He was a tall, strong fellow, with a pale
complexion, thick, projecting lips, and black hair, promising fair to
make a Hercules--but all the Yorkes were finely framed. He gave young
Channing a taste of his strength; the boy, when shaken, was in his
hands as a very reed. "You miserable imp! Do you know who is said to be
the father of lies?"
"Let me alone, sir. It's no lie, and 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.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31