Works of Ellen Wood, page 215
“Time’s up,” called out the one who was in the hall, to his fellow. “We can’t stop here all day.”
The hint was taken at once, both by Arthur and the man. Constance had kept herself still, throughout, by main force; but Mrs. Channing could not see him go away like this. She rose and threw her arms round him, in a burst of hysterical feeling, sobbing out, “My boy! my boy!”
“Don’t, mother! don’t unnerve me,” he whispered. “It is bad enough as it is.”
“But you cannot be guilty, Arthur.”
For answer he looked into her eyes for a single moment. His habitual expression had come back to them again — the earnest of truth, which she had ever known and trusted. It spoke calm to her heart now. “You are innocent,” she murmured. “Then go in peace.”
Annabel broke into a storm of sobs. “Oh, Judith! will they hang him? What has he done?”
“I’d hang them two policemen, if I did what I should like to do,” responded Judith. “Yes, you two, I mean,” she added, without ceremony, as the officials turned round at the words. “If I had my will, I’d hang you both up to two of those elm-trees yonder, right in front of one another. Coming to a gentleman’s house on this errand!”
“Do not take me publicly through the streets,” said Arthur to his keepers. “I give you my word to make no resistance: I will go to the Guildhall, or anywhere else that you please, as freely as if I were bound thither on my own pleasure. You need not betray that I am in custody.”
They saw that they might trust him. One of the policemen went to the opposite side of the way, as if pacing his beat; the other continued by the side of Arthur; not closely enough to give rise to suspicion in those they met. A few paces from the door Tom Channing came pelting up, and put his arm within Arthur’s.
“Guilty, or not guilty, it shall never be said that a Channing was deserted by his brothers!” quoth he, “I wish Hamish could have been here.”
“Tom, you are thinking me guilty?” Arthur said, in a quiet, tone, which did not reach the ears of his official escort.
“Well — I am in a fix,” avowed Tom. “If you are guilty, I shall never believe in anything again. I have always thought that building a cathedral: well and good; but if it turns out to be a myth, I shan’t be surprised, after this. Are you guilty?”
“No, lad.”
The denial was simple, and calmly expressed; but there was sufficient in its tone to make Tom Channing’s heart give a great leap within him.
“Thank God! What a fool I was! But, I say, Arthur, why did you not deny it, out-and-out? Your manner frightened us. I suppose the police scared you?”
Tom, all right now, walked along, his head up, escorting Arthur with as little shame to public examination, as he would have done to a public crowning. It was not the humiliation of undeserved suspicion that could daunt the Channings: the consciousness of guilt could alone effect that. Hitherto, neither guilt nor its shadow had fallen upon them.
“Tom,” asked Arthur, when they had reached the hall, and were about to enter: “will you do me a little service?”
“Won’t I, though! what is it?”
“Make the best of your way to Mr. Williams’s, and tell him I am prevented from taking the organ this afternoon.”
“I shan’t tell him the reason,” said Tom.
“Why not? In an hour’s time it will be known from one end of Helstonleigh to the other.”
CHAPTER XXIV. — THE EXAMINATION.
The magistrates sat on the bench in the town-hall of Helstonleigh. But, before the case was called on — for the police had spoken too fast in saying they were waiting for it — Arthur became acquainted with one great fact: that it was not Mr. Galloway who had driven matters to this extremity. Neither was he aware that Arthur had been taken into custody. Mr. Butterby had assumed the responsibility, and acted upon it. Mr. Butterby, since his interview with Mr. Galloway in the morning, had gathered, as he believed, sufficiently corroborating facts to establish, or nearly so, the guilt of Arthur Channing. He supposed that this was all Mr. Galloway required to remove his objection to stern measures; and, in procuring the warrant for the capture, Mr. Butterby had acted as for Mr. Galloway.
When Arthur was placed in the spot where he had often seen criminals standing, his face again wore the livid hue which had overspread it in his home. In a few moments this had changed to crimson; brow and cheeks were glowing with it. It was a painful situation, and Arthur felt it to the very depths of his naturally proud spirit. I don’t think you or I should have liked it.
