The Channings Part 11

"No need to box him for that," resented the wife. "The bell is ringing, and I'll be bound the boy's right enough. One of them masons must have fallen asleep in the day, and has just woke up to find himself shut in. Hope he likes his berth!"

Whatever it might be, ringing the bell, whether magic or mason, of course it must be seen to; and the s.e.xton hastened out, the cathedral keys in his hand. He bent his steps towards the front entrance, pa.s.sing the cloisters, which, as he knew, would be locked at that hour. "And that bear of a Ketch won't hurry himself to unlock them," soliloquized he.

He found the front gates surrounded. The bell had struck upon the wondering ears of many living within the precincts of the cathedral, who flocked out to ascertain the reason. Amongst others, the college boys were coming up in troops.

"Now, good people, please--by your leave!" cried the s.e.xton. "Let me get to the gates."

They made way for the man and his ponderous keys, and entrance to the college was gained. The s.e.xton was beginning a sharp reproof to the "mason," and the crowd preparing a chorus to it, when they were seized with consternation, and fell back on each other's toes. It was the Bishop of Helstonleigh, in his laced-up hat and ap.r.o.n, who walked forth.

The s.e.xton humbly s.n.a.t.c.hed off his hat; the college boys raised their trenchers.

"Thank you all for coming to the rescue," said the bishop, in a pleasant tone. "It was not an agreeable situation, to be locked in the cathedral."

"My lord," stammered the s.e.xton, in awe-struck dread, as to whether he had unwittingly been the culprit: "how did your lordship get locked in?"

"That is what we must inquire into," replied the bishop.

The next to hobble out was Ketch. In his own fashion, almost ignoring the presence of the bishop, he made known the tale. It was received with ridicule. The college boys especially cast mockery upon it, and began dancing a jig when the bishop's back was turned. "Let a couple of keys drop down, and, when picked up, you found them transmogrified into old rusty machines, made in the year one!" cried Bywater. "_That's_ very like a whale, Ketch!"

Ketch tore off to his lodge, as fast as his lumbago allowed him, calling upon the crowd to come and look at the nail where the keys always hung, except when in use, and holding out the rusty dissemblers for public view, in a furious pa.s.sion.

He dashed open the door. The college boys, pushing before the crowd, and following on the bishop's heels--who had probably his own reasons for wishing to see the solution of the affair--thronged into the lodge. "There's the nail, my lord, and there--"

Ketch stopped, dumbfounded. On the nail, hanging by the string, as quietly as if they had hung for ages, were the cloister keys. Ketch rubbed his eyes, and stared, and rubbed again. The bishop smiled.

"I told you, Ketch, I thought you must be mistaken, in supposing you brought the proper keys out."

Ketch burst into a wail of anger and deprecation. He had took out the right keys, and Jenkins could bear him out in the a.s.sertion. Some wicked trick had been played upon him, and the keys brought back during his absence and hung up on their hook! He'd lay his life it was the college boys!

The bishop turned his eyes on those young gentlemen. But nothing could be more innocent than their countenances, as they stood before him in their trenchers. Rather too innocent, perhaps: and the bishop's eyes twinkled, and a half-smile crossed his lips; but he made no sign. Well would it be if all the clergy were as sweet-tempered as that Bishop of Helstonleigh!

"Well, Ketch, take care of your keys for the future," was all he said, as he walked away. "Good night, boys."

"Good night to your lordship," replied the boys, once more raising their trenchers; and the crowd, outside, respectfully saluted their prelate, who returned it in kind.

"What are you waiting for, Thorpe?" the bishop demanded, when he found the s.e.xton was still at the great gates, holding them about an inch open.

"For Jenkins, my lord," was the reply. "Ketch said he was also locked in."

"Certainly he was," replied the bishop. "Has he not come forth?"

"That he has not, my lord. I have let n.o.body whatever out except your lordship and the porter. I have called out to him, but he does not answer, and does not come."

"He went up into the organ-loft in search of a candle and matches," remarked the bishop. "You had better go after him, Thorpe. He may not know that the doors are open."

The bishop left, crossing over to the palace. Thorpe, calling one of the old bedesmen, some of whom had then come up, left him in charge of the gate, and did as he was ordered. He descended the steps, pa.s.sed through the wide doors, and groped his way in the dark towards the choir.

"Jenkins!"

There was no answer.

"Jenkins!" he called out again.

Still there was no answer: except the sound of the s.e.xton's own voice as it echoed in the silence of the large edifice.

