The Channings. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ you know it’s not. But I promise you on my honour that I won’t split. I’ll keep it in close; always, if I can. The worst of me is, I bring things out sometimes without thought,” he added ingenuously. “I know I do; but I’ll try and keep in this. You needn’t be in a passion, Yorke; I couldn’t help seeing what I did. It wasn’t my fault.”

      Yorke’s face had grown purple with anger. “Charles Channing, if you don’t unsay what you have said, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life.”

      “I can’t unsay it,” was the answer.

      “You can’t!” reiterated Yorke, grasping him as a hawk would a pigeon. “How dare you brave me to my presence? Unsay the lie you have told.”

      “I am in God’s presence, Yorke, as well as in yours,” cried the boy, reverently; “and I will not tell a lie.”

      “Then take your whacking! I’ll teach you what it is to invent fabrications! I’ll put you up for—”

      Yorke’s tongue and hands stopped. Turning out of the private cloister-entrance of the deanery, right upon them, had come Dr. Gardner, one of the prebendaries. He cast a displeased glance at Yorke, not speaking; and little Channing, touching his trencher to the doctor, flew to the place where he had left his books, caught them up, and ran out of the cloisters towards home.

      CHAPTER II. – BAD NEWS

      The ground near the cathedral, occupied by the deanery and the prebendal residences, was called the Boundaries. There were a few other houses in it, chiefly of a moderate size, inhabited by private families. Across the open gravel walk, in front of the south cloister entrance, was the house appropriated to the headmaster; and the Channings lived in a smaller one, nearly on the confines of the Boundaries. A portico led into it, and there was a sitting-room on either side the hall. Charley entered; and was going, full dash, across the hall to a small room where the boys studied, singing at the top of his voice, when the old servant of the family, Judith, an antiquated body, in a snow-white mob-cap and check apron, met him, and seized his arm.

      “Hush, child! There’s ill news in the house.”

      Charley dropped his voice to an awe-struck whisper. “What is it, Judith? Is papa worse?”

      “Child! there’s illness of mind as well as of body. I didn’t say sickness; I said ill news. I don’t rightly understand it; the mistress said a word to me, and I guessed the rest. And it was me that took in the letter! Me! I wish I had put it in my kitchen fire first!”

      “Is it—Judith, is it news of the—the cause? Is it over?”

      “It’s over, as I gathered. ‘Twas a London letter, and it came by the afternoon post. All the poor master’s hopes and dependencies for years have been wrested from him. And if they’d give me my way, I’d prosecute them postmen for bringing such ill luck to a body’s door.”

      Charles stood something like a statue, the bright, sensitive colour deserting his cheek. One of those causes, Might versus Right, of which there are so many in the world, had been pending in the Channing family for years and years. It included a considerable amount of money, which ought, long ago, to have devolved peaceably to Mr. Channing; but Might was against him, and Might threw it into Chancery. The decision of the Vice-Chancellor had been given for Mr. Channing, upon which Might, in his overbearing power, carried it to a higher tribunal. Possibly the final decision, from which there could be no appeal, had now come.

      “Judith,” Charles asked, after a pause, “did you hear whether—whether the letter—I mean the news—had anything to do with the Lord Chancellor?”

      “Oh, bother the Lord Chancellor!” was Judith’s response. “It had to do with somebody that’s an enemy to your poor papa. I know that much. Who’s this?”

      The hall door had opened, and Judith and Charles turned towards it. A gay, bright-featured young man of three and twenty entered, tall and handsome, as it was in the nature of the Channings to be. He was the eldest son of the family, James; or, as he was invariably styled, Hamish. He rose six foot two in his stockings, was well made, and upright. In grace and strength of frame the Yorkes and the Channings stood A1 in Helstonleigh.

      “Now, then! What are you two concocting? Is he coming over you again to let him make more toffy, Judy, and burn out the bottom of another saucepan?”

      “Hamish, Judy says there’s bad news come in by the London post. I am afraid the Lord Chancellor has given judgment—given it against us.”

      The careless smile, the half-mocking, expression left the lips of Hamish. He glanced from Judith to Charles, from Charles to Judith. “Is it sure?” he breathed.

      “It’s sure that it’s awful news of some sort,” returned Judith; “and the mistress said to me that all was over now. They be all in there, but you two,” pointing with her finger to the parlour on the left of the hall; “and you had better go in to them. Master Hamish—”

      “Well?” returned Hamish, in a tone of abstraction.

      “You must every one of you just make the best of it, and comfort the poor master. You are young and strong; while he—you know what he is. You, in special, Master Hamish, for you’re the eldest born, and were the first of ‘em that I ever nursed upon my knee.”

      “Of course—of course,” he hastily replied. “But, oh, Judith! you don’t know half the ill this must bring upon us! Come along, Charley; let us hear the worst.”

      Laying his arm with an affectionate gesture round the boy’s neck, Hamish drew him towards the parlour. It was a square, light, cheerful room. Not the best room: that was on the other side the hall. On a sofa, underneath the window, reclined Mr. Channing, his head and shoulders partly raised by cushions. His illness had continued long, and now, it was feared, had become chronic. A remarkably fine specimen of manhood he must have been in his day, his countenance one of thoughtful goodness, pleasant to look upon. Arthur, the second son, had inherited its thoughtfulness, its expression of goodness; James, its beauty; but there was a great likeness between all the four sons. Arthur, only nineteen, was nearly as tall as his brother. He stood bending over the arm of his father’s sofa. Tom, looking very blank and cross, sat at the table, his elbows leaning on it. Mrs. Channing’s pale, sweet face was bent towards her daughter’s, Constance, a graceful girl of one and twenty; and Annabel, a troublesome young lady of nearly fourteen, was surreptitiously giving twitches to Tom’s hair.

      Arthur moved from the place next his father when Hamish entered, as if yielding him the right to stand there. A more united family it would be impossible to find. The brothers and sisters loved each other dearly, and Hamish they almost reverenced—excepting Annabel. Plenty of love the child possessed; but of reverence, little. With his gay good humour, and his indulgent, merry-hearted spirit, Hamish Channing was one to earn love as his right, somewhat thoughtless though he was. Thoroughly well, in the highest sense of the term, had the Channings been reared. Not of their own wisdom had Mr. and Mrs. Channing trained their children.

      “What’s the matter, sir?” asked Hamish, smoothing his brow, and suffering the hopeful smile to return to his lips. “Judith says some outrageous luck has arrived; come express, by post.”

      “Joke while you may, Hamish,” interposed Mrs. Channing, in a low voice; “I shrink from telling it you. Can you not guess the news?”

      Hamish looked round at each, individually, with his sunny smile, and then let it rest upon his mother. “The very worst I can guess is not so bad. We are all here in our accustomed health. Had we sent СКАЧАТЬ