“Tom, where is Charles?”
“He is not in my pocket,” responded Tom Channing, who was buried in his
studies, as he had been for some hours.
“Thomas, that is not the proper way to answer me,” resumed Constance, in
a tone of seriousness, for it was from her the question had proceeded.
“It is strange he should run out in the abrupt way you describe, and
remain out so long as this. It is half-past nine! I am waiting to read.”
“The boys are up to some trick to-night with Mr. Calcraft, Constance,
and he is one of them,” said Tom. “He is sure to be in soon.”
Constance remained silent; not satisfied. A nameless, undefined sort of
dread was creeping over her. Engaged with Annabel until eight o’clock,
when she returned to the general sitting-room, she found Charles absent,
much to her surprise. Expecting him to make his appearance every moment,
the time may have seemed to her long, and his absence all the more
unaccountable. It had now gone on to half-past nine, and still he was
not come in, and his lessons were not done. It was his hour for bed
time.
Tom had more than usual to do that night, and it was nearly ten when he
rose from his books. Constance watched him put them aside, and stretch
himself. Then she spoke.
“Tom, you must go and find Charles. I begin to feel uneasy. Something
must have happened, to keep him out like this.”
The feeling “uneasy” rather amused Tom. Previsions of evil are not apt
to torment schoolboys. “I expect the worst that has happened may be a
battle royal with old Ketch,” said he. “However, the young monkey had no
business to cut short his lessons in the middle, and go off in this way,
so I’ll just run after him and march him home.”
Tom took his trencher and flew towards the cathedral. He fully expected
the boys would be gathered somewhere round it, not a hundred miles from
old Ketch’s lodge. But he could not come upon them anywhere. The lodge
was closed, was dark and silent, showing every probability that its
master had retired for the night to sleep away his discomfiture. The
cloisters were closed, and the Boundaries lay calm in the moonlight,
undisturbed by a single footstep. There was no sign of Charles, or of
any other college boy.
Tom halted in indecision. “Where can he have gone to, I wonder? I’m sure
I don’t know where to look for him! I’ll ask at Yorke’s! If there’s any
mischief up, Tod’s sure to know of it.”
He crossed the Boundaries, and rang at Lady Augusta’s door. Tod himself
opened it. Probably he thought it might be one of his friends, the
conspirators; certainly he had not expected to find Tom Channing there,
and he looked inclined to run away again.
“Tod Yorke, do you know anything of Charles?”
“Law! how should I know anything of him?” returned Tod, taking courage,
and putting a bold face upon it. “Is he lost?”
“He is not lost, I suppose; but he has disappeared somewhere. Were you
in the game with old Ketch, to-night?”
“What game?” inquired Tod, innocently.
But at this moment Gerald, hearing Tom’s voice, came out of the
sitting-room. Gerald Yorke had a little cooled down from his resentment
against Tom. Since the decision of the previous day, nearly all Gerald’s
wrath had been turned upon Mr. Pye, because that gentleman had not
exalted him to the seniorship. So great was it, that he had no room to
think of Tom. Besides, Tom was a fellow-sufferer, and had been passed
over equally with himself.
“What’s the row?” asked Gerald.
Tom explained, stating what he had heard from Ketch of the trick the
boys had played him; and Charley’s absence. Gerald, who really was not
cognizant of it in any way, listened eagerly, making his own comments,
and enjoying beyond everything the account of Ketch’s fast in the supper
department. Both he and Tom exploded with mirth; and Tod, who said
nothing, but listened with his hands in his pockets, dancing first on
one leg, then on the other, nearly laughed himself into fits.
“What did they take out the cloister keys for?” demanded Gerald.
“Who’s to know?” said Tom. “I thought Tod was sure to be in it.”
“Don’t I wish I had been!” responded that gentleman, turning up the
whites of his eyes to give earnestness to the wish.
Gerald looked round at Tod, a faint suspicion stealing over him that the
denial was less genuine than it appeared. In point of fact, Mr. Tod’s
had been the identical trencher, spoken of as having watched the effect
of the message upon old Ketch. “I say, Tod, you were off somewhere
to-night for about two hours,” said Gerald. “I’ll declare you were.”
“I know I was,” said Tod readily. “I had an appointment with Mark
Galloway, and I went to keep it. If you skinned me alive, Channing, I
couldn’t tell you where Miss Charley is, or where he’s likely to be.”