"Well, this is an odd go!" exclaimed Thorpe, as he leaned against a pillar and surveyed the darkness of the cathedral. "He can't have melted away into a ghost, or dropped down into the crypt among the coffins. Jenkins, I say!"

With a word of impatience at the continued silence, the s.e.xton returned to the entrance gates. All that could be done was to get a light and search for him.

They procured a lantern, Ketch ungraciously supplying it; and the s.e.xton, taking two or three of the spectators with him, proceeded to the search. "He has gone to sleep in the organ-loft, that is what he has done," cried Thorpe, making known what the bishop had said.

Alas! Jenkins had not gone to sleep. At the foot of the steps, leading to the organ-loft, they came upon him. He was lying there insensible, blood oozing from a wound in the forehead. How had it come about? What had caused it?

Meanwhile, the college boys, after driving Mr. Ketch nearly wild with their jokes and ridicule touching the mystery of the keys, were scared by the sudden appearance of the head-master. They decamped as fast as their legs could carry them, bringing themselves to an anchor at a safe distance, under shade of the friendly elm trees. Bywater stuck his back against one, and his laughter came forth in peals. Some of the rest tried to stop it, whispering caution.

"It's of no good talking, you fellows! I can't keep it in; I shall burst if I try. I have been at bursting point ever since I twitched the keys out of his hands in the cloisters, and threw the rusty ones down. You see I was right--that it was best for one of us to go in without our boots, and to wait. If half a dozen had gone, we should never have got away unheard."

"I pretty nearly burst when I saw the bishop come out, instead of Ketch," cried Tod Yorke. "Burst with fright."

"So did a few more of us," said Galloway. "I say, will there be a row?"

"Goodness knows! He is a kind old chap is the bishop. Better for it to have been him than the dean."

"What was it Ketch said, about Jenkins seeing a glowworm?"

"Oh!" shrieked Bywater, holding his sides, "that was the best of all! I had taken a lucifer out of my pocket, playing with it, while they went round to the south gate, and it suddenly struck fire. I threw it over to the burial-ground: and that soft Jenkins took it for a glowworm."

"It's a stunning go!" emphatically concluded Mr. Tod Yorke. "The best we have had this half, yet."

"Hush--sh--sh--sh!" whispered the boys under their breath. "There goes the master."

CHAPTER XIII.

MAD NANCE.

Mr. Galloway was in his office. Mr. Galloway was fuming and fretting at the non-arrival of his clerk, Mr. Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins was a punctual man; in fact, more than punctual: his proper time for arriving at the office was half-past nine; but the cathedral clock had rarely struck the quarter-past before Mr. Jenkins would be at his post. Almost any other morning it would not have mattered a straw to Mr. Galloway whether Jenkins was a little after or a little before his time; but on this particular morning he had especial need of him, and had come himself to the office unusually early.

One-two, three-four! chimed the quarters of the cathedral. "There it goes--half-past nine!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mr. Galloway. "What does Jenkins mean by it? He knew he was wanted early."

A sharp knock at the office door, and there entered a little dark woman, in a black bonnet and a beard. She was Mr. Jenkins's better half, and had the reputation for being considerably the grey mare.

"Good morning, Mr. Galloway. A pretty kettle of fish, this is!"

"What's the matter now?" asked Mr. Galloway, surprised at the address. "Where's Jenkins?"

"Jenkins is in bed with his head plastered up. He's the greatest b.o.o.by living, and would positively have come here all the same, but I told him I'd strap him down with cords if he attempted it. A pretty object he'd have looked, staggering through the streets, with his head big enough for two, and held together with white plaster!"

"What has he done to his head?" wondered Mr. Galloway.

"Good gracious! have you not heard?" exclaimed the lady, whose mode of speech was rarely overburdened with polite words, though she meant no disrespect by it. "He got locked up in the cloisters last night with old Ketch and the bishop."

Mr. Galloway stared at her. He had been dining, the previous evening, with some friends at the other end of the town, and knew nothing of the occurrence. Had he been within hearing when the college bell tolled out at night, he would have run to ascertain the cause as eagerly as any schoolboy. "Locked up in the cloisters with old Ketch and the bishop!" he repeated, in amazement. "I do not understand."

Mrs. Jenkins proceeded to enlighten him. She gave the explanation of the strange affair of the keys, as it had been given to her by the unlucky Joe. While telling it, Arthur Channing entered, and, almost immediately afterwards, Roland Yorke.

