Minds are differently constituted: as was exemplified in the case under our immediate notice. While one of Mr. Galloway’s first thoughts, on the receipt of Roland Yorke’s letter, was to rush round to Lady Augusta’s with the news, half in anger, half in a reproachful humour, Arthur Channing was deliberating how they could contrive to keep it from her. The one was actuated by an angry, the other by a generous spirit.

Mr. Galloway at length concluded his long-delayed dinner that evening. Then he put on his hat, and, with Roland’s letter safe in his pocket, went out again to call on Lady Augusta. It happened, however, that Lady Augusta was not at home.

She had gone to dine at Colonel Joliffe’s, a family who lived some distance from Helstonleigh—necessitating an early departure from home, if she would be in time for their six o’clock dinner-hour. It had thus occurred that when the afternoon’s post arrived, Lady Augusta was in the bustle and hurry of dressing; and Lady Augusta was one of those who are, and must be, in a bustle, even if they are only going to a friendly dinner-party.

Martha was busily assisting, and the cook brought up two letters. “Both for my lady,” she said, giving them to Martha.

“I have no time for letters now,” called out my lady. “Put them into my drawer, Martha.”

Martha did as she was bid, and Lady Augusta departed. She returned home pretty late, and the letters remained in their receptacle untouched.

Of course, to retire to rest late, necessitated, with Lady Augusta Yorke, rising late the next morning. About eleven o’clock she came down to breakfast. A letter on the breakfast-table brought to her remembrance the letters of the previous night, and she sent Martha for them. Looking at their addresses, she perceived one of them to be from Roland; the other from Lord Carrick: and she laid them by her to be opened presently.

“Mr. Galloway called last night, my lady,” observed Martha.

“Oh, did he?” said Lady Augusta.

“He said he wanted to see your ladyship particularly. But I said you were gone to Colonel Joliffe’s.”

Barely had Lady Augusta tasted her coffee, the letters still lying unopened at her side, when William Yorke entered, having just left the cathedral.

“This is a terrible blow, Lady Augusta,” he observed, as he sat down.

“What’s a blow?” returned Lady Augusta. “Will you take some coffee, William?”

“Have you not heard of it?” he replied, declining the coffee with a gesture. “I thought it probable that you would have received news from Roland.”

“A letter arrived from Roland last night,” she said, touching the letter in question. “What is the matter? Is there bad news in it? What! have you heard anything?”

Mr. Yorke had not the slightest doubt that the letter before him must contain the same confession which had been conveyed to Arthur and to Mr. Galloway. He thought it better that she should hear it from him, than read it unprepared. He bent towards her, and spoke in a low tone of compassion.

“I fear that the letter does contain bad news; very bad news, indeed. Ro—”

“Good heavens! what has happened to him?” she interrupted, falling into excitement, just as Roland himself might have done. “Is he ill? Has he got hurt? Is he killed?”

“Now, pray calm yourself, Lady Augusta. Roland is well in health, and has sailed for Port Natal, under what he considers favourable auspices. He—”

“Then why in the world do you come terrifying me out of my wits with your tales, William Yorke?” she broke forth. “I declare you are no better than a child!”

“Nay, Lady Augusta, you terrified yourself, jumping to conclusions. Though Roland is safe and sound, there is still some very disagreeable news to be told concerning him. He has been making a confession of bad behaviour.”

“Oh,” cried Lady Augusta, in a tone which seemed to say, “Is that all?” as if bad behaviour and Roland might have some affinity for each other. William Yorke bent his head nearer, and dropped his voice lower.

“In that mysterious affair of the bank-note, when Arthur Channing was accused—”

“Well? well?” she hastily repeated—for he had made a slight pause—and a tone of dread, as a shadow of evil, might be detected in her accents.

“It was Roland who took the note.”

Lady Augusta jumped up. She would not receive it. “It is not true; it cannot be true!” she reiterated. “How dare you so asperse him, William Yorke? Thoughtless as Roland is, he would not be guilty of dishonour.”

