Works of Ellen Wood, page 226
“Thank you; that is all I want.”
“Don’t go to Dove and Dove’s, old boy,” Hamish said again, as Arthur was leaving the room. “Wait patiently for something better to turn up. There’s no such great hurry. I wish there was room for you to come here!”
“It is only a temporary thing; it is not for long,” replied Arthur; and he went out.
On going back to Dove and Dove’s, the first person he saw, upon opening the door of the clerks’ room, was Mr. Alfred Dove. He appeared to be in a passion over something that had gone wrong, and was talking fast and furiously.
“What do you want?” he asked, wheeling round upon Arthur. Arthur replied by intimating that he would be glad to speak with him.
“Can’t you speak, then?” returned Mr. Alfred Dove. “I am not deaf.”
Thus met, Arthur did not repeat his wish for privacy. He intimated his business, uncertain whether Mr. Alfred Dove had heard of it or not; and stated that the security could be given.
“I don’t know what you mean about ‘security,’” was Mr. Alfred Dove’s rejoinder. “What security?”
“Mr. Dove said that if I came into your office security would be required,” answered Arthur. “My friends are ready to give it.”
“Mr. Dove told you that, did he? Just like him. He has nothing to do with the details of the office. Did he know who you are?”
“Certainly he did, sir.”
“I should have thought not,” offensively returned Mr. Alfred Dove. “You must possess some assurance, young man, to come after a place in a respectable office. Security, or no security, we can’t admit one into ours, who lies under the accusation of being light-fingered.”
It was the man all over. Hamish had said, “Don’t go to Dove and Dove’s.” Mr. Alfred Dove stood with his finger pointing to the door, and the two clerks stared in an insolent manner at Arthur. With a burning brow and rising spirit, Arthur left the room, and halted for a moment in the passage outside. “Patience, patience,” he murmured to himself; “patience, and trust in God!” He turned into the street quickly, and ran against Mr. Huntley.
For a minute he could not speak. That gentleman detected his emotion, and waited till it was over. “Have you been insulted, Arthur?” he breathed.
“Not much more so than I am now getting accustomed to,” was the answer that came from his quivering lips. “I heard they wanted a clerk, and went to offer myself. I am looked upon as a felon now, Mr. Huntley.”
“Being innocent as the day.”
“I am innocent, before God,” spoke Arthur, in the impulse of his emotion, in the fervency of his heart. That he spoke but the solemn truth, it was impossible to doubt, even had Mr. Huntley been inclined to doubt; and Arthur may be excused for forgetting his usual caution in the moment’s bitterness.
“Arthur,” said Mr. Huntley, “I promised your father and mother that I should do all in my power to establish your innocence. Can you tell me how I am to set about it?”
“You cannot do it at all, Mr. Huntley. Things must remain as they are.”
“Why?”
“I cannot explain why. I can only repeat it.”
“There is some strange mystery attaching to this.”
Arthur did not gainsay it.
“Arthur, if I am to allow the affair to rest as I find it, you must at least give me a reason why I may not act. What is it?”
“Because the investigation could only cause tenfold deeper trouble. You are very good to think of helping me, Mr. Huntley, but I must fight my own battle. Others must be quiet in this matter — for all our sakes.”
Mr. Huntley gazed after Arthur as he moved away. Constance first! Arthur next! What could be the meaning of it all? Where did the mystery lie? A resolution grew up in Mr. Huntley’s heart that he would fathom it, for private reasons of his own; and, in the impulse of the moment, he bent his steps there and then, towards the police-station, and demanded an interview with Roland Yorke’s bête noire, Mr. Butterby.
But the cathedral is not quite done with for the afternoon.
Upon the conclusion of service, the dean lingered a few minutes in the nave, speaking to one of the vergers. When he turned to continue his way, he encountered the Rev. Mr. Pye, who had been taking off his surplice in the vestry. The choristers had been taking off their surplices also, and were now trooping through the cloisters back to the schoolroom, not more gently than usual. The dean saluted Mr. Pye, and they walked out together.
