The Channings Part 46

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. Was it he who told you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shan't you get well?"

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

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

"What brought it on?" asked he.

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

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

"Fall, sir! What fall?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you want to keep it, Jenkins?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holloa, old Jenkins," said he, _sotte voce_, "what have you done with your hand?"

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

"What an old m.u.f.f you must be, to cut yourself like that!"

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER LIII.

THE RETURN HOME.

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

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

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

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

"For what purpose?" inquired Hamish.

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

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

"Who says so?" sharply cried Tom.

"I do," replied Hamish.

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

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

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

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

"Of course not," a.s.sented Tom.

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

"I could say--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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