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<h2> CHAPTER XXXIII. — NO SENIORSHIP FOR TOM CHANNING. </h2> Shaking hands with Lady Augusta Yorke as she turned out of Mr. Galloway’s office, was Mr. Huntley. He had only just arrived at Helstonleigh; had not yet been home; but he explained that he wished to give at once a word of pleasant news to Constance Channing of her father and mother, and, on his way to the Boundaries, was calling on Mr. Galloway. “You will find Miss Channing at my house,” said Lady Augusta, after some warm inquiries touching Mr. and Mrs. Channing. “I would offer to go back there with you, but I am on my way to make some calls.” She turned towards the town as she spoke, and Mr. Huntley entered the office. “I thought you were never coming home again!” cried free Roland. “Why, you have been away three months, Mr. Huntley!” “Very nearly. Where is Mr. Galloway?” “In his skin,” said Roland. Jenkins looked up deprecatingly, as if he would apologize for the rudeness of Roland Yorke. “Mr. Galloway is out, sir. I dare say he will not be away more than half an hour.” “I cannot wait now,” said Mr. Huntley. “So you are one less in this office than you were when I left?” “The awfullest shame!” struck in Roland. “Have you heard that Galloway lost a bank-note out of a letter, sir?” “Yes. I have heard of it from Mr. Channing.” “And they accused Arthur Channing of taking it!” exclaimed Roland. “They took him up for it; he was had up twice to the town-hall, like any felon. You may be slow to believe it, Mr. Huntley, but it’s true.” “It was Butterby, sir,” interposed Jenkins. “He was rather too officious over it, and acted without Mr. Galloway’s orders.” “Don’t talk rubbish, Jenkins,” rebuked Roland. “You have defended Galloway all through the piece, but he is as much to blame as Butterby. Why did he turn off Channing?” “You do not think him guilty, Roland, I see,” said Mr. Huntley. “I should hope I don’t,” answered Roland. “Butterby pitched upon Arthur, because there happened to be nobody else at hand to pitch upon; just as he’d have pitched upon you, Mr. Huntley, had you happened to be in the office that afternoon.” “Mr. Arthur Channing was not guilty, I am sure, sir; pray do not think him so,” resumed Jenkins, his eye lighting as he turned to Mr. Huntley. And Mr. Huntley smiled in response to the earnestness. He believe Arthur Channing guilty! He left a message for Mr. Galloway, and quitted the office. Roland, who was very difficult to settle to work again, if once disturbed from it, strided himself across his stool, and tilted it backwards. “I’m uncommonly glad Carrick’s coming!” cried he. “Do you remember him, Jenkins?” “Who, sir?” “That uncle of mine. He was at Helstonleigh three years ago.” “I am not sure that I do, sir.” “What a sieve of a memory you must have! He is as tall as a house. We are not bad fellows for height, but Carrick beats us. He is not married, you know, and we look to him to square up many a corner. To do him justice, he never says No, when he has the cash, but he’s often out at elbows himself. It was he who bought George his commission and fitted him out; and I know my lady looks to him to find the funds Gerald will want to make him into a parson. I wonder what he’ll do for me?” Jenkins was about to answer, but was stopped by his cough. For some minutes it completely exhausted him; and Roland, for want of a hearer, was fain to bring the legs of his stool down again, and apply himself lazily to his work. At this very moment, which was not much past two o’clock in the day, Bywater had Charley Channing pinned against the palings underneath the elm trees. He had him all to himself. No other boys were within hearing; though many were within sight; for they were assembling in and round the cloisters after their dinner. “Now, Miss Charley, it’s the last time I’ll ask you, as true as that we are living here! You are as obstinate as a young mule. I’ll give you this one chance, and I’ll not give you another. I’d advise you to take it, if you have any regard for your skin.” “I don’t know anything, Bywater.” “You shuffling little turncoat! I don’t know that there’s any fire in that kitchen chimney of the old dean’s, but I am morally certain that there is, because clouds of black smoke are coming out of it. And you know just as well who it was that played the trick to my surplice. I don’t ask you to blurt it out to the school, and I won’t bring your name up in it at all; I won’t act upon what you tell me. There!” “Bywater, I don’t know; and suspicion goes for nothing. Gaunt said it did not.” Bywater gave Charley a petulant shake. “I say that you know morally, Miss Channing. I protest that I heard you mention the word ‘surplice’ to Gerald Yorke, the day there was that row in the cloisters, when Roland Yorke gave Tod a thrashing and I tore the seat out of my pants. Gerald Yorke looked ready to kill you for it, too! Come, out with it. This is about the sixth time I have had you in trap, and you have only defied me.” “I don’t defy you, Bywater. I say that