“Fordham, I wonder whether the cloisters are closed?”
“I will see, my lord.”
The question came from the Bishop of Helstonleigh; who, as it fell out,
had been to make an evening call upon the dean. The dean’s servant was
now conducting his lordship down the grand staircase, on his departure.
In proceeding to the palace from the deanery, to go through the
cloisters cut off quite two-thirds of the distance.
Fordham left the hall, a lamp in his hand, and traversed sundry passages
which brought him to the deanery garden. Crossing the garden, and
treading another short passage, he came to the cloisters. The bishop had
followed, lighted by Fordham, and talking affably. A very pleasant
man was the Bishop of Helstonleigh, standing little upon forms and
ceremonies. In frame he was nearly as active as a college boy.
“It is all right, I think, my lord,” said Fordham. “I hear the porter’s
voice now in the cloisters.”
“How dark it is!” exclaimed the bishop. “Ketch must be closing late
to-night. What a noise he is making!”
In point of fact, Mr. Ketch had just arrived at that agreeable moment
which concluded the last chapter--the conviction that no other keys were
to be found, and that he and Jenkins were fast. The tone in which he was
making his sentiments known upon the calamity, was not a subdued one.
“Shall I light you round, my lord?”
“By no means--by no means. I shall be up with Ketch in a minute. He
seems in a temper. Good night, Fordham.”
“Good night to your lordship.”
The servant went back to the deanery. The prelate groped his way round
to the west quadrangle.
“Are you closing, Ketch?”
Mr. Ketch started as if he had been shot, and his noise dropped to a
calm. Truth to say, his style of complaint had not been orthodox,
or exactly suitable to the ears of his bishop. He and Jenkins both
recognized the voice, and bowed low, dark though it was.
“What is the matter, Ketch? You are making enough noise.”
“Matter, my lord!” groaned Ketch. “Here’s matter enough to make a
saint--saving your lordship’s presence--forget his prayers. We be locked
up in the cloisters.”
“Locked up!” repeated the bishop. “What do you mean? Who is with you?”
“It is me, my lord,” said Jenkins, meekly, answering for himself.
“Joseph Jenkins, my lord, at Mr. Galloway’s. I came in with the porter
just for company, my lord, when he came to lock up, and we have somehow
got locked in.”
The bishop demanded an explanation. It was not very easily afforded.
Ketch and Jenkins talked one against the other, and when the bishop did
at length understand the tale, he scarcely gave credence to it.
“It is an incomprehensible story, Ketch, that you should drop your keys,
and they should be changed for others as they lay on the flags. Are you
sure you brought out the right keys?”
“My lord, I _couldn’t_ bring out any others,” returned Ketch, in a tone
that longed to betray its resentment, and would have betrayed it to any
one but a bishop. “I haven’t no others to bring, my lord. The two keys
hang up on the nail always, and there ain’t another key besides in the
house, except the door key.”
“Some one must have changed them previously--must have hung up these in
their places,” remarked the bishop.
“But, my lord, it couldn’t be, I say,” reiterated old Ketch, almost
shrieking. “I know the keys just as well as I know my own hands, and
they was the right keys that I brought out. The best proof, my lord, is,
that I locked the south door fast enough; and how could I have done that
with these wretched old rusty things?”
“The keys must be on the flags still,” said his lordship.
“That is the only conclusion I can come to, my lord,” mildly put in
Jenkins. “But we cannot find them.”
“And meanwhile we are locked in for the night, and here’s his right
reverend lordship, the bishop, locked in with us!” danced old Ketch,
almost beside himself with anger. “Of course, it wouldn’t matter for me
and Jenkins: speaking in comparison, we are nobody; but it is a shameful
indignity for my lord.”
“We must try and get out, Ketch,” said his lordship, in a tone that
sounded as if he were more inclined to laugh than cry. “I will go back
to the deanery.”
Away went the bishop as quickly as the gloom allowed him, and away went
the other two in his wake. Arrived at the passage which led from the
cloisters to the deanery garden they groped their way to the end--only
to find the door closed and locked.
“Well, this is a pleasant situation!” exclaimed the bishop, his tone
betraying amusement as well as annoyance; and with his own prelatical
hands he pummelled at the door, and shouted with his own prelatical
voice. When the bishop was tired, Jenkins and Ketch began to pummel and
to shout, and they pummelled and shouted till their knuckles were sore
and their throats were hoarse. It was all in vain. The garden intervened
between them and the deanery, and they could not be heard.
It certainly was a pretty situation, as the prelate remarked. The
Right Reverend the Lord Bishop of Helstonleigh, ranking about fifth,
by precedence, on the episcopal bench, locked up ignominiously in
the cloisters of Helstonleigh, with Ketch the porter, and Jenkins the
steward’s clerk; likely, so far as appearances might be trusted, to have
to pass the night there! The like had never yet been heard of.
The bishop went to the south gate, and tried the keys himself: the
bishop went to the west gate and tried them there; the bishop stamped
about the west quadrangle, hoping to stamp upon the missing keys; but
nothing came of it. Ketch and Jenkins attended him--Ketch grumbling in
the most angry terms that he dared, Jenkins in humble silence.
