“A pretty time o’ day this is to deliver the letters. It’s eleven o’clock!”

“I can’t help it. The train broke down, and was three hours behind its time.”

“I dare say! You letter-men want looking up: that’s what it is. Coming to folks’s houses at eleven o’clock, when they have been waiting and looking ever since breakfast-time!”

“It’s not my fault, I say. Take the letter.”

Judith received it with a grunt, for it was between her and the postman that the colloquy had taken place. A delay had occurred that morning in the delivery, and Judith was resenting it, feeling half inclined to reject the letter, now that it had come. The letters from Germany arrived irregularly; sometimes by the afternoon post at four, sometimes by the morning; the only two deliveries in Helstonleigh. A letter had been fully expected this morning, and when the time passed over, they supposed there was none.

It was directed to Miss Channing. Judith, who was quite as anxious about her master’s health as the children were, went off at once with it to Lady Augusta Yorke’s, just as she was, without the ceremony of putting on a bonnet. Though she did wear a mob-cap and a check apron, she looked what she was—a respectable servant in a respectable family; and the Boundaries so regarded her, as she passed through them, letter in hand. Martha, Lady Augusta’s housemaid, answered the door, presenting a contrast to Judith. Martha wore a crinoline as big as her lady’s, and a starched-out muslin gown over it, with flounces and frillings, for Martha was “dressed” for the day. Her arms, red and large, were displayed beneath her open sleeves, and something that looked like a bit of twisted lace was stuck on the back of her head. Martha called it a “cap.” Judith was a plain servant, and Martha was a fashionable one; but I know which looked the better of the two.

Judith would not give in the letter. She asked for the young mistress, and Constance came to her in the hall. “Just open it, please, Miss Constance, and tell me how he is,” said she anxiously; and Constance broke the seal of the letter.

“My Dear Child,—Still better and better! The improvement, which I told you in my last week’s letter had begun to take place so rapidly as to make us fear it was only a deceitful one, turns out to have been real. Will you believe it, when I tell you that your papa can walk! With the help of my arm, he can walk across the room and along the passage; and to-morrow he is going to try to get down the first flight of stairs. None but God can know how thankful I am; not even my children. If this change has taken place in the first month (and it is not yet quite that), what may we not expect in the next—and the next? Your papa is writing to Hamish, and will confirm what I say.”

This much Constance read aloud. Judith gave a glad laugh. “It’s just as everybody told the master,” said she. “A fine, strong, handsome man, like him, wasn’t likely to be laid down for life like a baby, when he was hardly middle-aged. These doctors here be just so many muffs. When I get too old for work, I’ll go to Germany myself, Miss Constance, and ask ‘em to make me young again.”

Constance smiled. She was running her eyes over the rest of the letter, which was a long one. She caught sight of Arthur’s name. There were some loving, gentle messages to him, and then these words: “Hamish says Arthur applied at Dove and Dove’s for a clerk’s place, but did not come to terms with them. We are glad that he did not. Papa says he should not like to have one of his boys at Dove and Dove’s.”

“And here’s a little bit for you, Judith,” Constance said aloud. “Tell Judith not to be over-anxious in her place of trust; and not to over-work herself, but to let Sarah take her full share. There is no hurry about the bed-furniture; Sarah can do it in an evening at her leisure.”

Judith received the latter portion of the message with scorn. “‘Tisn’t me that’s going to let her do it! A fine do it would be, Miss Constance! The first thing I shall see, when I go back now, will be her head stretched out at one of the windows, and the kidney beans left to string and cut themselves in the kitchen!”

Judith turned to depart. She never would allow any virtues to her helpmate Sarah, who gave about the same trouble to her that young servants of twenty generally give to old ones. Constance followed her to the door, saying something which had suddenly occurred to her mind about domestic affairs, when who should she meet, coming in, but the Rev. William Yorke! He had just left the Cathedral after morning prayers, and was calling at Lady Augusta’s.

Both were confused; both stopped, face to face, in hesitation. Constance grew crimson; Mr. Yorke pale. It was the first time they had met since the parting. There was an angry feeling against Constance in the mind of Mr. Yorke; he considered that she had not treated him with proper confidence; and in his proud nature—the Yorke blood was his—he was content to resent it. He did not expect to lose Constance eventually; he thought that the present storm would blow over some time, and that things would come right again. We are all too much given to trust to that vague “some time.” In Constance’s mind there existed a soreness against Mr. Yorke. He had doubted her; he had accepted (if he had not provoked) too readily her resignation of him. Unlike him, she saw no prospect of the future setting matters right. Marry him, whilst the cloud lay upon Arthur, she would not, after he had intimated his opinion and sentiments: and that cloud could only be lifted at the expense of another.