The circumstances were stated to the magistrates just as they have been stated to you. The placing of the bank-note and letter in the envelope by Mr. Galloway, his immediately fastening it down by means of the gum, the extraction of the note, between that time and the period when the seal was placed on it later in the day, and the fact that Arthur Channing alone had access to it. “Except Mr. Hamish Channing, for a few minutes,” Mr. Butterby added, “who kindly remained in the office while his brother proceeded as far as the cathedral and back again; the other clerks, Joseph Jenkins and Roland Yorke, being absent that afternoon.”
A deeper dye flushed Arthur’s face when Hamish’s name and share in the afternoon’s doings were mentioned, and he bent his eyes on the floor at his feet, and kept them there. Had Hamish not been implicated, he would have stood there with a clear eye and a serene brow. It was that, the all too vivid consciousness of the sin of Hamish, which took all spirit out of him, and drove him to stand there as one under the brand of guilt. He scarcely dared look up, lest it should be read in his countenance that he was innocent, and Hamish guilty; he scarcely dared to pronounce, in ever so faltering a tone, the avowal “I did it not.” Had it been to save his life from the scaffold, he could not have spoken out boldly and freely that day. There was the bitter shock of the crime, felt for Hamish’s own sake: Hamish whom they had all so loved, so looked up to: and there was the dread of the consequences to Mr. Channing in the event of discovery. Had the penalty been hanging, I believe that Arthur would have gone to it, rather than betray Hamish. But you must not suppose he did not feel it for himself; there were moments when he feared lest he should not carry it through.
Mr. Butterby was waiting for a witness — Mr. Galloway himself: and meanwhile, he entertained the bench with certain scraps, anecdotal and other, premising what would be proved before them. Jenkins would show that the prisoner had avowed in his presence, it would take a twenty-pound note to clear him from his debts, or hard upon it —
“No,” interrupted the hitherto silent prisoner, to the surprise of those present, “that is not true. It is correct that I did make use of words to that effect, but I spoke them in jest. I and Roland Yorke were one day speaking of debts, and I jokingly said a twenty-pound note would pay mine, and leave me something out of it. Jenkins was present, and he may have supposed I spoke in earnest. In point of fact I did not owe anything.”
It was an assertion more easily made than proved. Arthur Channing might have large liabilities upon him, for all that appeared in that court to the contrary. Mr. Butterby handed the seal to the bench, who examined it curiously.
“I could have understood this case better had any stranger or strangers approached the letter,” observed one of the magistrates, who knew the Channings personally, and greatly respected their high character. “You are sure you are not mistaken in supposing no one came in?” he added, looking kindly at Arthur.
“Certainly no one came in whilst I was alone in the office, sir,” was the unhesitating answer.
The magistrate spoke in an under-tone to those beside him. “That avowal is in his favour. Had he taken the note, one might suppose he would be anxious to make it appear that strangers did enter, and so throw suspicion off himself.”
“I have made very close inquiry, and cannot find that the office was entered at all that afternoon,” observed Mr. Butterby. Mr. Butterby had made close inquiry; and, to do him justice, he did not seek to throw one shade more of guilt upon Arthur than he thought the case deserved. “Mr. Hamish Channing also—”
Mr. Butterby stopped. There, standing within the door, was Hamish himself. In passing along the street he had seen an unusual commotion around the town-hall; and, upon inquiring its cause, was told that Arthur Channing was under examination, on suspicion of having stolen the bank-note, lost by Mr. Galloway.
To look at Hamish you would have believed him innocent and unconscious as the day. He strode into the justice-room, his eye flashing, his brow haughty, his colour high. Never had gay Hamish looked so scornfully indignant. He threw his glance round the crowded court in search of Arthur, and it found him.
