You may possibly be blaming Arthur Channing for meeting this trouble in so sad a spirit. Were such an accusation cast unjustly upon you, you would throw it off impatiently, and stand up for yourself and your innocence in the broad light of day. Even were you debarred, as he was, from speaking out the whole truth, you would never be cast down to that desponding depth, and thereby give a colouring to the doubt cast upon you. Are you thinking this? But you must remember that it was not for himself that Arthur was so weighed down. Had he possessed no conception as to how the note went, he would have met the charge very differently, bearing himself bravely, and flinging their suspicion to the winds. “You people cannot think me guilty,” he might have said; “my whole previous life is a refutation to the charge.” He would have held up his head and heart cheerfully; waiting, and looking for the time when elucidation should come.

No; his grief, his despondency were felt for Hamish. If Arthur Channing had cherished faith in one living being more than in another, it was in his elder brother. He loved him with a lasting love, he revered him as few revere a brother; and the shock was great. He would far rather have fallen down to guilt himself, than that Hamish should have fallen. Tom Channing had said, with reference to Arthur, that, if he were guilty, he should never believe in anything again; they might tell him that the cathedral was a myth, and not a cathedral, and he should not be surprised. This sort of feeling had come over Arthur. It had disturbed his faith in honour and goodness—it had almost disgusted him with the world. Arthur Channing is not the only one who has found his faith in fellow-men rudely shaken.

And yet, the first shock over, his mind was busy finding excuses for him. He knew that Hamish had not erred from any base self-gratification, but from love. You may be inclined to think this a contradiction, for all such promptings to crime must be base. Of course they are; but as the motives differ, so do the degrees. As surely as though the whole matter had been laid before him, felt Arthur, Hamish had been driven to it in his desperate need, to save his father’s position, and the family’s means of support. He felt that, had Hamish alone been in question, he would not have appropriated a pin that was not his, to save himself from arrest: what he had done he had done in love. Arthur gave him credit for another thing—that he had never cast a glance to the possibility of suspicion falling on Arthur; the post-office would receive credit for the loss. Nothing more tangible than that wide field, where they might hunt for the supposed thief until they were tired.

It was a miserable evening that followed the exposure; the precursor of many and many miserable evenings in days to come. Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Hamish, Constance, and Arthur sat in the usual sitting-room when the rest had retired—sat in ominous silence. Even Hamish, with his naturally sunny face and sunny temper, looked gloomy as the grave. Was he deliberating as to whether he should show that all principles of manly justice were not quite dead within him, by speaking up at last, and clearing his wrongfully accused brother? But then—his father’s post—his mother’s home? all might be forfeited. Who can tell whether this was the purport of Hamish’s thoughts as he sat there in abstraction, away from the light, his head upon his hand. He did not say.

Arthur rose; the silence was telling upon him. “May I say good night to you, father?”

“Have you nothing else to say?” asked Mr. Channing.

“In what way, sir?” asked Arthur, in a low tone.

“In the way of explanation. Will you leave me to go to my restless pillow without it? This is the first estrangement which has come between us.”

What explanation could he give? But to leave his father suffering in body and in mind, without attempt at it, was a pain hard to bear.

“Father, I am innocent,” he said. It was all he could say; and it was spoken all too quietly.

Mr. Channing gazed at him searchingly. “In the teeth of appearances?”

“Yes, sir, in the teeth of appearances.”

“Then why—if I am to believe you—have assumed the aspect of guilt, which you certainly have done?”

Arthur involuntarily glanced at Hamish; the thought of his heart was, “You know why, if no one else does;” and caught Hamish looking at him stealthily, under cover of his fingers. Apparently, Hamish was annoyed at being so caught, and started up.

“Good night, mother. I am going to bed.”

They wished him good night, and he left the room. Mr. Channing turned again to Arthur. He took his hand, and spoke with agitation. “My boy, do you know that I would almost rather have died, than live to see this guilt fall upon you?”

“Oh, father, don’t judge me harshly!” he implored. “Indeed I am innocent.”

Mr. Channing paused. “Arthur, you never, as I believe, told me a lie in your life. What is this puzzle?”

“I am not telling a lie now.”

“I am tempted to believe you. But why, then, act as if you were guilty? When those men came here to-day, you knew what they wanted; you resigned yourself, voluntarily, a prisoner. When Mr. Galloway questioned you privately of your innocence, you could not assert it.”

Neither could he now in a more open way than he was doing.

“Can you look me in the face and tell me, in all honour, that you know nothing of the loss of the note?”