They exchanged a confused greeting; neither of them conscious how it passed. Mr. Yorke’s attention was then caught by the open letter in her hand—by the envelope bearing the foreign post-marks. “How is Mr. Channing?” he asked.

“So much better that it seems little short of a miracle,” replied Constance. “Mamma says,” glancing at the letter, “that he can walk, leaning on her arm.”

“I am so glad to hear it! Hamish told me last week that he was improving. I trust it may go on to a cure.”

“Thank you,” replied Constance. And she made him a pretty little state curtsey as she turned away, not choosing to see the hand he would fain have offered her.

Mr. Yorke’s voice brought a head and shoulders out at the breakfast-room door. They belonged to Lord Carrick. He and Lady Augusta were positively at breakfast at that hour of the day. His lordship’s eyes followed the pretty form of Constance as she disappeared up the staircase on her return to the schoolroom. William Yorke’s were cast in the same direction. Then their eyes—the peer’s and the clergyman’s—met.

“Ye have given her up, I understand, Master William?”

“Master William” vouchsafed no reply. He deemed it a little piece of needless impertinence.

“Bad taste!” continued Lord Carrick. “If I were only twenty years younger, and she’d not turn up her nose at me for a big daft of an Irishman, you’d not get her, me lad. She’s the sweetest little thing I have come across this many a day.”

To which the Rev. William Yorke condescended no answer, unless a haughty gesture expressive of indignation might be called one, as he brushed past Lord Carrick into the breakfast-room.

At that very hour, and in a breakfast-room also—though all signs of the meal had long been removed—were Mr. Huntley and his daughter. The same praise, just bestowed by Lord Carrick upon Constance Channing, might with equal justice be given to Ellen Huntley. She was a lovely girl, three or four years older than Harry, with pretty features and soft dark eyes. What is more, she was a good girl—a noble, generous-hearted girl, although (you know no one is perfection) with a spice of self-will. For the latter quality I think Ellen was more indebted to circumstances than to Nature. Mrs. Huntley was dead, and a maiden sister of Mr. Huntley’s, older than himself, resided with them and ruled Ellen; ruled her with a tight hand; not a kind one, or a judicious one; and that had brought out Miss Ellen’s self-will. Miss Huntley was very starched, prim, and stiff—very unnatural, in short—and she wished to make Ellen the same. Ellen rebelled, for she much disliked everything artificial. She was truthful, honest, straightforward; not unlike the character of Tom Channing. Miss Huntley complained that she was too straightforward to be ladylike; Ellen said she was sure she should never be otherwise than straightforward, so it was of no use trying. Then Miss Huntley would take offence, and threaten Ellen with “altering her will,” and that would vex Ellen more than anything. Young ladies rarely care for money, especially when they have plenty of it; and Ellen Huntley would have that, from her father. “As if I cared for my aunt’s money!” she would say. “I wish she may not leave it to me.” And she was sincere in the wish. Their controversies frequently amused Mr. Huntley. Agreeing in heart and mind with his daughter, he would yet make a playful show of taking his sister’s part. Miss Huntley knew it to be show—done to laugh at her—and would grow as angry with him as she was with Ellen.

Mr. Huntley was not laughing, however, this morning. On the contrary, he appeared to be in a very serious, not to say solemn mood. He slowly paced the room, as was his custom when anything disturbed him, stopping at moments to reflect, buried in thought. Ellen sat at a table by the window, drawing. The house was Mr. Huntley’s own—a white villa with a sloping lawn in front. It was situated outside the town, on a gentle eminence, and commanded a view of the charming scenery for which the county was famous.

Ellen, who had glanced up two or three times, concerned to see the very stern, perplexed look on her father’s face, at length spoke, “Is anything the matter, papa?”

Mr. Huntley did not answer. He was standing close to the table then, apparently looking at Ellen, at her white morning dress and its blue ribbons: it, and she altogether, a fair picture. Probably he saw neither her nor her dress—he was too deeply absorbed.

“You are not ill, are you, papa?”

“Ill!” he answered, rousing himself. “No, Ellen, I am not ill.”