“He has written full particulars both to Arthur Channing and to Mr. Galloway,” said Mr. Yorke, calmly. “I have no doubt that that letter to you also relates to it. He confesses that to clear Arthur was a great motive in taking him from Helstonleigh.”

Lady Augusta seized the letter and tore it open. She was too agitated to read calmly, but she saw enough to convince her that Roland, and no other, had appropriated the money. This must have been the matter he had obscurely hinted at in one of his last conversations with her. The letter was concluded very much after Roland’s own fashion.

“Now, mother, if you care that anything in the shape of honour should ever shine round me again, you’ll go off straight to the college school, and set Tom Channing right with it and with the masters. And if you don’t, and I get drowned on my voyage, I’ll not say but my ghost will come again and haunt every one who has had to do with the injustice.”

Ghosts were not agreeable topics to Lady Augusta, and she gave a shriek at the bare thought. But that was as nothing, compared with her anger. Honourable in the main—hot, hasty, impulsive, losing all judgment, all self-control when these fits of excitement came upon her—it is more than probable that her own course would have been to fly to the college school, unprompted by Roland. A sense of justice was strong within her; and in setting Tom right, she would not spare Roland, her own son though he was.

Before William Yorke knew what she was about, she had flown upstairs, and was down again with her things on. Before he could catch her up, she was across the Boundaries, entering the cloisters, and knocking at the door of the college school.

There she broke in upon that interesting investigation, touching the inked surplice.

Bywater, who seemed to think she had arrived for the sole purpose of setting at rest the question of the phial’s ownership, and not being troubled with any superfluous ideas of circumlocution, eagerly held out the pieces to her when she was yards from his desk. “Do you know this, Lady Augusta? Isn’t it Gerald’s?”

“Yes, it is Gerald’s,” replied she. “He took it out of my desk one day in the summer, though I told him not, and I never could get it back again. Have you been denying that it was yours?” she sternly added to Gerald. “Bad luck to you, then, for a false boy. You are going to take a leaf out of your brother Roland’s pattern, are you? Haven’t I had enough of you bad boys on my hands, but there must something fresh come up about one or the other of you every day that the sun rises? Mr. Pye, I have come by Roland’s wish, and by my own, to set the young Channings right with the school. You took the seniorship from Tom, believing that it was his brother Arthur who robbed Mr. Galloway. Not but that I thought some one else would have had that seniorship, you know!”

In Lady Augusta’s present mood, had any one of her sons committed a murder, she must have proclaimed it, though it had been to condemn him to punishment. She had not come to shield Roland; and she did not care, in her anger, how bad she made him out to be; or whether she did it in Irish or English. The head-master could only look at her with astonishment. He also believed her visit must have reference to the matter in hand.

“It is true, Lady Augusta. But for the suspicion cast upon his brother, Channing would not have lost the seniorship,” said the master, ignoring the hint touching himself.

“And all of ye”—turning round to face the wondering school—“have been ready to fling ye’re stones at Tom Channing, like the badly brought up boys that ye are. I have heard of it. And my two, Gerald and Tod, the worst of ye at the game. You may look, Mr. Tod, but I’ll be after giving ye a jacketing for ye’re pains. Let me tell ye all, that it was not Tom Channing’s brother took the bank-note; it was their brother—Gerald’s and Tod’s! It was my ill-doing boy, Roland, who took it.”

No one knew where to look. Some looked at her ladyship; some at the head-master; some at the Reverend William Yorke, who stood pale and haughty; some at Gerald and Tod; some at Tom Channing. Tom did not appear to regard it as news: he seemed to have known it before: the excessive astonishment painted upon every other face was absent from his. But, half the school did not understand Lady Augusta. None understood her fully.

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” said the head-master. “I do not comprehend what it is that you are talking about.”

