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<h2> CHAPTER LIII. — THE RETURN HOME. </h2> It almost seemed, to Mr. Channing’s grateful heart, as if the weather had prolonged its genial warmth on purpose for him. A more charming autumn had never been known at Borcette, and up to the very hour of Mr. Channing’s departure, there were no signs of winter. Taking it as a whole, it had been the same at Helstonleigh. Two or three occasional wet days, two or three cold and windy ones; but they soon passed over and people remarked to each other how this fine weather would shorten the winter. Never did November turn out a more lovely day than the one that was to witness Mr. Channing’s return. The sun shone brightly; the blue sky was without a cloud. All Nature seemed to have put on a smiling face to give him welcome. And yet—to what was he returning? For once in his life, Hamish Channing shrank from meeting his father and mother. How should he break the news to them? They were arriving full of joy, of thankfulness at the restoration to health of Mr. Channing: how could Hamish mar it with the news regarding Charles? Told it must be; and he must be the one to do it. In good truth, Hamish was staggered at the task. His own hopeful belief that Charley would some day “turn up,” was beginning to die out; for every hour that dragged by, without bringing him, certainly gave less and less chance of it. And even if Hamish had retained hope himself, it was not likely he could impart it to Mr. or Mrs. Channing. “I shall get leave from school this afternoon,” Tom suddenly exclaimed that morning at breakfast. “For what purpose?” inquired Hamish. “To go up to the station and meet them.” “No, Tom. You must not go to the station.” “Who says so?” sharply cried Tom. “I do,” replied Hamish. “I dare say! that’s good!” returned Tom, speaking in his hasty spirit. “You know you are going yourself, Hamish, and yet you would like to deprive me of the same pleasure. Why, I wouldn’t miss being there for anything! Don’t say, Hamish, that you are never selfish.” Hamish turned upon him with a smile, but his tone changed to sadness. “I wish with all my heart, Tom, that you or some one else, could go and meet them, instead of myself, and undertake what I shall have to do. I can tell you I never had a task imposed upon me that I found so uncongenial as the one I must go through this day.” Tom’s voice dropped a little of its fierce shade. “But, Hamish, there’s no reason why I should not meet them at the station. That will not make it the better or the worse for you.” “I will tell you why I think you should not,” replied Hamish; “why it will be better that you should not. It is most desirable that they should be home, here, in this house, before the tidings are broken to them. I should not like them to hear of it in the streets, or at the station; especially my mother.” “Of course not,” assented Tom. “And, were you at the station,” quietly went on Hamish to him, “the first question would be, ‘Where’s Charley?’ If Tom Channing can get leave of absence from school, Charley can.” “I could say—” “Well?” said Hamish, for Tom had stopped. “I don’t know what I could say,” acknowledged Tom. “Nor I. My boy, I have thought it over, and the conclusion I come to, if you appear at the station, is this: either that the tidings must be told to them, then and there, or else an evasion, bordering upon an untruth. If they do not see you there, they will not inquire particularly after Charles; they will suppose you are both in school.” “I declare I never set my mind upon a thing but something starts in to frustrate it!” cried Tom, in vexation. But he relinquished his intention from that moment. Chattering Annabel threw up her head. “As soon as papa and mamma come home, we shall put on mourning, shall we not? Constance was talking about it with Lady Augusta.” “Do not talk of mourning, child,” returned Hamish. “I can’t give him up, if you do.” Afternoon came, and Hamish proceeded alone to the station. Tom, listening to the inward voice of reason, was in school, and Arthur was occupied in the cathedral; the expected hour of their arrival was towards the close of afternoon service. Hamish had boasted that he should walk his father through Helstonleigh for the benefit of beholders, if happily he came home capable of walking; but, like poor Tom and his plan, that had to be relinquished. In the first half-dozen paces they would meet half a dozen gossipers, and the first remark from each, after congratulations, would be, “What a sad thing this is about your little Charles!” Hamish lived in doubt whether it might not, by some untoward luck, come out at the station, in spite of his precaution in keeping away Tom. But, so far, all went well. The train came in to its time, and Hamish, his face lighted with excitement, saw his father once more in possession of his strength, descending without assistance from the carriage, walking alone on the platform. Not in the full strength and power of old; that might never be again. He stooped slightly, and moved slowly, as if his limbs were yet stiff, limping a little. But that he was now in a sound state of health was evident; his face betrayed it. Hamish did not know whose hands to clasp first; his, or his mother’s. “Can you believe that it is myself, Hamish?” asked Mr. Channing, when the first few words of thankful greeting had passed. “I should hide my head for ever as a false prophet if it could be any one else,” was the reply of Hamish. “You know I always said you would so return. I am only in doubt whether it is my mother.” “What is the matter with me, Hamish?” asked Mrs. Channing. “Because you would make about two of the thin, pale, careworn Mrs. Channing who went away,” cried he, turning his mother round to look at her, deep love shining out from his gay blue eyes. “I hope you have not taken to rouge your cheeks, ma’am, but I am bound to confess they look uncommonly like it.” Mrs. Channing laughed merrily. “It has done me untold