I will not tell. I would not if I knew. It is no business of mine.” “You little ninny! Don’t you see that your obstinacy is injuring Tom Channing? Yorke is going in for the seniorship; is sure to get it—if it’s true that Pye has given the promise to Lady Augusta. But, let it come out that he was the Jack-in-the-box, and his chance falls to the ground. And you won’t say a word to do good to your brother!” Charley shook his head. He did not take the bait. “And Tom himself would be the first to punish me for doing wrong! He never forgives a sneak. It’s of no use your keeping me, Bywater.” “Listen, youngster. I have my suspicions; I have had them all along; and I have a clue—that’s more. But, for a certain reason, I think my suspicions and my clue point to the wrong party; and I don’t care to stir in it till I am sure. One—two—three! for the last time. Will you tell me?” “No.” “Then, look you, Miss Charley Channing. If I do go and denounce the wrong party, and find out afterwards that it is the wrong one, I’ll give you as sweet a drubbing as you ever had, and your girl’s face shan’t save you. Now go.” He propelled Charley from him with a jerk, and propelled him against Mr. Huntley, who was at that moment turning the corner close to them, on his way from Mr. Galloway’s office. “You can’t go through me, Charley,” said Mr. Huntley. “Did you think I was made of glass, Bywater?” “My patience!” exclaimed Bywater. “Why, Harry was grumbling, not five minutes ago, that you were never coming home at all, Mr. Huntley.” “He was, was he? Is he here?” “Oh, he’s somewhere amongst the ruck of them,” cried Bywater, looking towards the distant boys. “He wants you to see about this bother of the seniorship. If somebody doesn’t, we shall get up a mutiny, that’s all. Here, Huntley,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “here’s an arrival from foreign parts!” Some of the nearer boys looked round, and the word was passed to Huntley. Harry Huntley and the rest soon surrounded him, and Mr. Huntley had no reason to complain of the warmth of his reception. When news had recently arrived that Mr. Huntley was coming home, the boys had taken up the hope of his interference. Of course, schoolboy-like, they all entered upon it eagerly. “Stop, stop, stop!” said Mr. Huntley. “One at a time. How can I hear, if you all talk together? Now, what’s the grievance?” They detailed it as rationally and with as little noise as it was in their nature to do. Huntley was the only senior present, but Gaunt came up during the conference. “It’s all a cram, Mr. Huntley,” cried Tod Yorke. “My brother Gerald says that Jenkins dreamt it.” “I’ll ‘dream’ you, if you don’t keep your tongue silent, Tod Yorke,” reprimanded Gaunt. “Take yourself off to a distance, Mr. Huntley,” he added, turning to that gentleman, “it is certain that Lady Augusta said it; and we can’t think she’d say it, unless Pye promised it. It is unfair upon Channing and Huntley.” A few more words given to the throng, upon general matters—for Mr. Huntley touched no more on the other topic—and then he continued his way to Lady Augusta’s. As he passed the house of the Reverend Mr. Pye, that gentleman was coming out of it. Mr. Huntley, a decisive, straightforward man, entered upon the matter at once, after some moments spent in greeting. “You will pardon my speaking of it to you personally,” he said, when he had introduced the subject, “In most cases I consider it perfectly unjustifiable for the friends of boys in a public school to interfere with the executive of its master; but this affair is different. Is it, or is it not correct, that there is an intention afloat to exalt Yorke to the seniorship?” “Mr. Huntley, you must be aware that in no case can the head-master of a public school allow himself to be interfered with, or questioned,” was the reply of the master. “I hope you will meet this amicably,” returned Mr. Huntley. “I have no other wish than to be friendly; quite so. We all deem ourselves under obligations to you, Mr. Pye, and esteem you highly; we could not have, or wish, a better preceptor for our sons. But in this instance, my duty is plain. The injustice—if any such injustice is contemplated—tells particularly upon Tom Channing and my son. Mr. Channing does not give ear to it; I would rather not; nevertheless, you must pardon me for acting, in the uncertainty, as though it had foundation. I presume you cannot be ignorant of the dissatisfied feeling that reigns in the school?” “I have intimated that I will not be questioned,” said Mr. Pye. “Quite right. I merely wished to express a hope that there may be no foundation for the rumour. If Tom Channing and Harry forfeit their rights legally, through want of merit, or ill conduct, it is not I that would urge a word in their favour. Fair play’s a jewel: and the highest boy in the school should have no better chance given him than the lowest. But if the two senior boys do not so forfeit their rights, Yorke must not be exalted above them.” “Who is to dictate to me?” demanded Mr. Pye. “Certainly