“Not comprehend!” repeated her ladyship. “Don’t I speak plainly? My unhappy son Roland has confessed that it was he who stole the bank-note that so much fuss has been made about, and that Arthur Channing was taken up for. You two may look and frown”—nodding to Gerald and Tod—“but it was your own brother who was the thief; Arthur Channing was innocent. I’m sure I shan’t look a Channing in the face for months to come! Tell them about it in a straightforward way, William Yorke.”

Mr. Yorke, thus called upon, stated, in a few concise words, the facts to the master. His tone was low, but the boys caught the sense, that Arthur was really innocent, and that poor Tom had been degraded for nothing. The master beckoned Tom forward.

“Did you know of this, Channing?”

“Yes, sir; since the letter came to my brother Arthur last night.”

Lady Augusta rushed up impulsively to Tom. She seized his hands, and shook them heartily. Tom never afterwards was sure that she didn’t kiss him. “You’ll live to be an honour to your parents yet, Tom,” she said, “when my boys are breaking my heart with wilfulness.”

Tom’s face flushed with pleasure; not so much at the words as at the yearning, repentant faces cast at him from all parts of the room. There was no mistaking that they were eager to offer reparation. Tom Channing innocent all this time! How should they make it up to him? He turned to resume his seat, but Huntley slipped out of the place he occupied as the head of the school, and would have pushed Tom into it. There was some slight commotion, and the master lifted his spectacles.

“Silence, there! Huntley, what are you about? Keep your seat.”

“No, sir,” said Huntley, advancing a step forward. “I beg your pardon, sir, but the place is no longer mine. I never have considered it mine legally, and I will, with your permission, resign it to its rightful owner. The place is Channing’s; I have only occupied it for him.”

He quietly pushed Tom into it as he spoke, and the school, finding their voices, and ignoring the presence of the master and of Lady Augusta, sprang from their desks at one bound and seized upon Tom, wishing him luck, asking him to be a good old fellow and forgive them. “Long live Tom Channing, the senior of Helstonleigh school!” shouted bold Bywater; and the boys, thus encouraged, took up the shout, and the old walls echoed it. “Long live Tom Channing, the senior of Helstonleigh school!”

Before the noise had died away, Lady Augusta was gone, and another had been added to the company, in the person of Mr. Huntley. “Oh,” he said, taking in a rapid glance of affairs: “I see it is all right. Knowing how thoughtless Harry is, I feared he might not recollect to do an act of justice. That he would be the first to do it if he remembered, I knew.”

“As if I should forget that, sir!” responded Mr. Harry. “Why, I could no more live, with Channing under me now, than I could let any one of the others be above me. And I am not sorry,” added the young gentleman, sotto voce. “If the seniorship is a great honour, it is also a great bother. Here, Channing, take the keys.”

He flung them across the desk as he spoke; he was proceeding to fling the roll also, and two or three other sundries which belong to the charge of the senior boy, but was stopped by the head-master.

“Softly, Huntley! I don’t know that I can allow this wholesale changing of places and functions.”

“Oh yes, you can, sir,” said Harry, with a bright look. “If I committed any unworthy act, I should be degraded from the seniorship, and another appointed. The same thing can be done now, without the degradation.”

“He deserves a recompense,” said Mr. Huntley to the master. “But this will be no recompense; it is Channing’s due. He will make you a better senior than Harry, Mr. Pye. And now,” added Mr. Huntley, improving upon the whole, “there will be no necessity to separate the seniorship from the Oxford exhibition.”

It was rather a free and easy mode of dealing with the master’s privileges, and Mr. Pye relaxed into a smile. In good truth, his sense of justice had been inwardly burning since the communication made by Lady Augusta. Tom, putting aside a little outburst or two of passion, had behaved admirably throughout the whole season of opprobrium; there was no denying it. And Mr. Pye felt that he had done so.

“Will you do your duty as senior, Channing?” unnecessarily asked the master.

“I will try, sir.”

