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.
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