The Channings. Henry Wood

I moved my bed round to the other corner, so as I could see his window as I lay in it; and I have got myself into a habit of waking up at all hours and looking. Truth to say, I’m not easy: fire is sooner set alight than put out: and if there’s the water-butt for me to drop into, there ain’t water-butts for the rest of the house.”

      “Very true,” murmured Constance, speaking as if she were in reflection.

      “Nobody knows the worry this has been upon my mind,” resumed Judith. “Every night when I have seen his window alight, I have said to myself, ‘I’ll tell my mistress of this when morning comes;’ but, when the morning has come, my resolution has failed me. It might worry her, and anger Mr. Hamish, and do no good after all. If he really has not time for his books in the day, why he must do ‘em at night, I suppose; it would never do for him to fall off, and let the master’s means drop through. What ought to be done, Miss Constance?”

      “I really do not know, Judith,” replied Constance. “You must let me think about it.”

      She fell into an unpleasant reverie. The most feasible solution she could come to, was the one adopted by Judith—that Hamish passed his nights at the books. If so, how sadly he must idle away his time in the day! Did he give his hours up to nonsense and pleasure? And how could he contrive to hide his shortcomings from Mr. Channing? Constance was not sure whether the books went regularly under the actual inspection of Mr. Channing, or whether Hamish went over them aloud. If only the latter, could the faults be concealed? She knew nothing of book-keeping, and was unable to say. Leaving her to puzzle over the matter, we will return to Hamish himself.

      We left him in the last chapter, you may remember, objecting to go down a certain side-street which would have cut off a short distance of their road; his excuse to Arthur being, that a troublesome creditor of his lived in it. The plea was a true one. Not to make a mystery of it, it may as well be acknowledged that Hamish had contracted some debts, and that he found it difficult to pay them. They were not many, and a moderate sum would have settled them; but that moderate sum Hamish did not possess. Let us give him his due. But that he had fully counted upon a time of wealth being close at hand, it is probable that he never would have contracted them. When Hamish erred, it was invariably from thoughtlessness—from carelessness—never from deliberate intention.

      Arthur, of course, turned from the objectionable street, and continued his straightforward course. They were frequently hindered; the streets were always crowded at assize time, and acquaintances continually stopped them. Amongst others, they met Roland Yorke.

      “Are you coming round to Cator’s, to-night?” he asked of Hamish.

      “Not I,” returned Hamish, with his usual gay laugh. “I am going to draw in my expenses, and settle down into a miser.”

      “Moonshine!” cried Roland.

      “Is it moonshine, though? It is just a little bit of serious fact, Yorke. When lord chancellors turn against us and dash our hopes, we can’t go on as though the exchequer had no bottom to it.”

      “It will cost you nothing to come to Cator’s. He is expecting one or two fellows, and has laid in a prime lot of Manillas.”

      “Evening visiting costs a great deal, one way or another,” returned Hamish, “and I intend to drop most of mine for the present. You needn’t stare so, Yorke.”

      “I am staring at you. Drop evening visiting! Any one, dropping that, may expect to be in a lunatic asylum in six months.”

      “What a prospect for me!” laughed Hamish.

      “Will you come to Cator’s?”

      “No, thank you.”

      “Then you are a muff!” retorted Roland, as he went on.

      It was dusk when they reached the cathedral.

      “I wonder whether the cloisters are still open!” Arthur exclaimed.

      “It will not take a minute to ascertain,” said Hamish. “If not, we must go round.”

      They found the cloisters still unclosed, and passed in. Gloomy and sombre were they at that evening hour. So sombre that, in proceeding along the west quadrangle, the two young men positively started, when some dark figure glided from within a niche, and stood in their way.

      “Whose ghost are you?” cried Hamish.

      A short covert whistle of surprise answered him. “You here!” cried the figure, in a tone of excessive disappointment. “What brings you in the cloisters so late?”

      Hamish dextrously wound him towards what little light was cast from the graveyard, and discerned the features of Hurst. Half a dozen more figures brought themselves out of the niches—Stephen Bywater, young Galloway, Tod Yorke, Harrison, Hall, and Berkeley.

      “Let me alone, Mr. Hamish Channing. Hush! Don’t make a row.”

      “What mischief is going on, Hurst?” asked Hamish.

      “Well, whatever it may have been, it strikes me you have stopped it,” was Hurst’s reply. “I say, wasn’t there the Boundaries for you to go through, without coming bothering into the cloisters?”

      “I am sorry to have spoiled sport,” laughed Hamish. “I should not have liked it done to me when I was a college boy. Let us know what the treason was.”

      “You won’t tell!”

      “No; if it is nothing very bad. Honour bright.”

      “Stop a bit, Hurst,” hastily interposed Bywater. “There’s no knowing what he may think ‘very bad.’ Give generals, not particulars. Here the fellow comes, I do believe!”

      “It was only a trick we were going to play old Ketch,” whispered Hurst. “Come out quickly; better that he should not hear us, or it may spoil sport for another time. Gently, boys!”

      Hurst and the rest stole round the cloisters, and out at the south door. Hamish and Arthur followed, more leisurely, and less silently. Ketch came up.

      “Who’s this here, a-haunting the cloisters at this time o’ night? Who be you, I ask?”

      “The cloisters are free until they are closed, Ketch,” cried Hamish.

      “Nobody haven’t no right to pass through ‘em at this hour, except the clergy theirselves,” grumbled the porter. “We shall have them boys a-playing in ‘em at dark, next.”

      “You should close them earlier, if you want to keep them empty,” returned Hamish. “Why don’t you close them at three in the afternoon?”

      The porter growled. He knew that he did not dare to close them before dusk, almost dark, and he knew that Hamish knew it too; and therefore he looked upon the remark as a quiet bit of sarcasm. “I wish the dean ‘ud give me leave to shut them boys out of ‘em,” he exclaimed. “It ‘ud be a jovial day for me!”

      Hamish and Arthur passed out, wishing him good night. He did not reply to it, but banged the gate on their heels, locked it, and turned to retrace his steps through the cloisters. The college boys, who had hidden themselves from his view, came forward again.

      “He has got off scot-free to-night, but perhaps he won’t do so to-morrow,” cried Bywater.

      “Were you going to set upon him?” asked Arthur.

      “We were not going to put a finger upon him; I give you my word, we were not,” said Hurst.

      “What, then, were you going to do?”

      But the boys would not be caught. “It might stop fun, you know, Mr. Hamish. You might get telling your brother Tom; and Tom might let it out to Gaunt; and Gaunt might turn crusty and forbid it. We were going to serve the fellow out; but not to touch him or to hurt him; and that’s enough.”

      “As you please,” said Hamish. “He is a surly old fellow.”

      “He is an old brute! he’s a dog in a kennel! he deserves hanging!” burst from the throng of boys.

      “What do you think he went and did this