good, Hamish, as well as papa; it seems to have set me up for years to come. Seeing him grow better day by day would have effected it, without any other change.” Mr. Channing had actually gone himself to see after the luggage. How strange it seemed! Hamish caught him up. “If you can give yourself trouble now, sir, there’s no reason that you should do so, while you have your great lazy son at your elbow.” “Hamish, boy, I am proud of doing it.” It was soon collected. Hamish hastily, if not carelessly, told a porter to look to it, took Mr. Channing’s arm, and marched him to the fly, which Mrs. Channing had already found. Hamish was in lively dread of some officious friend or other coming up, who might drop a hint of the state of affairs. “Shall I help you in, father!” “I can help myself now, Hamish. I remember you promised me I should have no fly on my return. You have thought better of it.” “Yes, sir, wishing to get you home before bed-time, which might not be the case if you were to show yourself in the town, and stop at all the interruptions.” Mr. Channing stepped into the fly. Hamish followed, first giving the driver a nod. “The luggage! The luggage!” exclaimed Mrs. Channing, as they moved off. “The porter will bring it, mother. He would have been a month putting it on to the fly.” How could they suppose anything was the matter? Not a suspicion of it ever crossed them. Never had Hamish appeared more light-hearted. In fact, in his self-consciousness, Hamish a little overdid it. Let him get them home before the worst came! “We find you all well, I conclude!” said Mrs. Channing. “None of them came up with you! Arthur is in college, I suppose, and Tom and Charles are in school.” “It was Arthur’s hour for college,” remarked Hamish, ignoring the rest of the sentence. “But he ought to be out now. Arthur is at Galloway’s again,” he added. “He did not write you word, I believe, as you were so shortly expected home.” Mr. Channing turned a glance on his son, quick as lightning. “Cleared, Hamish?” “In my opinion, yes. In the opinion of others, I fear not much more than he was before.” “And himself?” asked Mr. Channing. “What does he say now?” “He does not speak of it to me.” Hamish put his head out at the window, nodding to some one who was passing. A question of Mr. Channing’s called it in again. “Why has he gone back to Galloway’s?” Hamish laughed. “Roland Yorke took an impromptu departure one fine morning, for Port Natal, leaving the office and Mr. Galloway to do the best they could with each other. Arthur buried his grievances and offered himself to Mr. Galloway in the emergency. I am not quite sure that I should have been so forgiving.” “Hamish! He has nothing to forgive Mr. Galloway. It is on the other side.” “I am uncharitable, I suppose,” remarked Hamish. “I cannot like Mr. Galloway’s treatment of Arthur.” “But what is it you say about Roland Yorke and Port Natal?” interposed Mrs. Channing. “I do not understand.” “Roland is really gone, mother. He has been in London these ten days, and it is expected that every post will bring news that he has sailed. Roland has picked up a notion somewhere that Port Natal is an enchanted land, converting poor men into rich ones; and he is going to try what it will do for him, Lord Carrick fitting him out. Poor Jenkins is sinking fast.” “Changes! changes!” remarked Mr. Channing. “Go away only for two or three months, and you must find them on return. Some gone; some dying; some—” “Some restored, who were looked upon as incurable,” interrupted Hamish. “My dear father, I will not have you dwell on dark things the very moment of your arrival; the time for that will come soon enough.” Judy nearly betrayed all; and Constance’s aspect might have betrayed it, had the travellers been suspicious. She, Constance, came forward in the hall, white and trembling. When Mrs. Channing shook hands with Judy, she put an unfortunate question—“Have you taken good care of your boy?” Judy knew it could only allude to Charles, and for answer there went up a sound, between a cry and a sob, that might have been heard in the far-off college schoolroom. Hamish took Judy by the shoulders, bidding her go out and see whether any rattletraps were left in the fly, and so turned it off. They were all together in the sitting-room—Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Hamish, Constance, Arthur, and Annabel; united, happy, as friends are and must be when meeting after a separation; talking of this and of that, giving notes of what had occurred on either side. Hamish showed himself as busy as the rest; but Hamish felt all the while upon a bed of thorns, for the hands of the timepiece were veering on for five, and he must get the communication over before Tom came in. At length Mrs. Channing went up to her room, accompanied by Constance; Annabel followed. And now came Hamish’s opportunity. Arthur had gone back to Mr. Galloway’s, and he was alone with his father. He plunged into it at once; indeed, there was no time for delay. “Father!” he exclaimed, with deep feeling, his careless manner changing as by magic: “I have very grievous news to impart to you. I would not enter upon it before my mother: though she must be told of it also, and at once.” Mr. Channing was surprised; more surprised than alarmed. He never remembered to have seen Hamish betray so much emotion. A thought crossed his mind that Arthur’s guilt might have been brought clearly to light. “Not that,” said Hamish. “It concerns—Father, I do not like to enter upon it! I shrink from my task. It is very bad news indeed.” “You, my children, are all well,” cried Mr. Channing, hastily speaking the words as a fact, not as a question. “What other ‘very bad’ news can be in store for me?” “You have not seen us all,” was Hamish’s answer. And Mr. Channing, alarmed, now looked inquiringly at him. “It concerns Charles. An—an accident has happened to him.” Mr. Channing sat down and shaded his eyes. He was a moment or two before he spoke. “One word, Hamish; is