not I,” replied Mr. Huntley, in a courteous but firm tone. “Were the thing to take place, I should simply demand, through the Dean and Chapter, that the charter of the school might be consulted, as to whether its tenets had teen strictly followed.” The head-master made no reply. Neither did he appear angry; only impassible. Mr. Huntley had certainly hit the right nail on the head; for the master of Helstonleigh College school was entirely under the control, of the Dean and Chapter. “I can speak to you upon this all the more freely and with better understanding, since it is not my boy who stands any chance,” said Mr. Huntley, with a cordial smile. “Tom Channing heads him on the rolls.” “Tom Channing will not be senior; I have no objection to affirm so much to you,” observed the master, falling in with Mr. Huntley’s manner, “This sad affair of his brother Arthur’s debars him.” “It ought not to debar him, even were Arthur guilty,” warmly returned Mr. Huntley. “In justice to Tom Channing himself, no. But,” and the master dropped his voice to a confidential tone, “it is necessary sometimes to study the prejudices taken up by a school; to see them, and not to appear to see them—if you understand me. Were Tom Channing made head of the school, part of the school would rise up in rebellion; some of the boys would, no doubt, be removed from it. For the peace of the school alone, it could not be done. The boys would not now obey him as senior, and there would be perpetual warfare, resulting we know not in what.” “Arthur Channing was not guilty. I feel as sure of it as I do of my own life.” “He is looked upon as guilty by those who must know best, from their familiarity with the details,” rejoined Mr. Pye, “For my own part, I have no resource but to believe him so, I regard it as one of those anomalies which you cannot understand, or would believe in, but that it happens under your own eye; where the moment’s yielding to temptation is at variance with the general character, with the whole past life. Of course, in these cases, the disgrace is reflected upon relatives and connections, and they have to suffer for it. I cannot help the school’s resenting it upon Tom.” “It will be cruel to deprive Tom of the seniorship upon these grounds,” remonstrated Mr. Huntley. “To himself individually,” assented the master. “But it is well that one, promoted to a foundation-school’s seniorship, should be free from moral taint. Were there no feeling whatever against Tom Channing in the school, I do not think I could, consistently with my duty and with a due regard to the fitness of things, place him as senior. I am sorry for the boy; I always liked him; and he has been of good report, both as to scholarship and conduct.” “I know one thing,” said Mr. Huntley: “that you may search the school through, and not find so good a senior as Tom Channing would make.” “He would have made a very good one, there’s no doubt. Would have ruled the boys well and firmly, though without oppression. Yes, we lose a good senior in Tom Channing.” There was no more to be said. Mr. Huntley felt that the master was thoroughly decided; and for the other matter, touching Yorke, he had done with it until the time of appointment. As he went musing on, he began to think that Mr. Pye might be right with regard to depriving Tom of the seniorship, however unjust it might appear to Tom himself. Mr. Huntley remembered that not one of the boys, except Gaunt, had mentioned Tom Channing’s name in his recent encounter with them; they had spoken of the injustice of exalting Yorke over Harry Huntley. He had not noticed it at the time. He proceeded to Lady Augusta’s, and Constance was informed of his visit. She had three pupils at Lady Augusta’s now, for that lady had kindly insisted that Constance should bring Annabel to study with her daughters, during the absence of Mrs. Channing. Constance left them to themselves and entered the drawing-room. Pretty Constance! so fresh, so lovely, in her simple muslin dress, and her braided hair. Mr. Huntley caught her hands, and imprinted a very fatherly kiss upon her fair forehead. “That is from the absentees, Constance. I told them I should give it to you. And I bring you the bravest news, my dear. Mr. Channing was already finding benefit from his change; he was indeed. There is every hope that he will be restored.” Constance was radiant with delight. To see one who had met and stayed with her father and mother at their distant sojourn, was almost like seeing her parents themselves. “And now, my dear, I want a word with you about all those untoward trials and troubles, which appear to have come thickly during my absence,” continued Mr. Huntley. “First of all, as to yourself. What mischief-making wind has been arising between you and William Yorke?” The expression of Constance’s face changed to sadness, and her cheeks grew crimson. “My dear, you will not misunderstand me,” he resumed. “I heard of these things at Borcette, and I said that I should undertake to inquire into them in the place of your father: