Part 24 (1/2)

”Most probably.”

”It was the prisoner, Arthur Channing, who fetched the bank-note from your private room to the other? Did he see you put it into the letter?”

”I cannot say.”

A halt. ”But he was in full possession of his eyes just then?”

”No doubt he was.”

”Then what should hinder his seeing you put the note into the letter?”

”I will not swear that I put the note into the letter.”

The magistrates p.r.i.c.ked up their ears. Mr. b.u.t.terby p.r.i.c.ked up his, and looked at the witness.

”What do you say?”

”I will not swear that I put the bank-note inside the letter,” deliberately repeated Mr. Galloway.

”Not swear that you put the bank-note into the letter? What is it that you mean?”

”The meaning is plain enough,” replied Mr. Galloway, calmly. ”Must I repeat it for the third time? I will not swear that I put the note into the letter.”

”But your instructions to me were that you did put the note into the letter,” cried Mr. b.u.t.terby, interrupting the examination.

”I will not swear it,” reiterated the witness.

”Then there's an end of the case!” exclaimed the magistrates' clerk, in some choler. ”What on earth was the time of the bench taken up for in bringing it here?”

And there was an end of the case--at any rate for the present--for nothing more satisfactory could be got out of Mr. Galloway.

”I have been checkmated,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the angry b.u.t.terby.

They walked back arm-in-arm to Mr. Galloway's, Roland and Arthur. Hamish went the other way, to his own office, and Mr. Galloway lingered somewhere behind. Jenkins--truehearted Jenkins, in the black handkerchief still--was doubly respectful to Arthur, and rose to welcome him; a faint hectic of pleasure illumining his face at the termination of the charge.

”Who said our office was going to be put down for a thief's!” uttered Roland. ”Old Galloway's a trump! Here's your place, Arthur.”

Arthur did not take it. He had seen from the window the approach of Mr. Galloway, and delicacy prevented his a.s.suming his old post until bade to do so. Mr. Galloway came in, and motioned him into his own room.

”Arthur Channing,” he said, ”I have acted leniently in this unpleasant matter, for your father's sake; but, from my very heart, I believe you to be guilty.”

”I thank you, sir,” Arthur said, ”for that and all other kindness. I am not as guilty as you think me. Do you wish me to leave?”

”If you can give me no better a.s.surance of your innocence--if you can give me no explanation of the peculiar and most unsatisfactory manner in which you have met the charge--yes. To retain you here would be unjust to my own interests, and unfair as regards Jenkins and Roland Yorke.”

To give this explanation was impossible; neither dared Arthur a.s.sert more emphatically his innocence. Once convince Mr. Galloway that he was not the guilty party, and that gentleman would forthwith issue fresh instructions to b.u.t.terby for the further investigation of the affair: of this Arthur felt convinced. He could only be silent and remain under the stigma.

”Then--I had better--you would wish me, perhaps--to go at once?” hesitated Arthur.

”Yes,” shortly replied Mr. Galloway.

He spoke a word of farewell, which Mr. Galloway replied to by a nod, and went into the front office. There he began to collect together certain trifles that belonged to him.

”What's that for?” asked Roland Yorke.

”I am going,” he replied.

”Going!” roared Roland, jumping to his feet, and das.h.i.+ng down his pen full of ink, with little regard to the deed he was copying. ”Galloway has never turned you off!”

”Yes, he has.”

”Then I'll go too!” thundered Roland, who, truth to say, had flown into an uncontrollable pa.s.sion, startling Jenkins and arousing Mr. Galloway. ”I'll not stop in a place where that sort of injustice goes on! He'll be turning me out next! Catch me stopping for it!”

”Are you taken crazy, Mr. Roland Yorke?”

The question proceeded from his master, who came forth to make it. Roland turned to him, his temper unsubdued, and his colour rising.

”Channing never took the money, sir! It is not just to turn him away.”

”Did you help him to take it, pray, that you identify yourself with the affair so persistently and violently?” demanded Mr. Galloway, in a cynical tone. And Roland answered with a hot and haughty word.

”If you cannot attend to your business a little better, you will get your dismissal from me; you won't require to dismiss yourself,” said Mr. Galloway. ”Sit down, sir, and go on with your work.”

”And that's all the thanks a fellow gets for taking up a cause of oppression!” muttered Mr. Roland Yorke, as he sullenly resumed his place at the desk. ”This is a precious world to live in!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

A PIECE OF PREFERMENT.

Before the nine days' wonder, which, you know, is said to be the accompaniment of all marvels, had died away, Helstonleigh was fated to be astonished by another piece of news of a different nature--the preferment of the Reverend William Yorke.

A different preferment from what had been antic.i.p.ated for him; otherwise the news had been nothing extraordinary, for it is usual for the Dean and Chapter to

provide livings for their minor canons. In a fine, open part of the town was a cl.u.s.ter of buildings, called Hazeldon's Charity, so named from its founder Sir Thomas Hazeldon--a large, paved inclosure, fenced in by iron railings, and a pair of iron gates. A chapel stood in the midst. On either side, right and left, ran sixteen almshouses, and at the end, opposite to the iron gates, stood the dwelling of the chaplain to the charity, a fine residence, called Hazeldon House. This preferment, worth three hundred a year, had been for some weeks vacant, the chaplain having died. It was in the gift of the present baronet, Sir Frederick Hazeldon, a descendant of the founder, and he now suddenly conferred it upon the Rev. William Yorke. It took Helstonleigh by surprise. It took Mr. Yorke himself entirely by surprise. He possessed no interest whatever with Sir Frederick, and had never cast a thought to the probability of its becoming his. Perhaps, Sir Frederick's motive for bestowing it upon him was this--that, of all the clergy in the neighbourhood, looking out for something good to fall to them, Mr. Yorke had been almost the only one who had not solicited it of Sir Frederick.

It was none the less welcome. It would not interfere in the least with the duties or preferment of his minor canonry: a minor canon had once before held it. In short, it was one of those slices of luck which do sometimes come unexpectedly in this world.

In the soft light of the summer evening, Constance Channing stood under the cedar-tree. A fine old tree was that, the pride of the Channings' garden. The sun was setting in all its beauty; clouds of crimson and purple floated on the horizon; a roseate hue tinged the atmosphere, and lighted with its own loveliness the sweet face of Constance. It was an evening that seemed to speak peace to the soul--so would it have spoken to that of Constance, but for the ever-present trouble which had fallen there.

Another trouble was falling upon her, or seemed to be; one that more immediately concerned herself. Since the disgrace had come to Arthur, Mr. Yorke had been less frequent in his visits. Some days had now elapsed from the time of Arthur's dismissal from Mr. Galloway's, and Mr. Yorke had called only once. This might have arisen from accidental circ.u.mstances; but Constance felt a different fear in her heart.

Hark! that is his ring at the hall-bell. Constance has not listened for, and loved that ring so long, to be mistaken now. Another minute, and she hears those footsteps approaching, warming her life-blood, quickening her pulses: her face deepens to crimson, as she turns it towards him. She knows nothing yet of his appointment to the Hazeldon chaplaincy; Mr. Yorke has not known it himself two hours.

He came up and laid his hands upon her shoulders playfully, looking down at her. ”What will you give me for some news, by way of greeting, Constance?”