True enough in the abstract. Tom Channing stopped talking a short time
longer, and then ran home. “Is Charley in yet?” was his first question.
No, Charley was not in; and the household now became seriously
concerned. It was past ten. By leaving his lessons half done, and his
pen inside his exercise-book--of which exercise he had not left many
words to complete; but he had other studies to do--it was evident to
them that he had not gone out intending to remain away. Indeed, if he
wanted to go out in an evening, he always asked leave, and mentioned
where he was going.
“Haven’t you found him?” exclaimed Judith, coming forward as Tom
entered. “Where in the world can the child be?”
“Oh, he’s safe somewhere,” said Tom. “Don’t worry your old head, Judy.”
“It’s fit that somebody should worry their heads,” retorted Judith
sharply to Tom. “He never stopped out like this before--never! Pray
Heaven there’s no harm come nigh him!”
“Well done, Judy!” was Tom’s answer. “Harm! What harm is likely to have
come to him? Helstonleigh has not been shaken by an earthquake to-night,
to swallow him up; and I don’t suppose any greedy kite has descended
from the skies and carried him off in her talons. You’ll make a
simpleton of that boy till he’s twenty!”
Judith--who, truth to say, did look very much after Charley, loved him
and indulged him--wasted no more words on infidel Tom, but went straight
up to Hamish’s room, and knocked at the door. Hamish was in it, at his
writing-table as usual, and Judith heard a drawer opened and shut before
he came to her.
“Mr. Hamish, it’s very queer about the child!” said Judith. “I don’t
half like it.”
“What! Has he not come in?”
“No, he’s not. And, just to look how he has left his books and his
lessons about, is enough to prove that something or other must have kept
him. I declare my heart’s all in a quake! Master Tom has been out, and
can find no traces of him--though it’s hard to tell whether he troubled
himself to look much. Boys are as careless one of another as so many
young animals.”
“I will come down directly, Judith.”
He shut the door, right in front of Judith’s inquisitive nose, which was
peering in to ascertain what there might be to see. Judith’s curiosity,
in reference to her young master’s night employment, had increased
rather than abated. Every night, night after night, as Hamish came home
with the account-books of the office under his arm, and carried them
straight to his bedroom, Judith watched him go up with jealous eyes.
Constance also watched him: watched him in a far more uneasy frame
of mind than could be Judith’s. Bringing home those books now, in Mr.
Channing’s absence, was only too plain a proof to Constance that his
night work must be connected with them: and a perfectly sick feeling
would rush over her. Surely there could be nothing wrong with the
accounts?
Hamish closed the door, shutting out Judy. She heard him putting things
away: heard a lock turned, and the keys removed. Then he came forth, and
went down with Judith.
The difficulty was, where to look for Charles. It was possible that
he might have gone to the houses of any one of the schoolboys, and be
staying there: if not very likely, still it was by no means impossible.
Tom was despatched to Mr. Pye’s, who had some half dozen of the king’s
scholars boarding in his house; and thence to other houses in the
neighbourhood. All with the same result; all denied knowledge of
Charles. The college bell struck eleven, the sound booming out in the
silence of the night on their listening ears; and with that sound,
Hamish grew alarmed.
They went out different ways: Hamish, Arthur, Tom, and Judith. Sarah
was excessively anxious to make one of the searching party, but Judith
imperatively ordered her to stop at home and mind her own business. Judy
ran round and about the college, like any one wild; nothing extra on her
shoulders, and the border of her mob-cap flying. But the old red walls
were high, silent, and impenetrable; revealing nothing of Charles
Channing. She stopped at the low wall, extending from the side of the
boat-house to some of the prebendal residences, and glanced over at the
river. The water was flowing tranquilly between its banks, giving no
sign that a young child was drowning, or had been drowned there not many
hours before. “No,” said Judy to herself, rejecting the doubt, which had
come over her as improbable, “he can’t have got in there. We should have
heard of it.”
She turned, and took a survey around. She did not know what to do, or
where to look. Still, cold, shadowy it all lay; the cathedral, the old
houses, the elm trees with their birds, at rest now. “Where _can_ he
have got to?” exclaimed Judith, with a touch of temper.
One thing was certain: it was of no use to wait where she was, and
Judith went herself home again. Just beyond the house of Lady Augusta
Yorke she encountered the head-master, who was walking towards his home.
He said “Good night” to Judith, as he passed her; but she arrested him.