“Then you have had something to vex you, papa?”

“I have,” emphatically replied Mr. Huntley. “And the worst is, that my vexation will not be confined to myself, I believe. It may extend to you, Ellen.”

Mr. Huntley’s manner was so serious, his look so peculiar as he gazed at her, that Ellen felt a rush of discomfort, and the colour spread itself over her fair face. She jumped to the conclusion that she had been giving offence in some way—that Miss Huntley must have been complaining of her.

“Has my aunt been telling you about last night, papa? Harry had two of the college boys here, and I unfortunately laughed and talked with them, and she said afterwards I had done it on purpose to annoy her. But I assure you, papa—”

“Never mind assuring me, child,” interrupted Mr. Huntley. “Your aunt has said nothing to me; and if she had, it would go in at one ear and out at the other. It is worse business than any complaint that she could bring.”

Ellen laid down her pencil, and gazed at her father, awe-struck at his strange tone. “What is it?” she breathed.

But Mr. Huntley did not answer. He remained perfectly still for a few moments, absorbed in thought: and then, without a word of any sort to Ellen, turned round to leave the room, took his hat as he passed through the hall, and left the house.

Can you guess what it was that was troubling Mr. Huntley? Very probably, if you can put, as the saying runs, this and that together.

Convinced, as he was, that Arthur Channing was not, could not be guilty of taking the bank-note, yet puzzled by the strangely tame manner in which he met the charge—confounded by the behaviour both of Arthur and Constance relating to it—Mr. Huntley had resolved, if possible, to dive into the mystery. He had his reasons for it. A very disagreeable, a very improbable suspicion, called forth by the facts, had darted across his mind; therefore he resolved to penetrate to it. And he set to work. He questioned Mr. Galloway, he questioned Butterby, he questioned Jenkins, and he questioned Roland Yorke. He thus became as thoroughly conversant with the details of the transaction as it was possible for any one, except the actual thief, to be; and he drew his own deductions. Very reluctantly, very slowly, very cautiously, were they drawn, but very surely. The behaviour of Arthur and Constance could only have one meaning: they were screening the real culprit. And that culprit must be Hamish Channing.

Unwilling as Mr. Huntley was to admit it, he had no resource but to do so. He grew as certain of it as he was of his own life. He had loved and respected Hamish in no measured degree. He had observed the attachment springing up between him and his daughter, and he had been content to observe it. None were so worthy of her, in Mr. Huntley’s eyes, as Hamish Channing, in all respects save one—wealth; and, of that, Ellen would have plenty. Mr. Huntley had known of the trifling debts that were troubling Hamish, and he found that those debts, immediately on the loss of the bank-note, had been partially satisfied. That the stolen money must have been thus applied, and that it had been taken for that purpose, he could not doubt.

Hamish! It nearly made Mr. Huntley’s hair stand on end. That he must be silent over it, as were Hamish’s own family, he knew—silent for Mr. Channing’s sake. And what about Ellen?

There was the sad, very sad grievance. Whether Hamish went wrong, or whether Hamish went right, it was not of so much consequence to Mr. Huntley; but it might be to Ellen—in fact, he thought it would be. He had risen that morning resolved to hint to Ellen that any particular intimacy with Hamish must cease. But he was strangely undecided about it. Now that the moment was come, he almost doubted, himself, Hamish’s guilt. All the improbabilities of the case rose up before him in marked colours; he lost sight of the condemning facts; and it suddenly occurred to him that it was scarcely fair to judge Hamish so completely without speaking to him. “Perhaps he can account to me for the possession of the money which he applied to those debts,” thought Mr. Huntley. “If so, in spite of appearances, I will not deem him guilty.”

He went out, on the spur of the moment, straight down to the office in Guild Street. Hamish was alone, not at all busy, apparently. He was standing up by the fireplace, his elbow on the mantelpiece, a letter from Mr. Channing (no doubt the one alluded to in Mrs. Channing’s letter to Constance) in his hand. He received Mr. Huntley with his cordial, sunny smile; spoke of the good news the letter brought, spoke of the accident which had caused the delay of the mail, and finally read out part of the letter, as Constance had to Judith.

It was all very well; but this only tended to embarrass Mr. Huntley. He did not like his task, and the more confidential they grew over Mr. Channing’s health, the worse it made it for him to enter upon. As chance had it, Hamish himself paved the way. He began telling of an incident which had taken place that morning, to the scandal of the town. A young man, wealthy but improvident, had been arrested for debt. Mr. Huntley had not yet heard of it.