just as he, health permitting him, would have undertaken for me in my absence, did any trouble arise to Ellen. Is it true that you and Mr. Yorke have parted?” “Yes,” faltered Constance. “And the cause?” Constance strove to suppress her tears. “You can do nothing, Mr. Huntley; nothing whatever. Thank you all the same.” “He has made this accusation upon Arthur the plea for breaking off his engagement?” “I could not marry him with this cloud upon me,” she murmured. “It would not be right.” “Cloud upon you!” hastily ejaculated Mr. Huntley. “The accusation against Arthur was the sole cause, then, of your parting?” “Yes; the sole cause which led to it.” Mr. Huntley paused, apparently in thought. “He is presented to Hazeldon Chapel, I hear. Did his rupture with you take place after that occurrence?” “I see what you are thinking,” she impulsively cried, caring too much for Mr. Yorke not to defend him. “The chief fault of the parting was mine. I felt that it would not do to become his wife, being—being—” she hesitated much—“Arthur’s sister. I believe that he also felt it. Indeed, Mr. Huntley, there is no help for it; nothing can be done.” “Knowing what I do of William Yorke, I am sure that the pain of separation must be keen, whatever may be his pride. Constance, unless I am mistaken, it is equally keen to you.” Again rose the soft damask blush to the face of Constance. But she answered decisively. “Mr. Huntley, I pray you to allow the subject to cease. Nothing can bring about the renewal of the engagement between myself and Mr. Yorke. It is irrevocably at an end.” “Until Arthur shall be cleared, you mean?” “No,” she answered—a vision of Hamish and his guilt flashing across her—“I mean for good.” “Why does not Arthur assert his innocence to Mr. Yorke? Constance, I am sure you know, as well as I do, that he is not guilty. Has he asserted it?” She made no answer. “As I would have wished to serve you, so will I serve Arthur,” said Mr. Huntley. “I told your father and mother, Constance, that I should make it my business to investigate the charge against him; I shall leave not a stone unturned to bring his innocence to light.” The avowal terrified Constance, and she lost her self-possession. “Oh don’t! don’t!” she uttered. “You must not, indeed! you do not know the mischief it might do.” “Mischief to what?—to whom?” exclaimed Mr. Huntley. Constance buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The next moment she had raised it, and taken Mr. Huntley’s hand between hers. “You are papa’s friend! You would do us good and not harm—is it not so?” she beseechingly said. “My dear child,” he exclaimed, quite confounded by her words—her distress: “you know that I would not harm any of you for the world.” “Then pray do not seek to dive into that unhappy story,” she whispered. “It must not be too closely looked into.” And Mr. Huntley quitted Constance, as a man who walks in a dream, so utterly amazed was he. What did it all mean? As he was going through the cloisters—his nearest way to the town—Roland Yorke came flying up. With his usual want of ceremony, he passed his arm within Mr. Huntley’s. “Galloway’s come in now,” he exclaimed, “and I am off to the bank to pay in a bag of money for him. Jenkins told him you had called. Just hark at that clatter!” The clatter, alluded to by Mr. Roland, was occasioned by the tramp of the choristers on the cloister flags. They were coming up behind, full speed, on their way from the schoolroom to enter the cathedral, for the bell had begun for service. “And here comes that beautiful relative of mine,” continued Roland, as he and Mr. Huntley passed the cathedral entrance, and turned into the west quadrangle of the cloisters. “Would you credit it, Mr. Huntley, that he has turned out a sneak? He has. He was to have married Constance Channing, you know, and, for fear Arthur should have touched the note, he has declared off it. If I were Constance, I would never allow the fellow to speak to me again.” Apparently it was the course Mr. Roland himself intended to observe. As the Rev. Mr. Yorke, who was coming in to service, drew near, Roland strode on, his step haughty, his head in the air, which was all the notice he vouchsafed to take. Probably the minor canon did not care very much for Mr. Roland’s notice, one way or the other; but his eye lighted with pleasure at the sight of Mr. Huntley, and he advanced to him, his hand outstretched. But Mr. Huntley—a man given to show in his manner his likes and dislikes—would not see the hand, would not stop at all, but passed Mr. Yorke with a distant bow. That gentleman had fallen pretty deeply in his estimation, since he had heard of the rupture with Constance Channing. Mr. Yorke stood for a moment as if petrified, and then strode on his way with a step as haughty as Roland’s. Roland burst into a glow of delight. “That’s the way to serve him, Mr. Huntley! I hope he’ll get cut by every good man in Helstonleigh.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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