“We are in a fine way, sir! We can’t find Master Charles.”
“Not find Master Charles?” repeated Mr. Pye. “How do you mean?”
“Why, it happened in this way, sir,” said Judith. “He was at his
lessons, as usual, with Master Tom, and he suddenly gets up and leaves
them, and goes out, without saying a word to nobody. That was at seven,
or a bit later; and he has never come in again.”
“He must be staying somewhere,” remarked Mr. Pye.
“So we all thought, sir, till it got late. He’s not likely to be staying
anywhere now. Who’d keep him till this hour, terrifying of us all into
fits? Ketch--”
“Holloa, Judy! Any luck?”
The interruption came from Tom Channing. He had discerned Judy’s cap
from the other side of the Boundaries, and now came running across,
unconscious that her companion was the head-master. Judy went on with
her communication.
“Ketch, the porter, came to Master Tom an hour or two ago, complaining
that the college boys had been serving him a trick to-night. They had
pretended to invite him out somewhere to supper, and stole his cloister
keys while he was gone. Now, sir, I’d not like to say too much against
that surly-tempered brown bear,” went on Judy, “but if he has had
anything to do with keeping the child out, he ought to be punished.”
Tom was up now, saw it was the master, and touched his trencher.
“Have you found your brother?” asked the master.
“No, sir. It is very strange where he can have got to.”
“What tricks have the boys been playing Ketch, to-night?” resumed Mr.
Pye. “Your servant tells me that he has been round to you to complain of
them.”
Tom went into a white heat. Judy ought to have kept her mouth shut.
It was not his place to inform against the school, privately, to the
master. “Y--es,” he hesitatingly said, for an untruth he would not tell.
“What was the complaint?” continued Mr. Pye. “Could this disappearance
of your brother’s be connected with it?”
“No, sir, I don’t see that it could,” replied Tom.
“You ‘don’t see!’ Perhaps you’ll allow me to see, and judge. What had
the boys been doing, Channing?” firmly spoke the master, perceiving his
hesitation. “I _insist_ upon knowing.”
Tom was at his wits’ ends. He might not defy the master, on the one
hand; on the other, he knew the school would send him to Coventry for
ever and a day, if he spoke; as he himself would have sent any other
boy, in it, doing the same thing. He heartily wished Judy had been in
Asia before she had spoken of it, and her tongue with her.
“Were you in the affair yourself, pray?” asked the master.
“No, sir, indeed I was not; and I do not know a single boy who was. I
have heard nothing of it, except from Ketch.”
“Then what is your objection to tell me?”
“Well, sir, you know the rules we hold amongst ourselves,” said Tom,
blurting out the truth, in his desperation. “I scarcely dare tell you.”
“Yes, you dare, Channing, when I command you to do so,” was the
significant answer.
Tom had no resource left; and, very unwillingly, Ketch’s details were
drawn from him, bit by bit. The sham invitation, the disappointment
touching the tripe and onions, the missing the cloister keys when he
reached home, and the finding them outside the west door.
“Did he enter the cloisters and examine them?” said the master, speaking
hastily. A possibility had struck him, which had not struck any of the
Channings; and it was curious that it had not done so.
“I think not, sir,” replied Tom.
“Then, that’s where Charles is, locked up in the cloisters!” said the
master, the recollection of the former locking-up no doubt helping
him to the conclusion. “The fact of the keys having been left hanging
outside the cloister door might have been sufficient to direct your
suspicions.”
Tom felt the force of the words, and was wondering how it was he had not
thought of it, when a cry burst from Judith.
“If he is there, he will never come out alive! Oh, sir, what will become
of us?”
The master was surprised. He knew it was not a desirable situation
for any young boy; but “never come out alive” were strong terms. Judy
explained them. She poured into the master’s ears the unhappy story of
Charles having been frightened in childhood; of his propensity still to
supernatural fears.
“Make haste round! we must have the cloisters opened immediately!”
exclaimed the master, as all the full truth of the dread imparted by
Judith became clear to him. “Channing, you have light heels; run on, and
knock up Ketch.”
Tom tore off; never a lighter pair of heels than his, to-night; and the
master and the old servant followed. The master’s sympathies, nay, his
lively fears, were strongly awakened, and he could not leave the affair
in this stage, late though the hour was.