“It is impossible to keep them quiet unless one’s eye is continually upon them!” exclaimed the head-master, half apologetically, as they came in view of the rebels. He had a great mind to add, “And one’s cane.”
“Boys will be boys,” said the dean. “How has this foolish opinion arisen among them, that the names, standing first on the roll for the seniorship, will not be allowed to compete for it?” continued he, with much suavity.
Mr. Pye looked rather flushed. “Really I am unable to say, Mr. Dean. It is difficult to account for all the notions taken up by schoolboys.”
“Boys do take up strange notions,” blandly assented the dean. “But, I think, were I you, Mr. Pye, I would set their minds at rest in this respect. You have not yet deemed it worth while, I dare say: but it may perhaps be as well to do so. When the elders of a school once take up the idea that their studies may not meet with due reward, it tends to render them indifferent. I remember once — it was just after I came here as dean, many years ago — the head-master of the school exalted a boy to be senior who stood sixth or seventh on the rolls, and was positively half an idiot. But those times are past.”
“Certainly they are,” remarked the master.
“It was an unpleasant duty I had to perform then,” continued the dean, in the same agreeable tone, as if he were relating an anecdote: “unpleasant both for the parents of the boy, and for the head-master. But, as I remark, such things could not occur now. I think I would intimate to the king’s scholars that they have nothing to fear.”
“It shall be done, Mr. Dean,” was the response of the master; and they exchanged bows as the dean turned into the deanery. “She’s three parts a fool, is that Lady Augusta,” muttered the master to the cloister-flags as he strode over them. “Chattering magpie!”
As circumstances had it, the way was paved for the master to speak at once. Upon entering the college schoolroom, in passing the senior desk, he overheard whispered words of dispute between Gerald Yorke and Pierce senior, touching this very question, the seniorship. The master reached his own desk, gave it a sharp rap with a cane that lay near to hand, and spoke in his highest tone, looking red and angry.
“What are these disputes that appear to have been latterly disturbing the peace of the school? What is that you are saying, Gerald Yorke? — that the seniorship is to be yours?”
Gerald Yorke looked red in his turn, and somewhat foolish. “I beg your pardon, sir; I was not saying precisely that,” he answered with hesitation.
“I think you were saying precisely that,” was the response of the master. “My ears are quicker than you may fancy, Mr. Yorke. If you really have been hugging yourself with the notion that the promotion will be yours, the sooner you disabuse your mind of it, the better. Whoever gains the seniorship will gain it by priority of right, by scholarship, or by conduct — as the matter may be. Certainly not by anything else. Allow me to recommend you, one and all” — and the master threw his eyes round the desks generally, and gave another emphatic stroke with the cane— “that you concern yourselves with your legitimate business; not with mine.”
Gerald did not like the reproof, or the news. He remained silent and sullen until the conclusion of school, and then went tearing home.
“A pretty block you have made of me!” he uttered, bursting into the presence of Lady Augusta, who had just returned home, and sat fanning herself on a sofa before an open window.
“Why, what has taken you?” returned her ladyship.
“It’s a shame, mother! Filling me up with the news that I was to be senior? And now Pye goes and announces that I’m a fool for supposing so, and that it’s to go in regular rotation.”
“Pye does not mean it,” said my lady. “There, hold your tongue, Gerald. I am too hot to talk.”
“I know that every fellow in the school will have the laugh at me, if I am to be made a block of, like this!” grumbled Gerald.
CHAPTER XXXV. — THE EARL OF CARRICK.
On a fine afternoon in August — and the month was now drawing towards its close — the 2.25 train from London steamed into the station at Helstonleigh, eight minutes behind time, and came to a standstill. Amongst the passengers who alighted, was a gentleman of middle age, as it is called — in point of fact, he had entered his fiftieth year, as the peerage would have told any curious inquirer. As he stepped out of a first-class carriage, several eyes were drawn towards him, for he was of notable height, towering above every one; even above Roland Yorke, who was of good height himself, and stood on the platform waiting for him.
