The Channings Part 42

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I not, sir?"

"No."

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

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

"But why not?" exclaimed Hamish.

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

"I can fulfil them," said Hamish.

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

"What have I done?" inquired Hamish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ay--no doubt."

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

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

"But, sir--"

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

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

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

"MY DEAR LITTLE CHARLEY,"

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

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

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

"What money?" cried Mr. Huntley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XLVIII.

m.u.f.fINS FOR TEA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you hear?" sharply e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Jenkins, turning short round upon her husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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