old judith sat in her kitchen. her hands were clasped upon her knees, and her head was bent in thought. rare indeed was it to catch judith indulging in a moment’s idleness. she appeared to be holding soliloquy with herself.

“it’s the most incomprehensible thing in the world! i have heard of ghosts—and, talking about ghosts, that child was in a tremor, last night, again—i’m sure he was. brave little heart! he goes up to bed in the dark on purpose to break himself of the fear. i went in for them shirts missis told me of, and he started like anything, and his face turned white. he hadn’t heard me till i was in the room; i’d no candle, and ‘twas enough to startle him. ‘oh, is it you, judith?’ said he, quietly, making believe to be as indifferent as may be. i struck a light, for i couldn’t find the shirts, and then i saw his white face. he can’t overget the fear: ‘twas implanted in him in babyhood: and i only wish i could get that wicked girl punished as i’d punish her, for it was her work. but about the t’other? i have heard of ghosts walking—though, thank goodness, i’m not frightened at ‘em, like the child is!—but for a young man to go upstairs, night after night, pretending to go to rest, and sitting up till morning light, is what i never did hear on. if it was once in a way, ‘twould be a different thing; but it’s always. i’m sure it’s pretty nigh a year since—”

“why, judith, you are in a brown study!”

the interruption came from constance, who had entered the kitchen to give an order. judith looked up.

“i’m in a peck of trouble, miss constance. and the worst is, i don’t know whether to tell about it, or to keep it in. he’d not like it to get to the missis’s ears, i know: but then, you see, perhaps i ought to tell her—for his sake.”

constance smiled. “would you like to tell me, instead of mamma? charley has been at some mischief again, among the saucepans? burnt out more bottoms, perhaps?”

“not he, the darling!” resentfully rejoined judith. “the burning out of that one was enough for him. i’m sure he took contrition to himself, as if it had been made of gold.”

“what is it, then?”

“well,” said judith, looking round, as if fearing the walls would hear, and speaking mysteriously, “it’s about mr. hamish. i don’t know but i will tell you, miss constance, and it’ll be, so far, a weight off my mind. i was just saying to myself that i had heard of ghosts walking, but what mr. hamish does every blessed night, i never did hear of, in all my born days.”

constance felt a little startled. “what does he do?” she hastily asked.

“you know, miss constance, my bedroom’s overhead, above the kitchen here, and, being built out on the side, i can see the windows at the back of the house from it—as we can see ‘em from this kitchen window, for the matter of that, if we put our heads out. about a twelvemonth ago—i’m sure its not far short of it—i took to notice that the light in mr. hamish’s chamber wasn’t put out so soon as it was in the other rooms. so, one night, when i was half-crazy with that face-ache—you remember my having it, miss constance?—and knew i shouldn’t get to sleep, if i lay down, i thought i’d just see how long he kept it in. would you believe, miss constance, that at three o’clock in the morning his light was still burning?”

“well,” said constance, feeling the tale was not half told.

“i thought, what on earth could he be after? i might have feared that he had got into bed and left it alight by mistake, but that i saw his shadow once or twice pass the blind. well, i didn’t say a word to him next day, i thought he might not like it: but my mind wouldn’t be easy, and i looked out again, and i found that, night after night, that light was in. miss constance, i thought i’d trick him: so i took care to put just about an inch of candle in his bed candlestick, and no more: but, law bless me! when folks is bent on forbidden things, it is not candle-ends that will stop ‘em!”

“i suppose you mean that the light burnt still, in spite of your inch of candle?” said constance.

“it just did,” returned judith. “he gets into my kitchen and robs my candle-box, i thought to myself. so i counted my candles and marked ‘em; and i found i was wrong, for they wasn’t touched. but one day, when i was putting his cupboard to rights, i came upon a paper right at the back. two great big composite candles it had in it, and another half burnt away. oh, this is where you keep your store, my young master, is it? i thought. they were them big round things, which seems never to burn to an end, three to the pound.”

constance made no reply. judith gathered breath, and continued:

“i took upon myself to speak to him. i told him it wasn’t well for anybody’s health, to sit up at night, in that fashion; not counting the danger he ran of setting the house on fire and burning us all to cinders in our beds. he laughed—you know his way, miss constance—and said he’d take care of his health and of the house, and i was just to make myself easy and hold my tongue, and that i need not be uneasy about fire, for i could open my window and drop into the rain-water barrel, and there i should be safe. but, in spite of his joking tone, there ran through it a sound of command; and, from that hour to this, i have never opened my lips about it to anybody living.”

“and he burns the light still?”

“except saturday and sunday nights, it’s always alight, longer or shorter. them two nights, he gets into bed respectable, as the rest of the house do. you have noticed, miss constance, that, the evenings he is not out, he’ll go up to his chamber by half-past nine or ten?”

“frequently,” assented constance. “as soon as the reading is over, he will wish us good night.”

“well, them nights, when he goes up early, he puts his light out sooner—by twelve, or by half-past, or by one; but when he spends his evenings out, not getting home until eleven, he’ll have it burning till two or three in the morning.”

“what can he sit up for?” involuntarily exclaimed constance.

“i don’t know, unless it is that the work at the office is too heavy for him,” said judith. “he has his own work to do there, and master’s as well.”

“it is not at all heavy,” said constance. “there is an additional clerk since papa’s illness, you know. it cannot be that.”

“it has to do with the office-books, for certain,” returned judith. “why else is he so particular in taking ‘em into his room every night?”

“he takes—them—for safety,” spoke constance, in a very hesitating manner, as if not feeling perfectly assured of the grounds for her assertion.