“All I can say, sir, is, that I did not take it or touch it.”

“Nay, but you are equivocating!” exclaimed Mr. Channing.

Arthur felt that he was, in some measure, and did not gainsay it.

“Are you aware that to-morrow you may be committed for trial on the charge?”

“I know it,” replied Arthur. “Unless—unless—” he stopped in agitation. “Unless you will interest yourself with Galloway, and induce him to withdraw proceedings. Your friendship with him has been close and long, sir, and I think he would do it for you.”

“Would you ask this if you were innocent?” said Mr. Channing. “Arthur, it is not the punishment you ought to dread, but the consciousness of meriting it.”

“And of that I am not conscious,” he answered, emphatically, in his bitterness. “Father! I would lay down my life to shield you from care! think of me as favourably as you can.”

“You will not make me your full confidant?”

“I wish I could! I wish I could!”

He wrung his father’s hand, and turned to his mother, halting before her. Would she give him her good-night kiss?

Would she? Did a fond mother ever turn against her child? To the prison, to the scaffold, down to the very depths of obloquy and scorn, a loving mother clings to her son. All else may forsake; but she, never, be he what he will. Mrs. Channing drew his face to hers, and burst into sobs as she sheltered it on her bosom.

“You will have faith in me, my darling mother!”

The words were spoken in the softest whisper. He kissed her tenderly, and hastened from the room, not trusting himself to say good night to Constance. In the hall he was waylaid by Judith.

“Master Arthur, it isn’t true?”

“Of course it is not true, Judith. Don’t you know me better?”

“What an old oaf I am for asking, to be sure! Didn’t I nurse him, and haven’t I watched him grow up, and don’t I know my own boys yet?” she added to herself, but speaking aloud.

“To be sure you have, Judy.”

“But, Master Arthur, why is the master casting blame to you? And when them insolent police came strutting here to-day, as large as life, in their ugly blue coats and shiny hats, why didn’t you hold the door wide, and show ‘em out again? I’d never have demeaned myself to go with ‘em politely.”

“They wanted me at the town-hall, you know, Judith. I suppose you have heard it all?”

“Then, want should have been their master, for me,” retorted Judith. “I’d never have gone, unless they had got a cord and drawn me. I shouldn’t wonder but they fingered the money themselves.”

Arthur made his escape, and went up to his room. He was scarcely within it when Hamish left his chamber and came in. Arthur’s heart beat quicker. Was he coming to make a clean breast of it? Not he!

“Arthur,” Hamish began, speaking in a kindly, but an estranged tone—or else Arthur fancied it—“can I serve you in any way in this business?”

“Of course you cannot,” replied Arthur: and he felt vexed with himself that his tone should savour of peevishness.

“I am sorry for it, as you may readily believe, old fellow,” resumed Hamish. “When I entered the court to-day, you might have knocked me down with a feather.”

“Ay, I should suppose so,” said Arthur. “You did not expect the charge would be brought upon me.”

“I neither expected it nor believed it when I was told. I inquired of Parkes, the beadle, what unusual thing was going on, seeing so many people about the doors, and he answered that you were under examination. I laughed at him, thinking he was joking.”

Arthur made no reply.

“What can I do for you?” repeated Hamish.

“You can leave me to myself, Hamish. That’s about the kindest thing you can do for me to-night.”

Hamish did not take the hint immediately. “We must have the accusation quashed at all hazards,” he went on. “But my father thinks Galloway will withdraw it. Yorke says he’ll not leave a stone unturned to make Helstonleigh believe the money was lost in the post-office.”

“Yorke believes so himself,” reproachfully rejoined Arthur.

“I think most people do, with the exception of Butterby. Confounded old meddler! There would have been no outcry at all, but for him.”

A pause. Arthur did not seem inclined to break it. Hamish had caught up a bit of whalebone, which happened to be lying on the drawers, and was twisting it about in his fingers, glancing at Arthur from time to time. Arthur leaned against the chimneypiece, his hands in his pockets, and, in like manner, glanced at him. Not the slightest doubt in the world that each was wishing to speak out more freely. But some inward feeling restrained them. Hamish broke the silence.

“Then you have nothing to say to me, Arthur?”

“Not to-night.”

Arthur thought the “saying” should have been on the other side. He had cherished some faint hope that Hamish would at least acknowledge the trouble he had brought upon him. “I could not help it, Arthur; I was driven to my wit’s end; but I never thought the reproach would fall upon you,” or words to that effect. No: nothing of the sort.

