The Channings. Henry Wood
and given the key to the housekeeper till college was over, or until Yorke returned. He deserves something for this move. Has any one called?”
“No. Arthur, I have been making free with a sheet of paper and an envelope,” said Hamish, completing the note he was writing. “I suppose I am welcome to it?”
“To ten, if you want them,” returned Arthur. “To whom are you writing?”
“As if I should put you au courant of my love-letters!” gaily answered Hamish.
How could Hamish indulge in this careless gaiety with a sword hanging over his head? It was verily a puzzle to Arthur. A light, sunny nature was Hamish Channing’s. This sobering blow which had fallen on it had probably not come before it was needed. Had his bark been sailing for ever in smooth waters, he might have wasted his life, indolently basking on the calm, seductive waves. But the storm rose, the waves ran high, threatening to engulf him, and Hamish knew that his best energies must be put forth to surmount them. Never, never talk of troubles as great, unmitigated evils: to the God-fearing, the God-trusting, they are fraught with hidden love.
“Hamish, were I threatened with worry, as you are, I could not be otherwise than oppressed and serious.”
“Where would be the use of that?” cried gay Hamish. “Care killed a cat. Look here, Arthur, you and your grave face! Did you ever know care do a fellow good? I never did: but a great deal of harm. I shall manage to scramble out of the pit somehow. You’ll see.” He put the note into his pocket, as he spoke, and took up his hat to depart.
“Stop an instant longer, Hamish. I have just met Hopper.”
“He did not convert you into a writ-server, I hope. I don’t think it would be legal.”
“There you are, joking again! Hamish, he has the writ, but he does not wish to serve it. You are to keep out of his way, he says, and he will not seek to put himself in yours. My father was kind to him in days gone by, and he remembers it now.”
“He’s a regular trump! I’ll send him half-a-crown in a parcel,” exclaimed Hamish.
“I wish you would hear me out. He says a ten-pound note, perhaps a five-pound note, on account, would induce ‘his people’—suppose you understand the phrase—to stay proceedings, and to give you time. He strongly advises it to be done. That’s all.”
Not only all Arthur had to say upon the point, but all he had time to say. At that moment, the barouche of Lady Augusta Yorke drove up to the door, and they both went out to it. Lady Augusta, her daughter Fanny, and Constance Channing were in it. She was on her way to attend a missionary meeting at the Guildhall, and had called for Roland, that he might escort her into the room.
“Roland is not to be found, Lady Augusta,” said Hamish, raising his hat with one of his sunny smiles. “He darted off, it is impossible to say where, thereby making me a prisoner. My brother had to attend the cathedral, and there was no one to keep office.”
“Then I think I must make a prisoner of you in turn, Mr. Hamish Channing,” graciously said Lady Augusta. “Will you accompany us?”
Hamish shook his head. “I wish I could; but I have already wasted more time than I ought to have done.”
“It will not cost you five minutes more,” urged Lady Augusta. “You shall only just take us into the hall; I will release you then, if you must be released. Three ladies never can go in alone—fancy how we should be stared at!”
Constance bent her pretty face forward. “Do, Hamish, if you can!”
He suffered himself to be persuaded, stepped into the barouche, and took his seat by Lady Augusta. As they drove away, Arthur thought the greatest ornament the carriage contained had been added to it in handsome Hamish.
A full hour Arthur worked on at his deeds and leases, and Roland Yorke never returned. Mr. Galloway came in then. “Where’s Yorke?” was his first question.
Arthur replied that he did not know; he had “stepped out” somewhere. Arthur Channing was not one to make mischief, or get another into trouble. Mr. Galloway asked no further; he probably inferred that Yorke had only just gone. He sat down at Jenkins’s desk, and began to read over a lease.
“Can I have the stamps, sir, for this deed?” Arthur presently asked.
“They are not ready. Have the letters gone to the post?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“You can take them now, then. And, Arthur, suppose you step in, as you return, and see how Jenkins is.”
“Very well, sir.” He went into Mr. Galloway’s room, and brought forth the three letters from the rack. “Is this one not to be sealed?” he inquired of Mr. Galloway, indicating the one directed to Ventnor, for it was Mr. Galloway’s invariable custom to seal letters which contained money, after they had been gummed down. “It is doubly safe,” he would say.
“Ay, to be sure,” replied Mr. Galloway. “I went off in a hurry, and did not do it. Bring me the wax.”
Arthur handed him the wax and a light. Mr. Galloway sealed the letter, stamping it with the seal hanging to his watch-chain. He then held out his hand for another of the letters, and sealed that. “And this one also?” inquired Arthur, holding out the third.
“No. You can take them now.”
Arthur departed. A few paces from the door he met Roland Yorke, coming along in a white heat.
“Channing, I could not help it—I could not, upon my honour. I had to go somewhere with Knivett, and we were kept till now. Galloway’s in an awful rage, I suppose?”
“He has only just come in. You had no right to play me this trick, Yorke. But for Hamish, I must have locked up the office. Don’t you do it again, or Mr. Galloway may hear of it.”
“It is all owing to that confounded Jenkins!” flashed Roland. “Why did he go and get his head smashed? You are a good fellow, Arthur. I’ll do you a neighbourly turn, some time.”
He sped into the office, and Arthur walked to the post with the letters. Coming back, he turned into Mrs. Jenkins’s shop in the High Street.
Mrs. Jenkins was behind the counter. “Oh, go up! go up and see him!” she cried, in a tone of suppressed passion. “His bedroom’s front, up the two-pair flight, and I’ll take my affidavit that there’s been fifty folks here this day to see him, if there has been one. I could sow a peck of peas on the stairs! You’ll find other company up there.”
Arthur groped his way up the stairs; they were dark too, coming in from the sunshine. He found the room, and entered. Jenkins lay in bed, his bandaged head upon the pillow; and, seated by his side, his apron falling, and his clerical hat held between his knees, was the Bishop of Helstonleigh.
CHAPTER XV. – A SPLASH IN THE RIVER
Amongst other facts, patent to common and uncommon sense, is the very obvious one that a man cannot be in two places at once. In like manner, no author, that I ever heard of, was able to relate two different portions of his narrative at one and the same time. Thus you will readily understand, that if I devoted the last chapter to Mr. Galloway, his clerks and their concerns generally, it could not be given to Mr. Ketch and his concerns; although in the strict order of time and sequence, the latter gentleman might have claimed an equal, if not a premier right.
Mr. Ketch stood in his lodge, leaning for support upon the shut-up press-bedstead, which, by day, looked like a high chest of drawers with brass handles, his eyes fixed on the keys, hanging on the opposite nail. His state of mind may be best expressed by the strong epithet, “savage.” Mr. Ketch had not a pleasant face at the best of times: it was yellow and withered; and his small bright eyes were always dropping water; and the two or three locks of hair, which he still possessed, were faded, and stood out, solitary and stiff, after the manner of those pictures you have seen of heathens who decorate their heads with upright tails. At this moment his countenance looked particularly unpleasant.
Mr. Ketch had spent part of the night and the whole of this morning