“maybe,” sniffed judith, in disbelief. “it can’t be that he sits up to read,” she resumed. “nobody in their senses would do that. reading may be pleasant to some folks, especially them story-books; but sleep is pleasanter. this last two or three blessed nights, since that ill news come to make us miserable, i question if he has gone to bed at all, for his candle has only been put out when daylight came to shame it.”

“but, judith, how do you know all this?” exclaimed constance, after a few minutes’ reflection. “you surely don’t sit up to watch the light?”

“pretty fit i should be for my work in the morning, if i did! no, miss constance. 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 afternoon?” added hurst to the two channings. “he sneaked up to the dean with a wretched complaint of us boys, which hadn’t a word of truth in it; not a syllable, i assure you. he did it only because gaunt had put him in a temper at one o’clock. the dean did not listen to him, that’s one good thing. how jolly he’d have been, just at this moment, if you two had not come up! wouldn’t he, boys?”

the boys burst into a laugh; roar upon roar, peal upon peal; shrieking and holding their sides, till the very boundaries echoed again. laughing is infectious, and hamish and arthur shrieked out with them, not knowing in the least what they were laughing at.

but arthur was heavy at heart in the midst of it. “do you owe much money, hamish?” he inquired, after they had left the boys, and were walking soberly along, under the quiet elm-trees.

“more than i can pay, old fellow, just at present,” was the answer.

“but is it much, hamish?”

“no, it is not much, taking it in the abstract. quite a trifling sum.”

arthur caught at the word “trifling;” it seemed to dissipate his fears. had he been alarming himself for nothing! “is it ten pounds, hamish?”

“ten pounds!” repeated hamish, in a tone of mockery. “that would be little indeed.”

“is it fifty?”

“i dare say it may be. a pound here and a pound there, and a few pounds elsewhere—yes, taking it altogether, i expect it would be fifty.”

“and how much more?” thought arthur to himself. “you said it was a trifling sum, hamish!”

“well, fifty pounds is not a large sum. though, of course, we estimate sums, like other things, by comparison. you can understand now, why i was not sanguine with regard to constance’s hopeful project of helping my father to get to the german baths. i, the eldest, who ought to be the first to assist in it, am the least likely to do so. i don’t know how i managed to get into debt,” mused hamish. “it came upon me imperceptibly; it did, indeed. i depended so entirely upon that money falling to us, that i grew careless, and would often order things which i was not in need of. arthur, since that news came, i have felt overwhelmed with worry and botheration.”

“i wish you were free!”

“if wishes were horses, we should all be on horseback. how debts grow upon you!” hamish continued, changing his light tone for a graver one. “until within the last day or two, when i have thought it necessary to take stock of outstanding claims, i had no idea i owed half so much.”

“what shall you do about it?”

“that is more easily asked than answered. my own funds are forestalled for some time to come. and, the worst is, that, now this suit is known to have terminated against us, people are not so willing to wait as they were before. i have had no end of them after me to-day.”

“how shall you contrive to satisfy them?”

“satisfy them in some way, i must.”

“but how, i ask, hamish?”

“rob some bank or other,” replied hamish, in his off-hand, joking way.

“shall you speak to my father?”

“where’s the use?” returned hamish. “he cannot help me just now; he is straitened enough himself.”

“he might help you with advice. his experience is larger than yours, his judgment better. ‘in the multitude of counsellors there is safety,’ you know, hamish.”

“i have made up my mind to say nothing to my father. if he could assist me, i would disclose all to him: as it is, it would only be inflicting upon him unnecessary pain. understand, arthur, what i have said to you is in confidence: you must not speak of it to him.”

“of course not. i should not think of interfering between you and him. i wish i could help you!”

“i wish you could, old fellow. but you need not look so serious.”

“how you can be so gay and careless over it, i cannot imagine,” said arthur.

hamish laughed. “if there’s only a little patch of sunshine as large as a man’s hand, i am sure to see it and trust to it.”

“is there any sunshine in this?”

“a little bit: and i hope it will help me out of it. i am sure i was born with a large share of hope in my composition.”

“show me the bit of sunshine, hamish.”

“i can’t do that,” was the answer. “i fear it is not so much actual sunshine that’s to be seen yet—only its reflection. you could not see it at all, arthur; but i, as i tell you, am extravagantly hopeful.”

the same ever-gay tone, the same pleasant smile, accompanied the words. and yet, at that moment, instead of walking straightforward into the open space beyond the elm-trees, as arthur did, hamish withdrew his arm from his brother’s, and halted under their shade, peering cautiously around. they were then within view of their own door.

“what are you looking at?”

“to make sure that the coast is clear. i heard to-day—arthur, i know that i shall shock you—that a fellow had taken out a writ against me. i don’t want to get it served, if i can help it.”

arthur was indeed shocked. “oh, hamish!” was all he uttered. but the tone betrayed a strange amount of pain mingled with reproach.

“you must not think ill of me. i declare that i have been led into this scrape blindfolded, as may be said. i never dreamt i was getting into it. i am not reckless by nature; and, but for the expectation of that money, i should be as free now as you are.”

thought upon thought was crowding into arthur’s mind. he did not speak.

“i cannot charge myself with any foolish or unnecessary expenditure,” hamish resumed. “and,” he added in a deeper tone, “my worst enemy will not accuse me of rashly incurring debts to gratify my own pleasures. i do not get into mischief. were i addicted to drinking, or to gambling, my debts might have been ten times what they are.”

“they are enough, it seems,” said arthur. but he spoke the words in sadness, not in a spirit of reproof.

“arthur, they may prove of the greatest service, in teaching me caution for the future. perhaps i wanted the lesson. let me once get out of this hash, and i will take pretty good care not to fall into another.”

“if you only can get out of it.”

“oh, i shall do it, somehow; never fear. let us go on, there seems to be no one about.”