Constance was ascending the stairs as Hamish withdrew. “Can I come in, Arthur?” she asked.

For answer, he opened the door and drew her inside. “Has Hamish spoken of it?” she whispered.

“Not a word—as to his own share in it. He asked, in a general way, if he could serve me. Constance,” he feverishly added, “they do not suspect downstairs, do they?”

“Suspect what?”

“That it was Hamish.”

“Of course they do not. They suspect you. At least, papa does. He cannot make it out; he never was so puzzled in all his life. He says you must either have taken the money, or connived at its being taken: to believe otherwise, would render your manner perfectly inexplicable. Oh, Arthur, he is so grieving! He says other troubles have arisen without fault on our part; but this, the greatest, has been brought by guilt.”

“There is no help for it,” wailed Arthur. “I could only clear myself at the expense of Hamish, and it would be worse for them to grieve for him than for me. Bright, sunny Hamish! whom my mother has, I believe in her heart, loved the best of all of us. Thank you, Constance, for keeping my counsel.”

“How unselfish you are, Arthur!”

“Unselfish! I don’t see it as a merit. It is my simple duty to be so in this case. If I, by a rash word, directed suspicion to Hamish, and our home in consequence got broken up, who would be the selfish one then?”

“There’s the consideration which frightens and fetters us. Papa must have been thinking of that when he thanked God that the trouble had not fallen upon Hamish.”

“Did he do that?” asked Arthur, eagerly.

“Yes, just now. ‘Thank God that the cloud did not fall upon Hamish!’ he exclaimed. ‘It had been far worse for us then.’”

Arthur listened. Had he wanted anything to confirm him in the sacrifice he was making, those words of his father’s would have done it. Mr. Channing had no greater regard for one son than for the other; but he knew, as well as his children, how much depended upon Hamish.

The tears were welling up into the eyes of Constance. “I wish I could speak comfort to you!” she whispered.

“Comfort will come with time, I dare say, darling. Don’t stay. I seem quite fagged out to-night, and would be alone.”

Ay, alone. Alone with his grief and with God.

To bed at last, but not to sleep; not for hours and for hours. His anxiety of mind was intense, chiefly for Hamish; though he endured some on his own score. To be pointed at as a thief in the town, stung him to the quick, even in anticipation; and there was also the uncertainty as to the morrow’s proceedings; for all he knew, they might end in the prosecution being carried on, and his committal for trial. Towards morning he dropped into a heavy slumber; and, to awake from that, was the worst of all; for his trouble came pressing upon his brain with tenfold poignancy.

He rose and dressed, in some perplexity—perplexity as to the immediate present. Ought he, or ought he not, to go as usual to Mr. Galloway’s? He really could not tell. If Mr. Galloway believed him guilty—and there was little doubt of that, now—of course he could no longer be tolerated in the office. On the other hand, to stop away voluntarily, might look like an admission of guilt.

He determined to go, and did so. It was the early morning hour, when he had the office to himself. He got through his work—the copying of a somewhat elaborate will—and returned home to breakfast. He found Mr. Channing had risen, which was not usual. Like Arthur, his night had been an anxious one, and the bustle of the breakfast-room was more tolerable than bed. I wonder what Hamish’s had been! The meal passed in uncomfortable silence.

A tremendous peal at the hall bell startled the house, echoing through the Boundaries, astonishing the rooks, and sending them on the wing. On state occasions it pleased Judith to answer the door herself; her helpmate, over whom she held undisputed sway, ruling her with a tight hand, dared not come forward to attempt it. The bell tinkled still, and Judy, believing it could be no one less than the bishop come to alarm them with a matutinal visit, hurried on a clean white apron, and stepped across the hall.

Mr. Roland Yorke. No one more formidable. He passed Judith with an unceremonious nod, and marched into the breakfast-room.

“Good morning all! I say, old chap, are you ready to come to the office? It’s good to see you down at this early hour, Mr. Channing.”

He was invited to take a seat, but declined; it was time they were at Galloway’s, he said. Arthur hesitated.

“I do not know whether Mr. Galloway will expect me,” he observed.

“Not expect you!” flashed Roland, lapsing into his loud, excited manner. “I can tell you what, Arthur: if he doesn’t expect you, he shan’t expect me. Mr. Channing, did you ever know anything so shamefully overbearing and unjust as that affair yesterday?”

“Unjust, if it be unfounded,” replied Mr. Channing.

“Unfounded!” uttered Roland. “If that’s not unfounded, there never was an unfounded charge brought yet. I’d answer for Arthur with my own life. I should like to sew up that Butterby! I hope, sir, you’ll bring an action against him.”

