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<h2> CHAPTER X. — A FALSE ALARM. </h2> They reached home unmolested. Arthur went straight to Mr. Channing, who was lying, as usual, on his sofa, and bent over him with a smile, sweet and hopeful as that of Hamish. “Father, may I gain fifty pounds a year, if I can do it, without detriment to my place at Mr. Galloway’s?” “What do you say, my boy?” “Would you have any objection to my taking the organ at college on week days? Mr. Williams has offered it to me.” Mr. Channing turned his head and looked at him. He did not understand. “You could not take it, Arthur; you could not be absent from the office; and young Jupp takes the organ. What is it that you are talking of?” Arthur explained in his quiet manner, a glad light shining in his eyes. Jupp had left the college for good; Mr. Williams had offered the place to him, and Mr. Galloway had authorized him to accept it. He should only have to go to the office for two hours before breakfast in a morning, to make up for the two lost in the day. “My brave boy!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, making prisoner of his hand. “I said this untoward loss of the suit might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. And so it will; it is bringing forth the sterling love of my children. You are doing this for me, Arthur.” “Doing it a great deal for myself, papa. You do not know the gratification it will be to me, those two hours’ play daily!” “I understand, my dear—understand it all!” “Especially as—” Arthur came to a sudden stop. “Especially as what?” asked Mr. Channing. “As I had thought of giving up taking lessons,” Arthur hastily added, not going deeper into explanations. “I play quite well enough, now, to cease learning. Mr. Williams said one day, that, with practice, I might soon equal him.” “I wonder what those parents do, Arthur, who own ungrateful or rebellious children!” Mr. Channing exclaimed, after a pause of thought. “The world is full of trouble; and it is of many kinds, and takes various phases; but if we can only be happy in our children, all other trouble may pass lightly over us, as a summer cloud. I thank God that my children have never brought home to me an hour’s care. How merciful He has been to me!” Arthur’s thoughts reverted to Hamish and his trouble. He felt thankful, then, that it was hid from Mr. Channing. “I have already accepted the place, papa. I knew I might count upon your consent.” “Upon my warm approbation. My son, do your best at your task. And,” Mr. Channing added, sinking his voice to a whisper, “when the choristers peal out their hymn of praise to God, during these sacred services, let your heart ascend with it in fervent praise and thanksgiving. Too many go through these services in a matter-of-course spirit, their heart far away. Do not you.” Hamish at this moment came in, carrying the books. “Are you ready, sir? There’s not much to do, this evening.” “Ready at any time, Hamish.” Hamish laid the books before him on the table, and sat down. Arthur left the room. Mr. Channing liked to be alone with Hamish when the accounts were being gone over. Mrs. Channing was in the drawing-room, some of the children with her. Arthur entered. “Mrs. Channing,” cried he, with mock ceremony, “allow me to introduce you to the assistant-organist of the cathedral.” She smiled, supposing it to be some joke. “Very well, sir. He can come in!” “He is in, ma’am. It is myself.” “Is young Mr. Jupp there?” she asked; for he sometimes came home with Arthur. “Young Mr. Jupp has disappeared from public life, and I am appointed in his place. It is quite true.” “Arthur!” she remonstrated. “Mamma, indeed it is true. Mr. Williams has made me the offer, and Mr. Galloway has consented to allow me time to attend the week-day services; and papa is glad of it, and I hope you will be glad also.” “I have known of it since this morning,” spoke Tom, with an assumption of easy consequence; while Mrs. Channing was recovering her senses, which had been nearly frightened away. “Arthur, I hope Williams intends to pay you?” “Fifty pounds a year, And the copying besides.” “Is it true, Arthur?” breathlessly exclaimed Mrs. Channing. “I have told you that it is, mother mine. Jupp has resigned, and I am assistant-organist.” Annabel danced round him in an ecstasy of delight. Not at his success—success or failure did not much trouble Annabel—but she thought there might be a prospect of some fun in store for herself. “Arthur, you’ll let me come into the cathedral and blow for you?” “You little stupid!” cried Tom. “Much good you could do at blowing! A girl blowing the college organ! That’s rich! Better let Williams catch you