish in no measured degree. He had observed the attachment springing up between him and his daughter, and he had been content to observe it. None were so worthy of her, in Mr. Huntley's eyes, as Hamish Channing, in all respects save one—wealth; and, of that, Ellen would have plenty. Mr. Huntley had known of the trifling debts that were troubling Hamish, and he found that those debts, immediately on the loss of the bank-note, had been partially satisfied. That the stolen money must have been thus applied, and that it had been taken for that purpose, he could not doubt.