he dead?” Hamish stood before his father and laid his hand affectionately upon his shoulder. “Father, I wish I could have prepared you better for it!” he exclaimed, with emotion. “We do not know whether he is dead or alive.” Then he explained—explained more in summary than in detail—touching lightly upon the worst features of the case, enlarging upon his own hopeful view of it. Bad enough it was, at the best, and Mr. Channing found it so. He could feel no hope. In the revulsion of grief, he turned almost with resentment upon Hamish. “My son, I did not expect this treatment from you.” “I have taken enough blame to myself; I know he was left in my charge,” sadly replied Hamish; “but, indeed, I do not see how I could have helped it. Although I was in the room when he ran out of it, I was buried in my own thoughts, and never observed his going. I had no suspicion anything was astir that night with the college boys. Father, I would have saved his life with my own!” “I am not blaming you for the fact, Hamish; blame is not due to you. Had I been at home myself, I might no more have stopped his going out than you did. But you ought to have informed me of this instantly. A whole month, and I to be left in ignorance!” “We did it for the best. Father, I assure you that not a stone has been left unturned to find him; alive, or—or dead. You could not have done more had you hastened home; and it has been so much suspense and grief spared to you.” Mr. Channing relapsed into silence. Hamish glanced uneasily to that ever-advancing clock. Presently he spoke. “My mother must be told before Tom comes home. It will be better that you take the task upon yourself, father. Shall I send her in?” Mr. Channing looked at Hamish, as if he scarcely understood the meaning of the words. From Hamish he looked to the clock. “Ay; go and send her.” Hamish went to his mother’s room, and returned with her. But he did not enter. He merely opened the door, and shut her in. Constance, with a face more frightened than ever, came and stood in the hall. Annabel stood there also. Judy, wringing her hands, and sending off short ejaculations in an undertone, came to join them, and Sarah stood peeping out from the kitchen door. They remained gazing at the parlour door, dreading the effect of the communication that was going on inside. “If it had been that great big Tom, it wouldn’t matter so much,” wailed Judith, in a tone of resentment. “The missis would know that he’d be safe to turn up, some time or other; a strong fellow like him!” A sharp cry within the room. The door was flung open, and Mrs. Channing came forth, her face pale, her hands lifted. “It cannot be true! It cannot be! Hamish! Judith! Where is he?” Hamish folded her hands in his, and gently drew her in again. They all followed. No reason why they should not, now that the communication was made. Almost at the same moment, Mr. Huntley arrived. Of course, the first thought that had occurred to the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Channing was, that had they been at home to direct affairs in the search, Charley would have been found. It is the thought that would occur to us all: we never give others credit for doing as much as we should have done. “This might have been tried, and the other might have been tried.” It makes little difference when told that they have been tried; for then we fall back upon some other suggestion. Mrs. Channing reproached Hamish with keeping it from them. “My dear lady, you must blame me, not him,” interposed Mr. Huntley. “Left to himself, Hamish would have started Arthur off to you, post haste. It was I who suggested the desirability of keeping you in ignorance; it was I who brought Hamish to see it: and I know that, when the brunt of your grief shall have passed, you will acknowledge that it was the best, the wisest, and the kindest course.” “But there are so many things that we could have suggested; that perhaps none but a father or mother would think of!” urged Mrs. Channing, lifting her yearning face. They wished they could see her weep. “You could have suggested nothing that has not been done,” returned Mr. Huntley. “Believe me, dear Mrs. Channing! We have had many good counsellors. Butterby has conducted the search.” Mr. Channing turned to them. He was standing at the far window. “I should like to see Butterby.” “He will be here in an hour’s time,” said Hamish. “I knew you would wish to see him, and I requested him to come.” “The worst feature of the whole,” put in Judith, with as much acrimony as ever was displayed by Mr. Ketch, “is that them boys should not have got their deserts. They have not as much as had a birching; and I say that the college masters ought to be hooted. I’d ‘ghost’ ‘em!” “The punishment lies in abeyance for the present,” explained Hamish. “A different punishment from any the head-master could inflict will be required, should—should—” Hamish stopped. He did not like to say, in the presence of his mother, “should the body be found.” “Some of them are suffering pretty well, as it is,” he continued, after a brief pause. “Master Bill Simms lay in bed for a week with fright, and they were obliged to have Mr. Hurst to him. Report goes, that Hurst soundly flogged his son, by way of commencing his share.” A pushing open of the outer door, a bang, and hasty footsteps in the hall. Tom had arrived. Tom, with his sparkling eyes, his glowing face. They sparkled for his father only in that first moment; his father, who turned and walked to meet him. “Oh, papa! What baths those must be!” cried honest Tom. “If ever I get rich, I’ll go over there and make them a present of a thousand pounds. To think that nothing else should have cured you!” “I think something else must have had a hand in curing me, Tom.” Tom looked up inquiringly. “Ah, papa! You mean God.” “Yes, my boy. God has cured me. The baths were only instruments in His hands.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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