“Take your place, then.”

Mr. Huntley was the first to shake his hand when he was in it. “I told you to bear up bravely, my boy! I told you better days might be in store. Continue to do your duty in single-hearted honesty, under God, as I truly believe you are ever seeking to do it, and you may well leave things in His hands. God bless you, Tom!”

Tom was a little overcome. But Mr. Bywater made a divertisement. He seized the roll, with which it was no business of his to meddle, and carried it to Mr. Pye. “The names have to be altered, sir.” In return for which Mr. Pye sternly motioned him to his seat, and Bywater favoured the school with a few winks as he lazily obeyed.

“Who could possibly have suspected Roland Yorke!” exclaimed the master, talking in an undertone with Mr. Huntley.

“Nay, if we are to compare merits, he was a far more likely subject for suspicion than Arthur,” was Mr. Huntley’s reply.

“He was, taking them comparatively. What I meant to imply was, that one could not have suspected that Roland, knowing himself guilty, would suffer another to lie under the stigma. Roland has his good points—if that may be said of one who helps himself to bank-notes,” concluded the master.

“Ay, he is not all bad. Witness sending back the money to Galloway; witness his persistent championship of Arthur; and going away partly to clear him, as he no doubt has done! I was as sure from the first that Arthur Channing was not guilty, as that the sun shines in the heavens.”

“Did you suspect Roland?”

“No. I had a peculiar theory of my own upon the matter,” said Mr. Huntley, smiling, and apparently examining closely the grain of the master’s desk. “A theory, however, which has proved to be worthless; as so many theories which obtain favour in this world often are. But I will no longer detain you, Mr. Pye. You must have had enough hindrance from your legitimate business for one morning.”

“The hindrance is not at an end yet,” was the master’s reply, as he shook hands with Mr. Huntley. “I cannot think what has possessed the school lately: we are always having some unpleasant business or other to upset it.”

Mr. Huntley went out, nodding cordially to Tom as he passed his desk; and the master turned his eyes and his attention on Gerald Yorke.

Lady Augusta had hastened from the college school as impetuously as she had entered it. Her errand now was to the Channings. She was eager to show them her grieved astonishment, her vexation—to make herself the amende for Roland, so far as she could do so. She found both Mr. and Mrs. Channing at home. The former had purposed being in Guild Street early that morning; but so many visitors had flocked in to offer their congratulations that he had hitherto been unable to get away. Constance also was at home. Lady Augusta had insisted upon it that she should not come to the children on that, the first day after her father and mother’s return. They were alone when Lady Augusta entered.

Lady Augusta’s first movement was to fling herself into a chair and burst into tears. “What am I to say to you?” she exclaimed. “What apology can I urge for my unhappy boy?”

“Nay, dear Lady Augusta, do not let it thus distress you,” said Mr. Channing. “You are no more to be held responsible for what Roland has done, than we were for Arthur, when he was thought guilty.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she sobbed. “Perhaps, if I had been more strict with him always, he would never have done it. I wish I had made a point of giving them a whipping every night, all round, from the time they were two years old!” she continued, emphatically. “Would that have made my children turn out better, do you think?”

Mrs. Channing could not forbear a smile. “It is not exactly strictness that answers with children, Lady Augusta.”

“Goodness me! I don’t know what does answer with them, then! I have been indulgent enough to mine, as every one else knows; and see how they are turning out! Roland to go and take a bank-note! And, as if that were not bad enough, to let the odium rest upon Arthur! You will never forgive him! I am certain that you never can or will forgive him! And you and all the town will visit it upon me!”

When Lady Augusta fell into this tearful humour of complaint, it was better to let it run its course; as Mr. and Mrs. Channing knew by past experience. They both soothed her; telling her that no irreparable wrong had been done to Arthur; nothing but what would be now made right.

“It all turns contrary together!” exclaimed my lady, drying up her tears over the first grievance, and beginning upon another. “I suppose, Constance, you and William Yorke will be making it up now.”

