The Channings. Henry Wood

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      “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?”

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