“I really do not see what is to be done,” debated the bishop, who,
no doubt, wished himself well out of the dilemma, as any less exalted
mortal would have done, “The doors leading into the college are sure to
be closed.”
“Quite sure,” groaned Ketch.
“And to get into the college would not serve us, that I see,” added the
bishop. “We should be no better off there than here.”
“Saving that we might ring the bell, my lord,” suggested Jenkins, with
deference.
They proceeded to the college gates. It was a forlorn hope, and one that
did not serve them. The gates were locked, the doors closed behind them.
No reaching the bell that way; it might as well have been a hundred
miles off.
They traversed the cloisters again, and tried the door of the
schoolroom. It was locked. Had it not been, the senior boy might have
expected punishment from the head-master. They tried the small door
leading into the residence of Dr. Burrows--fast also; that abode just
now was empty. The folding doors of the chapter-house were opened
easily, and they entered. But what did it avail them? There was the
large, round room, lined with its books, furnished with its immense
table and easy-chairs; but it was as much shut in from the hearing of
the outside world as they were. The bishop came into contact with a
chair, and sat down in it. Jenkins, who, as clerk to Mr. Galloway, the
steward to the dean and chapter, was familiar with the chapter-house,
felt his way to the spot where he knew matches were sometimes kept. He
could not find any: it was the time of light evenings.
“There’s just one chance, my lord,” suggested Jenkins. “That the little
unused door at the corner of the cloisters, leading into the body of the
cathedral, may not be locked.”
“Precious careless of the sextons, if it is not!” grunted Ketch.
“It is a door nobody ever thinks of going in at, my lord,” returned
Jenkins, as if he would apologize for the sextons’ carelessness, should
it be found unfastened. “If it is open, we might get to the bell.”
“The sextons, proud, stuck-up gentlemen, be made up of carelessness and
anything else that’s bad!” groaned Ketch. “Holding up their heads above
us porters!”
It was worth the trial. The bishop rose from the chair, and groped his
way out of the chapter-house, the two others following.
“If it hadn’t been for that Jenkins’s folly, fancying he saw a light
in the burying-ground, and me turning round to order him to come on,
it might not have happened,” grumbled Ketch, as they wound round the
cloisters.
“A light in the burial-ground!” hastily repeated the bishop. “What
light?”
“Oh, a corpse-candle, or some nonsense of that sort, he had his mind
running on, my lord. Half the world is idiots, and Jenkins is the
biggest of ‘em.”
“My lord,” spoke poor Jenkins, deprecatingly, “I never had such a
thought within me as that it was a ‘corpse-candle.’ I said I fancied it
might be a glowworm. And I believe it was one, my lord.”
“A more sensible thought than the other,” observed the prelate.
Luck at last! The door was found to be unlocked. It was a low narrow
door, only used on the very rare occasion of a funeral, and was situated
in a shady, out-of-the-way nook, where no one ever thought of looking.
“Oh, come, this is something!” cried the bishop, cheerily, as he stepped
into the cathedral.
“And your lordship now sees what fine careless sextons we have got!”
struck in Ketch.
“We must overlook their carelessness this time, in consideration of the
service it renders us,” said the bishop, in a kindly tone. “Take care of
the pillars, Ketch.”
“Thank ye, my lord. I’m going along with my hands held out before me, to
save my head,” returned Ketch.
Most likely the bishop and Jenkins were doing the same. Dexterously
steering clear of the pillars, they emerged in the wide, open body of
the cathedral, and bent their steps across it to the spot where hung the
ropes of the bells.
The head sexton to the cathedral--whom you must not confound with a
gravedigger, as you might an ordinary sexton; cathedral sextons are
personages of more importance--was seated about this hour at supper in
his home, close to the cathedral. Suddenly the deep-toned college bell
boomed out, and the man started as if a gun had been fired at him.
“Why, that’s the college bell!” he uttered to his family. And the family
stared with open mouths without replying.
The college bell it certainly was, and it was striking out sharp
irregular strokes, as though the ringer were not accustomed to his work.
The sexton started up, in a state of the most amazed consternation.
“It is magic; it is nothing less--that the bell should be ringing out at
this hour!” exclaimed he.
“Father,” suggested a juvenile, “perhaps somebody’s got locked up in the
college.” For which prevision he was rewarded with a stinging smack on
the head.
“Take that, sir! D’ye think I don’t know better than to lock folks up in
the college? It was me, myself, as locked up this evening.”
“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 sexton hastened out, the cathedral
keys in his hand. He bent his steps towards the front entrance, passing
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 sexton. “Let me get
to the gates.”
They made way for the man and his ponderous keys, and entrance to the
college was gained. The sexton 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 apron, who walked forth.
The sexton humbly snatched 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 sexton, 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 passion.
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 assertion. 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 sexton 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 nobody 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, passed 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 sexton’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 sexton 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
sexton, 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.”