Constance’s self-conscious smile, and her drooping eyelids might have told, without words, that that was already done.

“And the next thing, of course, will be your getting married!” continued Lady Augusta. “When is it to be? I suppose you have been settling the time.”

The question was a direct and pointed one, and Lady Augusta waited for an answer. Mrs. Channing came to the relief of Constance.

“It would have been very soon indeed, Lady Augusta, but for this dreadful uncertainty about Charles. In any case, it will not be delayed beyond early spring.”

“Oh, to be sure! I knew that! Everything goes contrary and cross for me! What am I to do for a governess? I might pay a thousand a year and not find another like Constance. They are beginning to improve under you: they are growing more dutiful girls to me; and now it will all be undone again, and they’ll just be ruined!”

Constance looked up with her pretty timid blush. “William and I have been thinking, Lady Augusta, that, if you approved of it, they had better come for a few months to Hazledon House. I should then have them constantly under my own eye, and I think I could effect some good. We used to speak of this in the summer; and last night we spoke of it again.”

Lady Augusta flew into an ecstasy as great as her late grief had been. “Oh, it would be delightful!” she exclaimed. “Such a relief to me! and I know it would be the making of them. I shall thank you and William for ever, Constance; and I don’t care what I pay you. I’d go without shoes to pay you liberally.”

Constance laughed. “As to payment,” she said, “I shall have nothing to do with that, on my own score, when once I am at Hazledon. Those things will lie in William’s department, not in mine. I question if he will allow you to pay him anything, Lady Augusta. We did not think of it in that light, but in the hope that it might benefit Caroline and Fanny.”

Lady Augusta turned impulsively to Mrs. Channing. “What good children God has given you!”

Tears rushed into Mrs. Channing’s eyes; she felt the remark in all its grateful truth. She was spared a reply; she did not like to contrast them with Lady Augusta’s, ever so tacitly, and say they were indeed good; for Sarah entered, and said another visitor was waiting in the drawing-room.

As Mr. Channing withdrew, Lady Augusta rose to depart. She took Mrs. Channing’s hand. “How dreadful for you to come home and find one of your children gone!” she uttered. “How can you bear it and be calm!”

Emotion rose then, and Mrs. Channing battled to keep it down. “The same God who gave me my children, has taught me how to bear,” she presently said. “For the moment, yesterday, I really was overwhelmed; but it passed away after a few hours’ struggle. When I left home, I humbly committed my child to God’s good care, in perfect trust; and I feel, that whether dead or alive, that care is still over him.”

“I wish to goodness one could learn to feel as you do!” uttered Lady Augusta. “Troubles don’t seem to touch you and Mr. Channing; you rise superior to them: but they turn me inside out. And now I must go! And I wish Roland had never been born before he had behaved so! You must try to forgive him, Mrs. Channing: you must promise to try and welcome him, should he ever come back again!”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Channing answered, with a bright smile. “The one will be as easy as the other has been. He is already forgiven, Lady Augusta.”

“I have done what I could in it. I have been to the college school, and told them all, and Tom is put into his place as senior. It’s true, indeed! and I hope every boy will be flogged for putting upon him; Gerald and Tod amongst the rest. And now, good-bye.”

Sarah was holding the street door open for Lady Augusta. Lady Augusta, who generally gave a word of gossip to every one, even as Roland, had her head turned towards the girl as she passed out of it, and thereby nearly fell over a boy who at the moment was seeking to enter, being led by a woman, as if he had no strength to walk alone. A tall, thin, white-faced boy, with great eyes and little hair, and a red handkerchief tied over his head, to hide the deficiency; but a beautiful boy in spite of all, for he bore a strange resemblance to Charles Channing.

Was it Charles? Or was it his shadow? My lady turned again to the hall, startling the house with her cries, that Charley’s ghost had come, and bringing forth its inmates in consternation.