Their eyes met. A strange gaze it was, going out from the one to the other; a gaze which the brothers had never in all their lives exchanged. Arthur’s spoke of shame all too palpably — he could not help it in that bitter moment — shame for his brother. And Hamish shrank under it. If ever one cowered visibly in this world, Hamish Channing did then. A low, suppressed cry went up from Arthur’s heart: whatever fond, faint doubt may have lingered in his mind, it died out from that moment.
Others noticed the significant look exchanged between them; but they, not in the secret, saw only, on the part of Hamish, what they took for vexation at his brother’s position. It was suggested that it would save time to take the evidence of Mr. Hamish Channing at once. Mr. Galloway’s might be received later.
“What evidence?” demanded Hamish, standing before the magistrates in a cold, uncompromising manner, and speaking in a cold, uncompromising tone. “I have none to give. I know nothing of the affair.”
“Not much, we are aware; but what little you do know must be spoken, Mr. Hamish Channing.”
They did not swear him. These were only informal, preliminary proceedings. Country courts of law are not always conducted according to orthodox rules, nor was that of Helstonleigh. There would be another and a more formal examination before the committal of the prisoner for trial — if committed he should be.
A few unimportant questions were put to Hamish, and then he was asked whether he saw the letter in question.
“I saw a letter which I suppose to have been the one,” he replied. “It was addressed to Mr. Robert Galloway, at Ventnor.”
“Did you observe your brother take it into Mr. Galloway’s private room?”
“Yes,” answered Hamish. “In putting the desks straight before departing for college, my brother carried the letter into Mr. Galloway’s room and left it there. I distinctly remember his doing so.”
“Did you see the letter after that?”
“No.”
“How long did you remain alone while your brother was away?”
“I did not look at my watch,” irritably returned Hamish, who had spoken resentfully throughout, as if some great wrong were being inflicted upon him in having to speak at all.
“But you can guess at the time?”
“No, I can’t,” shortly retorted Hamish. “And ‘guesses’ are not evidence.”
“Was it ten minutes?”
“It may have been. I know he seemed to be back almost as soon as he had gone.”
“Did any person — clerk, or stranger, or visitor, or otherwise — come into the office during his absence from it?”
“No.”
“No person whatever?”
“No person whatever. I think,” continued Hamish, volunteering an opinion upon the subject, although he knew it was out of all rule and precedent to do so, “that there is a great deal of unprofitable fuss being made about the matter. The money must have been lost in going through the post; it is impossible to suppose otherwi—”
Hamish was stopped by a commotion. Clattering along the outer hall, and bursting in at the court door, his black hair disordered, his usually pale cheeks scarlet, his nostrils working with excitement, came Roland Yorke. He was in a state of fierce emotion. Learning, as he had done by accident, that Arthur had been arrested upon the charge, he took up the cause hotly, gave vent to a burst of passionate indignation (in which he abused every one under the sun, except Arthur), and tore off to the town-hall. Elbowing the crowd right and left, in his impetuosity, pushing one policeman here and another there, who would have obstructed his path, he came up to Arthur and ranged himself by his side, linking his arm within his in an outburst of kindly generosity.
“Old fellow, who has done this?”
“Mr. Roland Yorke!” exclaimed the bench, indignantly. “What do you mean by this behaviour? Stand away, if you please, sir.”
“I’ll stand away when Arthur Channing stands away,” retorted Yorke, apparently ignoring whose presence he was in. “Who accuses him? Mr. Galloway does not. This is your doing, Butterby.”
“Take care that their worships don’t commit you for contempt of court,” retorted Mr. Butterby. “You are going on for it, Roland Yorke.”
“Let them commit me, if they will,” foamed Roland. “I am not going to see a friend falsely accused, and not stand up for him. Channing no more touched that money than any of you did. The post-office must have had it.”
“A moment, Mr. Roland Yorke: if you can calm yourself sufficiently to answer as a rational being,” interposed the magistrate who had addressed Arthur. “Have you any proof to urge in support of your assertion that the prisoner did not touch it?”
“Proof, sir!” returned Roland, subsiding, however, into a tone of more respect: “does it want proof to establish the innocence of Arthur Channing? Every action of his past life is proof. He is honest as the day.”