It was the Earl of Carrick, brother to Lady Augusta Yorke, and much resembling her — a pleasant, high cheek-boned, easy face, betraying more of good humour than of high or keen intellect, and nothing of pride. The pride of the young Yorkes was sometimes talked of in Helstonleigh, but it came from their father’s side, not from Lady Augusta’s. The earl spoke with a slight brogue, and shook both Roland’s hands heartily, as soon as he found that it was to Roland they belonged.
“Sure then! but I didn’t know ye, Roland! If ye had twenty years more on to ye’re head, I should have thought it was ye’re father.”
“Have I grown like him, Uncle Carrick?”
“Ye’ve grown out of knowledge, me boy. And how’s ye’re mother, and how are the rest of ye?”
“Stunning,” responded Roland. “They are all outside. She would bring up the whole caravan. The last time the lot came to the station, the two young ones got upon the line to dance a hornpipe on the rails; so she has kept them by her, and is making Gerald and Tod look after them. Where’s your luggage, Uncle Carrick? Have you brought a servant?”
“Not I,” replied the earl. “Servants are only troubles in other folk’s houses, and me bit of luggage isn’t so much but I can look after it meself. I hope they put it in,” he continued, looking about amid the boxes and portmanteaus, and unable to see his own.
The luggage was found at last, and given in charge of a porter; and Lord Carrick went out to meet his relatives. There were enough of them to meet — the whole caravan, as Roland had expressed it. Lady Augusta sat in her barouche — her two daughters and Constance and Annabel Channing with her. Little Percy and Frank, two most troublesome children, were darting in and out amidst the carriages, flys, and omnibuses; and Gerald and Tod had enough to do to keep them out of danger. It was so like Lady Augusta — bringing them all to the station to welcome their uncle! Warm-hearted and impulsive, she had little more judgment than a child. Constance had in vain protested against herself and Annabel being pressed into the company; but her ladyship looked upon it as a sort of triumphal expedition, and was deaf to remonstrances.
The earl, warm-hearted and impulsive also, kissed them all, Constance included. She could not help herself; before she was aware of the honour intended her, the kiss was given — a hearty smack, as all the rest had. The well-meaning, simple-minded Irishman could not have been made to understand why he should not give a kiss of greeting to Constance as readily as he gave it to his sister, or his sister’s daughters. He protested that he remembered Constance and Annabel well. It may be questioned whether there was not more of Irish politeness than of truth in the assertion, though he had seen them occasionally, during his visit of three years ago.
How were they all to get home? In and on the barouche, as all, except Roland, had come, to the gratification of the curious town? Lord Carrick wished to walk; his long legs were cramped: but Lady Augusta would not hear of it, and pulled him into the carriage, Gerald, Percy, and Frank were fighting for places on the box beside the driver, Tod intending to hang on behind, as he had done in coming, when the deep-toned college bell struck out a quarter to three, and the sound came distinctly to their ears, borne from the distance. It put a stop to the competition, so far as Gerald was concerned. He and Tod, startled half out of their senses, for they had not observed the lapse of time, set off on foot as hard as they could go.
Meanwhile, Roland, putting aside the two young ones with his strong hand, chose to mount the box himself; at which they both began to shriek and roar. Matters were compromised after a while; Percy was taken up by Roland, and Frank was, by some process of packing, stowed away inside. Then the cargo started! Lady Augusta happy as a princess, with her newly-met brother and her unruly children, and not caring in the least for the gaze of the people who stood in the street, or came rushing to their windows and doors to criticise the load.
Crowded as the carriage was, it was pleasanter to be in it, on that genial day, than to be at work in close rooms, dark shops, or dull offices. Amongst others, who were so confined and hard at work, was Jenkins at Mr. Galloway’s. Poor Jenkins had not improved in health during the week or two that had elapsed since you last saw him. His cough was more troublesome still, and he was thinner and weaker. But Jenkins, humble and conscientious, thinking himself one who was not worth thinking of at all in comparison with others, would have died at his post rather than give in. Certainly, Arthur Channing had been discharged at a most inopportune moment, for Mr. Galloway, as steward to the Dean and Chapter, had more to do about Michaelmas, than at any other time of the year. From that epoch until November, when the yearly audit took place, there was a good deal of business to be gone through.