“It stopped his day’s pleasure,” laughed Hamish. “He was going along with his gun and dogs, intending to pop at the partridges, when he got popped upon himself, instead. Poor fellow! it was too bad to spoil his sport. Had I been a rich man, I should have felt inclined to bail him out.”

“The effect of running in debt,” remarked Mr. Huntley. “By the way, Master Hamish, is there no fear of a similar catastrophe for you?” he added, in a tone which Hamish might, if he liked, take for a jesting one.

“For me, sir?” returned Hamish.

“When I left Helstonleigh in June, a certain young friend of mine was not quite free from a suspicion of such liabilities,” rejoined Mr. Huntley.

Hamish flushed rosy red. Of all people in the world, Mr. Huntley was the one from whom he would, if possible, have kept that knowledge, but he spoke up readily.

“I did owe a thing or two, it can’t be denied,” acknowledged he. “Men, better and wiser and richer than I, have owed money before me, Mr. Huntley.”

“Suppose they serve you as they have served Jenner this morning?”

“They will not do that,” laughed Hamish, seeming very much inclined to make a joke of the matter. “I have squared up some sufficiently to be on the safe side of danger, and I shall square up the rest.”

Mr. Huntley fixed his eyes upon him. “How did you get the money to do it, Hamish?”

Perhaps it was the plain, unvarnished manner in which the question was put; perhaps it was the intent gaze with which Mr. Huntley regarded him; but, certain it is, that the flush on Hamish’s face deepened to crimson, and he turned it from Mr. Huntley, saying nothing.

“Hamish, I have a reason for wishing to know.”

“To know what, sir?” asked Hamish, as if he would temporize, or avoid the question.

“Where did you obtain the money that you applied to liquidate, or partially to liquidate, your debts?”

“I cannot satisfy you, sir. The affair concerns no one but myself. I did get it, and that is sufficient.”

Hamish had come out of his laughing tone, and spoke as firmly as Mr. Huntley; but, that the question had embarrassed him, was palpably evident. Mr. Huntley said good morning, and left the office without shaking hands. All his doubts were confirmed.

He went straight home. Ellen was where he had left her, still alone. Mr. Huntley approached her and spoke abruptly. “Are you willing to give up all intimacy with Hamish Channing?”

She gazed at him in surprise, her complexion changing, her voice faltering. “Oh, papa! what have they done?”

“Ellen, did I say ‘they!’ The Channings are my dear friends, and I hope ever to call them such. They have done nothing unworthy of my friendship or of yours. I said Hamish.”

Ellen rose from her seat, unable to subdue her emotion, and stood with her hands clasped before Mr. Huntley. Hamish was far dearer to her than the world knew.

“I will leave it to your good sense, my dear,” Mr. Huntley whispered, glancing round, as if not caring that even the walls should hear. “I have liked Hamish very much, or you may be sure he would not have been allowed to come here so frequently. But he has forfeited my regard now, as he must forfeit that of all good men.”

She trembled excessively, almost to impede her utterance, when she would have asked what it was that he had done.

“I scarcely dare breathe it to you,” said Mr. Huntley, “for it is a thing that we must hush up, as the family are hushing it up. When that bank-note was lost, suspicion fell on Arthur.”

“Well, papa?” wonderingly resumed Ellen.

“It was not Arthur who took it. It was Hamish. And Arthur is bearing the stigma of it for his father’s sake.”

Ellen grew pale. “Papa, who says it?”

“No one says it, Ellen. But the facts leave no room for doubt. Hamish’s own manner—I have just left him—leaves no room for it. He is indisputably guilty.”

Then Ellen’s anger, her straightforwardness, broke forth. She clasped her hands in pain, and her face grew crimson. “He is not guilty, papa. I would answer for it with my own life. How dare they accuse him! how dare they asperse him? Is he not Hamish Channing?”

“Ellen! Ellen!”

Ellen burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Forgive me, papa. If he has no one else to take his part, I will do it. I do not wish to be undutiful; and if you bid me never to see or speak to Hamish Channing again, I will implicitly obey you; but, hear him spoken of as guilty, I will not. I wish I could stand up for him against the world.”

“After that, Miss Ellen Huntley, I think you had better sit down.”

Ellen sat down, and cried until she was calm.