“This warm feeling does you credit, in one sense—”
“It does me no credit at all,” fiercely interrupted Roland. “I don’t defend him because he is my friend; I don’t defend him because we are in the same office, and sit side by side at the same desk; I do it, because I know him to be innocent.”
“How do you know it?”
“He could not be guilty. He is incapable of it. Better accuse me, or Jenkins, than accuse him!”
“You and Jenkins were not at the office during the suspected time.”
“Well, I know we were not,” acknowledged Roland, lowering his voice to a more reasonable tone. “And, just because it happened, by some cross-grained luck, that Channing was, Butterby pitches upon him, and accuses him of the theft. He never did it! and I’ll say it with my last breath.”
With some trouble: threatenings on the part of the court; and more explosions from himself: Mr. Roland Yorke was persuaded to retire. He went as far as the back of the room, and there indulged in under-currents of wrath, touching injustice and Mr. Butterby, to a select circle who gathered round him. Warm-hearted and generous, by fits and starts, was Roland Yorke; he had inherited it with his Irish blood from Lady Augusta.
But meanwhile, where was Mr. Galloway? He did not make his appearance, and it was said he could not be found. Messenger after messenger was despatched to his office, to his house; and at length Mr. Butterby went himself. All in vain; his servants knew nothing about him. Jenkins, who had the office to himself, thought he must be “somewhere in the town,” as he had not said he was going out of it. Mr. Butterby went back crest-fallen, and confessed that, not to take up longer the time of their worships unnecessarily, the case must be remanded to the morrow.
“We will take bail,” said the magistrates, before the application was made. “One surety will be sufficient; fifty pounds.”
At that, Mr. Roland, who by this time was standing in a sullen manner against a pillar of the court, his violence gone, and biting his nails moodily, made a rush to the front again, heeding little who he knocked down in the process. “I’ll be bail,” he cried eagerly. “That is, Lady Augusta will — as I am not a householder. I’ll hunt her up and bring her here.”
He was turning in impetuous haste to “hunt up” Lady Augusta, when Hamish Channing imperatively waved to him to be still, and spoke to the bench.
“My father’s security will be sufficient, I presume?”
“Quite so.”
Since Mr. Channing’s incapacity, power to sign and to act for him had been vested in Hamish; and the matter was concluded at once. The court poured out its crowd. Hamish was on the point of taking Arthur’s arm, but was pushed aside by Roland Yorke, who seized upon it as if he could never make enough of him.
“The miserable idiots! to bring such a charge against you, Arthur! I have been half mad ever since I heard of it.”
“Thank you, Yorke. You are very kind—”
“‘Kind!’ Don’t talk that school-girl rubbish!” passionately interrupted Roland. “If I were taken up upon a false charge, wouldn’t you stand by me?”
“That I would; were it false or true.”
“I’ll pay that Butterby out, if it’s ten years hence! And you, knowing your own innocence, could stand before them there, meek-faced as a tame cat, letting Butterby and the bench have it their own way! A calm temper, such as yours, Arthur, may be very — what do they call it? — Christian; but I’m blest if it’s useful! I should have made their ears tingle, had they put me there, as they have not tingled for many a day.”
“Who do you suppose took the note?” inquired Hamish of Roland Yorke, speaking for the first time.
“Bother the note!” was the rejoinder of Mr. Roland. “It’s nothing to us who took it. Arthur didn’t. Go and ask the post-office.”
“But the seal?” Hamish was beginning in a friendly tone of argument. Roland bore him down.
“Who cares for the seal? I don’t. If Galloway had stuck himself upon the letter, instead of his seal, and never got off till it reached the cousin Galloway’s hand, I wouldn’t care. It tells nothing. Do you want to find your brother guilty?” he continued, in a tone of scorn. “You did not half stand up for him, Hamish Channing, as I’d expect a brother to stand up for me. Now then, you people! Are you thinking we are live kangaroos escaped from a menagerie? Be off about your own business! Don’t come after us.”