On this afternoon, Jenkins was particularly busy. Mr. Galloway was away from home for a day or two — on business connected with that scapegrace cousin of his, Roland Yorke proclaimed; though whether Mr. Roland had any foundation for the assertion, except his own fancy, may be doubted — and Jenkins had it all upon his own shoulders. Jenkins, unobtrusive and meek though he was, was perfectly competent to manage, and Mr. Galloway left him with entire trust. But it is one thing to be competent to manage, and another thing to be able to do two persons’ work in one person’s time; and, that, Jenkins was finding this afternoon. He had letters to write; he had callers to answer; he had the general business of the office to attend to; he had the regular deeds to prepare and copy. The copying of those deeds was the work belonging to Roland Yorke. Roland did not seem to be in a hurry to come to them. Jenkins cast towards them an anxious eye, but Jenkins could do no more, for his own work could not be neglected. He felt very unwell that afternoon — oppressed, hot, unable to breathe. He wiped the moisture from his brow three or four times, and then thought he might be the better for a little air, and opened the window. But the breeze, gentle as it was, made him cough, and he shut it again.
Of course, no one, knowing Mr. Roland Yorke, could be surprised at his starting to the station to meet Lord Carrick, instead of to the office to do his work. He had gone home at one o’clock that day, as usual. Not that there was any necessity for his doing so, for the dinner hour was postponed until later, and it would have furthered the business of the office had he remained for once at his post. Had any one suggested to Roland to do so, he would have thought he was going to be worked to death. About twenty minutes past three he came clattering in.
“I say, Jenkins, I want a holiday this afternoon.”
Jenkins, albeit the most accommodating spirit in the world, looked dubious, and cast a glance at the papers on Roland’s desk. “Yes, sir. But what is to be done about the Uphill farm leases?”
“Now, Jenkins, it’s not a bit of good for you to begin to croak! If I gave in to you, you’d get as bad as Galloway. When I have my mind off work, I can’t settle to it again, and it’s of no use trying. Those Uphill deeds are not wanted before to-morrow.”
“But they are wanted by eleven o’clock, sir, so that they must be finished, or nearly finished, to-night. You know, sir, there has been a fuss about them, and early to-morrow, is the very latest time they must be sent in.”
“I’ll get up, and be here in good time and finish them,” said Roland. “Just put it to yourself, Jenkins, if you had an uncle that you’d not seen for seventeen ages, whether you’d like to leave him the minute he puts his foot over the door-sill.”
“I dare say I should not, sir,” said good-natured Jenkins, turning about in his mind how he could make time to do Roland’s work. “His lordship is come, then, Mr. Roland?”
“His lordship’s come, bag and baggage,” returned Roland. “I say, Jenkins, what a thousand shames it is that he’s not rich! He is the best-natured fellow alive, and would do anything in the world for us, if he only had the tin.”
“Is he not rich, sir?”
“Why, of course he’s not,” confidentially returned Roland. “Every one knows the embarrassments of Lord Carrick. When he came into the estates, they had been mortgaged three deep by the last peer, my grandfather — an old guy in a velvet skull-cap, I remember, who took snuff incessantly — and my uncle, on his part, had mortgaged them three deep again, which made six. How Carrick manages to live nobody knows. Sometimes he’s in Ireland, in the tumble-down old homestead, with just a couple of servants to wait upon him; and sometimes he’s on the Continent, en garçon — if you know what that means. Now and then he gets a windfall when any of his tenants can be brought to pay up; but he is the easiest-going coach in life, and won’t press them. Wouldn’t I!”
“Some of those Irish tenants are very poor, sir, I have heard.”
“Poor be hanged! What is a man’s own, ought to be his own. Carrick says there are some years that he does not draw two thousand pounds, all told.”
“Indeed, sir! That is not much for a peer.”
