and, I believe, too hardy for the other. Judy is a simpleton,” he laughed; “she has her water-butt, and what more can she desire?”
“Hamish, why do you sit up? Have you not time for your work in the day?”
“No. Or else I should do it in the day. I do not sit up enough to hurt me. I have, on an average, three hours’ night-work, five days in the week; and if that can damage a strong fellow like me, call me a puny changeling.”
“You sit up much longer than that?”
“Not often. These light days, I sometimes do not sit up half so long; I get up in the morning, instead. Constance, you look grave enough for a judge!”
“And you, laughing enough to provoke me. Suppose I tell papa of this habit of yours, and get him to forbid it?”
“Then, my dear, you would work irreparable mischief,” he replied, becoming grave in his turn. “Were I to be prevented from doing as I please in my chamber in this house, I must find a room elsewhere, in which I should be my own master.”
“Hamish!”
“You oblige me to say it, Constance. You and Judy must lay your heads together upon some other grievance, for, indeed, for this particular one there is no remedy. She is an old goose, and you are a young one.”
“Is it right that we should submit to the risk of being set on fire?”
“My dear, if that is the point, I’ll have a fire-escape placed over the front door every night, and pay a couple of watchmen to act as guardians. Constance!” again dropping his tone of mockery, “you know that you may trust me better than that.”
“But, Hamish, how do you spend your time, that you cannot complete your books in the day?”
“Oh,” drawled Hamish, “ours is the laziest office! gossiping and scandal going on in it from morning till night. In the fatigue induced by that, I am not sure that I don’t take a nap, sometimes.”
Constance could not tell what to make of him. He was gazing at her with the most perplexing expression of face, looking ready to burst into a laugh.
“One last word, Hamish, for I hear Judith calling to you. Are you obliged to do this night-work?”
“I am.”
“Then I will say no more; and things must go on as it seems they have hitherto done.”
Arthur came running upstairs, and Hamish met him at the chamber door. Arthur, who appeared strangely agitated, began speaking in a half-whisper, unconscious that his sister was within. She heard every word.
“Judy says some young man wants you, Hamish! I fear it may be the fellow to serve the writ. What on earth is to be done?”
“Did Judy say I was at home?”
“Yes; and has handed him into the study, to wait. Did you not hear her calling to you?”
“I can’t—see him,” Hamish was about to say. “Yes, I will see him,” he added after a moment’s reflection. “Anything rather than have a disturbance which might come to my mother’s ears. And I suppose if he could not serve it now, he would watch for me in the morning.”
“Shall I go down first, and hear what he has to say?”
“Arthur, boy, it would do no good. I have brought this upon myself, and must battle with it. A Channing cannot turn coward!”
“But he may act with discretion,” said Arthur. “I will speak to the man, and if there’s no help for it, I’ll call you.”
Down flew Arthur, four stairs at a time. Hamish remained with his body inside his chamber door, and his head out. I conclude he was listening; and, in the confusion, he had probably totally forgotten Constance. Arthur came bounding up the stairs again, his eyes sparkling.
“A false alarm, Hamish! It’s only Martin Pope.”
“Martin Pope!” echoed Hamish, considerably relieved, for Martin Pope was an acquaintance of his, and sub-editor of one of the Helstonleigh newspapers. “Why could not Judy have opened her mouth?”
He ran down the stairs, the colour, which had left his face, returning to it. But it did not to that of Constance; hers had changed to an ashy whiteness. Arthur saw her standing there; saw that she must have heard and understood all.
“Oh, Arthur, has it come to this? Is Hamish in that depth of debt!”
“Hush! What brought you here, Constance?”
“What writ is it that he fears? Is there indeed one out against him?”
“I don’t know much about it. There may be one.”
She wrung her hands. “The next thing to a writ is a prison, is it not? If he should be taken, what would become of the office—of papa’s position?”
“Do not agitate yourself,” he implored. “It can do no good.”
“Nothing can do good: nothing, nothing. Oh, what trouble!”
“Constance, in the greatest trouble there is always one Refuge.”
“Yes,” she mentally thought, bursting into tears. “What, but for that shelter, would become of us in our bitter hours of trial?”
CHAPTER XI. – THE CLOISTER KEYS
It was the twenty-second day of the month, and nearly a week after the date of the last chapter. Arthur Channing sat in his place at the cathedral organ, playing the psalm for the morning; for the hour was that of divine service.
“O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious: and His mercy endureth for ever!”
The boy’s whole heart went up with the words. He gave thanks: mercies had come upon him—upon his; and that great dread—which was turning his days to gall, his nights to sleeplessness—the arrest of Hamish, had not as yet been attempted. He felt it all as he sat there; and, in a softer voice, he echoed the sweet song of the choristers below, verse after verse as each verse rose on the air, filling the aisles of the old cathedral: how that God delivers those who cry unto Him—those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death; those whose hearts fail through heaviness, who fall down and there is none to help them—He brings them out of the darkness, and breaks their bonds in sunder. They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, who see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep; whose hearts cower at the stormy rising of the waves, and in their agony of distress cry unto Him to help them; and He hears the cry, and delivers them. He stills the angry waves, and calms the storm, and brings them into the haven where they would be; and then they are glad, because they are at rest.
“O that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness: and declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men!
“And again, when they are minished, and brought low: through oppression, through any plague or trouble; though He suffer them to be evil intreated through tyrants: and let them wander out of the way in the wilderness; yet helpeth He the poor out of misery: and maketh him households like a flock of sheep.
“Whoso is wise will ponder these things: and they shall understand the loving-kindness of the Lord.”
The refrain died away, the gentle echo died after it, and silence fell upon the cathedral. It was broken by the voice of the Reverend William Yorke, giving out the first lesson—a chapter in Jeremiah.
At the conclusion of the service, Arthur Channing left the college. In the cloisters he was overtaken by the choristers, who were hastening back to the schoolroom. At the same moment Ketch, the porter, passed, coming towards them from the south entrance of the cloisters. He touched his hat in his usual ungracious fashion to the dean and Dr. Gardner, who were turning into the chapter-house, carrying their trenchers, and looked the other way as he passed the boys.
Arthur caught hold of Hurst. “Have you ‘served out’ old Ketch, as you threatened?” he laughingly asked.
“Hush!” whispered Hurst. “It has not come off yet.