"The bishop, of all people!" uttered Mr. Galloway. "What an untoward thing for his lordship!"

"No more untoward for him than for others," retorted the lady. "It just serves Jenkins right. What business had he to go dancing through the cloisters with old Ketch and his keys?"

"But how did Jenkins get hurt?" asked Mr. Galloway, for that particular point had not yet been touched upon.

"He is the greatest fool going, is Jenkins," was the complimentary retort of Jenkins's wife. "After he had helped to ring out the bell, he must needs go poking and groping into the organ-loft, hunting for matches or some such insane rubbish. He might have known, had he possessed any sense, that candles and matches are not likely to be there in summer-time! Why, if the organist wanted ever so much to stop in after dark, when the college is locked up for the night, he wouldn't be allowed to do it! It's only in winter, when he has to light a candle to get through the afternoon service, that they keep matches and dips up there."

"But about his head?" repeated Mr. Galloway, who was aware of the natural propensity of Mrs. Jenkins to wander from the point under discussion.

"Yes, about his head!" she wrathfully answered. "In attempting to descend the stairs again, he missed his footing, and pitched right down to the bottom of the flight. That's how his head came in for it. He wants a nurse with him always, does Jenkins, for he is no better than a child in leading-strings."

"Is he much hurt?"

"And there he'd have lain till morning, but for the bishop," resumed Mrs. Jenkins, pa.s.sing over the inquiry. "After his lordship got out, he, finding Jenkins did not come, told Thorpe to go and look for him in the organ-loft. Thorpe said he should have done nothing of the sort, but for the bishop's order; he was just going to lock the great doors again, and there Jenkins would have been fast! They found him lying at the foot of the stairs, just inside the choir gates, with no more life in him than there is in a dead man."

"I asked you whether he is seriously hurt, Mrs. Jenkins."

"Pretty well. He came to his senses as they were bringing him home, and somebody ran for Hurst, the surgeon. He is better this morning."

"But not well enough to come to business?"

"Hurst told him if he worried himself with business, or anything else to-day, he'd get brain fever as sure as a gun. He ordered him to stop in bed and keep quiet, if he could."

"Of course he must do so," observed Mr. Galloway.

"There is no of course in it, when men are the actors," dissented Mrs. Jenkins. "Hurst did well to say 'if he could,' when ordering him to keep quiet. I'd rather have an animal ill in the house, than I'd have a man--they are ten times more reasonable. There has Jenkins been, tormenting himself ever since seven o'clock this morning about coming here; he was wanted particularly, he said. 'Would you go if you were dead?' I asked him; and he stood it out that if he were dead it would be a different thing. 'Not different at all,' I said. A nice thing it would be to have to nurse him through a brain fever!"

"I am grieved that it should have happened," said Mr. Galloway, kindly. "Tell him from me, that we can manage very well without him. He must not venture here again, until Mr. Hurst says he may come with safety."

"I should have told him that, to pacify him, whether you had said it or not," candidly avowed Mrs. Jenkins. "And now I must go back home on the run. As good have no one to mind my shop as that young house-girl of ours. If a customer comes in for a pair of black stockings, she'll take and give 'em a white knitted nightcap. She's as deficient of common sense as Jenkins is. Your servant, sir. Good morning, young gentlemen!"

"Here, wait a minute!" cried Mr. Galloway, as she was speeding off. "I cannot understand at all. The keys could not have been changed as they lay on the flags."

"Neither can anybody else understand it," returned Mrs. Jenkins. "If Jenkins was not a sober man--and he had better let me catch him being anything else!--I should say the two, him and Ketch, had had a drop too much. The bishop himself could make neither top nor tail of it. It'll teach Jenkins not to go gallivanting again after other folk's business!"

She finally turned away, and Mr. Galloway set himself to revolve the perplexing narrative. The more he thought, the less he was nearer doing so; like the bishop, he could make neither top nor tail of it. "It is entirely beyond belief!" he remarked to Arthur Channing; "unless Ketch took out the wrong keys!"

"And if he took out the wrong keys, how could he have locked the south door?" interrupted Roland Yorke. "I'd lay anybody five shillings that those mischievous scamps of college boys were at the bottom of it; I taxed Gerald with it, and he flew out at me for my pains. But the seniors may not have been in it. You should have heard the bell clank out last night, Mr. Galloway!"

"I suppose it brought out a few," was Mr. Galloway's rejoinder.