“You feel it strongly, Roland.”

“I should hope I do! Look you, Mr. Channing: it is a slur on our office; on me, and on Jenkins, and on Galloway himself. Yes, on Galloway. I say what I mean, and nobody shall talk me down. I’d rather believe it was Galloway did it than Arthur. I shall tell him so.”

“This sympathy shows very kind feeling on your part, Ro—”

“I declare I shall go mad if I hear that again!” interrupted Roland, turning red with passion. “It makes me wild. Everybody’s on with it. ‘You—are—very—kind—to—take—up—Arthur Channing’s—cause!’ they mince out. Incorrigible idiots! Kind! Why, Mr. Channing, if that cat of yours there, were to be accused of swallowing down a mutton chop, and you felt morally certain that she did not do it, wouldn’t you stand up for her against punishment?”

Mr. Channing could not forbear a smile at Roland and his hot championship. “To be ‘morally certain’ may do when cats are in question, Mr. Roland; but the law, unfortunately, requires something more for us, the superior animal. No father living has had more cause to put faith in his children than I. The unfortunate point in this business is, that the loss appears to have occurred so mysteriously, when the letter was in Arthur’s charge.”

“Yes, if it had occurred that way; but who believes it did, except a few pates with shallow brains?” retorted Roland. “The note is burning a hole in the pocket of some poor, ill-paid wight of a letter-carrier; that’s where the note is. I beg your pardon, Mr. Channing, but it’s of no use to interrupt me with arguments about old Galloway’s seal. They go in at one ear and out at the other. What more easy than to put a penknife under the seal, and unfasten it?”

“You cannot do this where gum is used as well: as it was to that letter.”

“Who cares for the gum!” retorted Mr. Roland. “I don’t pretend to say, sir, how it was accomplished, but I know it must have been done somehow. Watch a conjuror at his tricks! You can’t tell how he gets a shilling out of a box which you yourself put in—all you know is, he does get it out; or how he exhibits some receptacle, crammed full, which you could have sworn was empty. Just so with the letter. The bank-note did get out of it, but we can’t tell how, except that it was not through Arthur. Come along, old fellow, or Galloway may be blowing us up for arriving late.”

Twitching Tom’s hair as he passed him, treading on the cat’s tail, and tossing a branch of sweetbriar full of thorns at Annabel, Mr. Roland Yorke made his way out in a commotion. Arthur, yielding to the strong will, followed. Roland passed his arm within his, and they went towards Close Street.

“I say, old chum, I haven’t had a wink of sleep all night, worrying over this bother. My room is over Lady Augusta’s, and she sent up this morning to know what I was pacing about for, like a troubled ghost. I woke at four o’clock, and I could not get to sleep after; so I just stamped about a bit, to stamp the time away.”

In a happier mood, Arthur might have laughed at his Irish talk, “I am glad you stand by me, at any rate, Yorke. I never did it, you know. Here comes Williams. I wonder in what light he will take up the affair? Perhaps he will turn me from my post at the organ.”

“He had better!” flashed Roland. “I’d turn him!”

Mr. Williams appeared to “take up the affair” in a resentful, haughty sort of spirit, something like Roland, only that he was quieter over it. He threw ridicule upon the charge. “I am astonished at Galloway!” he observed, when he had spoken with them some moments. “Should he go on with the case, the town will cry shame upon him.”

“Ah, but you see it was that meddling Butterby, not Galloway,” returned Yorke. “As if Galloway did not know us chaps in his office better than to suspect us!”

“I fancy Butterby is fonder of meddling than he need be,” said the organist. “A certain person in the town, living not a hundred miles from this very spot, was suspected of having made free with a ring, which disappeared from a dressing-table, where she was paying an evening visit; and I declare if Butterby did not put his nose into it, and worm out all the particulars!”

“That she had not taken it?”

“That she had. But it produced great annoyance; all parties concerned, even those who had lost the ring, would rather have buried it in silence. It was hushed up afterwards. Butterby ought to understand people’s wishes, before he sets to work.”

“I wish press-gangs were in fashion!” emphatically uttered Roland. “What a nice prize he’d make!”

“I suppose I can depend upon you to take the duty at College this morning?” Mr. Williams said to Arthur, as he was leaving them.

“Yes, I shall be out in time for the examination at the Guildhall. The hour fixed is half-past eleven.”

“Old villains the magistrates must have been, to remand it at all!” was the concluding comment of Mr. Roland Yorke.