there! She’d actually go, I believe!” “It is not your business, Tom; it is Arthur’s,” retorted Annabel, with flushed cheeks. “Mamma, can’t you teach Tom to interfere with himself, and not with me?” “I would rather teach Annabel to be a young lady, and not a tomboy,” said Mrs. Channing. “You may as well wish to be allowed to ring the college bells, as blow the organ, child.” “I should like that,” said Annabel. “Oh, what fun, if the rope went up with me!” Mrs. Channing turned a reproving glance on her, and resumed her conversation with Arthur. “Why did you not tell me before, my boy? It was too good news to keep to yourself. How long has it been in contemplation?” “Dear mamma, only to-day. It was only this morning that Jupp resigned.” “Only to-day! It must have been decided very hastily, then, for a measure of that sort.” “Mr. Williams was so put to it that he took care to lose no time. He spoke to me at one o’clock. I had gone to him to the cathedral, asking for the copying, which I heard was going begging, and he broached the other subject, on the spur of the moment, as it seemed to me. Nothing could be decided until I had seen Mr. Galloway, and I spoke to him after he left here, this afternoon. He will allow me to be absent from the office an hour, morning and afternoon, on condition that I attend for two hours before breakfast.” “But, Arthur, you will have a great deal upon your hands.” “Not any too much. It will keep me out of mischief.” “When shall you find time to do the copying?” “In an evening, I suppose. I shall find plenty of time.” As Hamish had observed, there was little to do at the books, that evening, and he soon left the parlour. Constance happened to be in the hall as he crossed it, on his way to his bedroom. Judith, who appeared to have been on the watch, came gliding from the half-opened kitchen door and approached Constance, looking after Hamish as he went up the stairs. “Do you see, Miss Constance?” she whispered. “He is carrying the books up with him, as usual!” At this juncture, Hamish turned round to speak to his sister. “Constance, I don’t want any supper to-night, tell my mother. You can call me when it is time for the reading.” “And he is going to set on at ‘em, now, and he’ll be at ‘em till morning light!” continued Judith’s whisper. “And he’ll drop off into his grave with decline!—‘taint in the nature of a young man to do without sleep—and that’ll be the ending! And he’ll burn himself up first, and all the house with him.” “I think I will go and speak to him,” debated Constance. “I should,” advised Judith. “The worst is, if the books must be done, why, they must; and I don’t see that there is any help for it.” But Constance hesitated, considerably. She did not at all like to interfere; it appeared so very much to resemble the work of a spy. Several minutes she deliberated, and then went slowly up the stairs. Knocking at Hamish’s door, she turned the handle, and would have entered. It was locked. “Who’s there?” called out Hamish. “Can I come in for a minute, Hamish? I want to say a word to you.” He did not undo the door immediately. There appeared to be an opening and closing of his desk, first—a scuffle, as of things being put away. When Constance entered, she saw one of the insurance books open on the table, the pen and ink near it; the others were not to be seen. The keys were in the table lock. A conviction flashed over the mind of Constance that Judith was right, in supposing the office accounts to be the object that kept him up. “What can he do with his time in the day?” she thought. “What is it, Constance?” “Can you let me speak to you, Hamish?” “If you won’t be long. I was just beginning to be busy,” he replied, taking out the keys and putting them into his pocket. “I see you were,” she said, glancing at the ledger. “Hamish, you must not be offended with me, or think I interfere unwarrantably. I would not do it, but that I am anxious for you. Why is it that you sit up so late at night?” There was a sudden accession of colour to his face—Constance saw it; but there was a smile as well. “How do you know I do sit up? Has Judy been telling tales?” “Judy is uneasy about it, and she spoke to me this evening. She has visions of the house being burnt up with every one in it, and of your fatally injuring your health. I believe she would consider the latter calamity almost more grievous than the former, for you know you were always her favourite. Hamish; is there no danger of either?” “There is not. I am too cautious for the one to happen, 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?” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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