"It did that," said Arthur Channing. "Myself for one. When I saw the bishop emerge from the college doors, I could scarcely believe my sight."

"I'd have given half-a-crown to see him!" cried Roland Yorke. "If there's any fun going on, it is sure to be my fate to miss it. Cator was at my house, having a cigar with me; and, though we heard the bell, we did not disturb ourselves to see what it might mean."

"What is your opinion of last night's work, Arthur?" asked Mr. Galloway, returning to the point.

Arthur's opinion was a very decided one, but he did not choose to say so. The meeting with the college boys at their stealthy post in the cloisters, when he and Hamish were pa.s.sing through at dusk, a few nights before, coupled with the hints then thrown out of the "serving out" of Ketch, could leave little doubt as to the culprits. Arthur returned an answer, couched in general terms.

"Could it have been the college boys, think you?" debated Mr. Galloway.

"Not being a college boy, I cannot speak positively, sir," he said, laughing. "Gaunt knows nothing of it. I met him as I was going home to breakfast from my early hour's work here, and he told me he did not. There would have been no harm done, after all, but for the accident to Jenkins."

"One of you gentlemen can just step in to see Jenkins in the course of the day, and rea.s.sure him that he is not wanted," said Mr. Galloway. "I know how necessary it is to keep the mind tranquil in any fear of brain affection."

No more was said, and the occupation of the day began. A busy day was that at Mr. Galloway's, much to the chagrin of Roland Yorke, who had an unconquerable objection to doing too much. He broke out into grumblings at Arthur, when the latter came running in from his duty at college.

"I'll tell you what is, Channing; you ought not to have made the bargain to go to that bothering organ on busy days; and Galloway must have been out of his mind to let you make it. Look at the heap of work there is to do!"

"I will soon make up for the lost hour," said Arthur, setting to with a will. "Where's Mr. Galloway?"

"Gone to the bank," grumbled Roland. "And I have had to answer a dozen callers-in at least, and do all my writing besides. I wonder what possessed Jenkins to go and knock his head to powder?"

Mr. Galloway shortly returned, and sat down to write. It was a thing he rarely did; he left writing to his clerks, unless it was the writing of letters. By one o'clock the chief portion of the work was done, and Mr. Roland Yorke's spirits recovered their elasticity. He went home to dinner, as usual. Arthur preferred to remain at his post, and get on further, sending the housekeeper's little maid out for a twopenny roll, which he ate as he wrote. He was of a remarkably conscientious nature, and thought it only fair to sacrifice a little time in case of need, in return for the great favour which had been granted him by Mr. Galloway. Many of the families who had sons in the college school dined at one o'clock, as it was the most convenient hour for the boys. Growing youths are not satisfied with anything less substantial than a dinner in the middle of the day, and two dinners in a household tell heavily upon the house-keeping. The Channings did not afford two, neither did Lady Augusta Yorke; so their hour was one o'clock.

"What a m.u.f.f you must be to go without your dinner!" cried Roland Yorke to Arthur, when he returned at two o'clock. "I wouldn't."

"I have had my dinner," said Arthur.

"What did you have?" cried Roland, p.r.i.c.king up his ears. "Did Galloway send to the hotel for roast ducks and green peas? That's what we had at home, and the peas were half-boiled, and the ducks were scorched, and cooked without stuffing. A wretched set of incapables our house turns out! and my lady does not know how to alter it. You have actually finished that deed, Channing?"

"It is finished, you see. It is surprising how much one can do in a quiet hour!"

"Is Galloway out?"

Arthur pointed with his pen to the door of Mr. Galloway's private room, to indicate that he was in it. "He is writing letters."

"I say, Channing, there's positively nothing left to do," went on Roland, casting his eyes over the desk. "Here are these leases, but they are not wanted until to-morrow. Who says we can't work in this office?"

Arthur laughed good-naturedly, to think of the small amount, out of that day's work, which had fallen to Roland's share.

Some time elapsed. Mr. Galloway came into their room from his own to consult a "Bradshaw," which lay on the shelf, alongside Jenkins's desk. He held in his hand a very closely-written letter. It was of large, letter-paper size, and appeared to be filled to the utmost of its four pages. While he was looking at the book, the cathedral clock chimed the three-quarters past two, and the bell rang for divine service.

"It can never be that time of day!" exclaimed Mr. Galloway, in consternation, as he took out his watch. "Sixteen minutes to three! and I am a minute slow! How has the time pa.s.sed? I ought to have been at--"