They arrived, to find Tom pummelling at Ketch’s door. But to pummel
was one thing, and to arouse Mr. Ketch was another. Mr. Ketch chose to
remain deaf. “I’ll try the window,” said Tom, “He must hear; his bed is
close at hand.”
He knocked sharply; and it at length elicited an answer from the drowsy
gentleman, composed of growls and abuse.
“Get up!” called out Tom. “The keys of the cloisters are wanted.”
“Then they may be wanted!” responded old Ketch in a muffled tone, as if
he were speaking from under the bed-clothes. “I’ll see you all furder
before you get the keys from me.”
“Ketch, produce the keys this instant!” interposed the master. “You know
my voice; Mr. Pye’s. How dare you?”
“I’ll ‘dare’ you all, if you don’t go away!” raved old Ketch, mistaking,
or pretending to mistake, the disturbers for his enemies, the college
boys. “It’s a second edition of the trick you played me this evening, is
it? I’ll go to the dean with the first glimmer o’ daylight--”
“Ketch, I am the head-master. I have come for the cloister keys. There’s
a boy locked in the cloisters!”
“Is there? Praise be given up for that! I wouldn’t unlock him for a mint
o’ diaments. If you don’t be off, I’ll call the police.”
“Fire! fire!” shouted Judy, in a shrill tone, putting her mouth to the
keyhole; for she despaired of gaining Ketch by any other means. “What an
idiot you are, old Ketch! Do you want to be burnt up alive?”
“Fire!” shouted Tom, in stentorian tones. “Fire! fire!” And
Ketch, whether he was really alarmed, or whether he recognized the
head-master’s voice, and thought it imprudent to hold out any longer,
tumbled out of bed, opened the door, and appeared before them in attire
more airy than elegant. Another minute, and impetuous Tom would have
burst the window in.
“Beg pardon,” said Ketch, ungraciously, to the master. “Them boys play
me up such tricks, that I’m always thinking of ‘em. Where’s the fire?”
“I don’t think it’s anywhere,” said the master. “The cloister keys,
Ketch: and make haste. Which of the boys played you that trick
to-night?”
Ketch gave a yell, for the point was a sore one. “I never set eyes on
one of ‘em! They’re too cunning for me.”
“Was my brother Charles one?” asked Tom, while Mr. Pye hastened away
with the cloister keys.
“I tell ye I never see’d one! Can’t you believe?” Tom did believe, and
went after the master and Judy.
They entered the cloisters, and shouted for Charles. Nothing answered
them but the echoes. To _see_ whether he was there, was impossible. Judy
thought he might be lying somewhere, insensible from fright, and she ran
up and down feeling into niches, as one demented. Mr. Pye sent Tom back
to old Ketch’s for a light, which was not supplied without difficulty.
He was turning away with it, when Hamish came up. Hamish had been with
all speed to Mr. Huntley’s, to question Harry, as senior of the school,
whether he knew what the trick of the night had been, and what boys were
in it. Harry, however, who was in bed, assured Hamish of his complete
ignorance. But for Mr. Huntley’s veto, he would have got up and gone out
to join in the search, and enjoyed it amazingly.
They carried the candle to every nook and corner of the cloisters, no
result arising from it. Hamish and Tom climbed over and searched the
burial-ground. He was not there. No signs, for their keen eyes, or
for any others, remained of the night’s work: the college boys were
cautious. A couple of matches, half-burnt, lay on the ground in the
north quadrangle, but they told nothing. The boys were often lighting
matches, as the master knew.
“I really think you must be mistaken in supposing Charles’s absence has
to do with this trick played upon old Ketch--whatever it may have
been,” he observed. “It does not appear that the boys have been in
the cloisters. Had any of them been locked in here, here they would be
still.”
There was no denying it, and they left the cloisters and closed them.
The keys were conveyed to Ketch, who had to get out of bed again to
receive them, which he did with a great amount of wrath. Mr. Pye thought
it would be proved that Charles must be at the house of one of the boys,
carelessness or accident having detained him. And then he wished them
good night and went home.
Completely at a loss were they. Hamish, ever hopeful, thought Charles
had perhaps returned home: and they bent their steps thither. No, no;
Constance, Arthur, and curious Sarah, were all outside, looking every
way. Constance was too agitated to remain indoors. Arthur had just
returned home. He had been to the houses of some of the college boys,
those with whom Charles was most intimate, but could obtain no tidings
of him.
Constance burst into tears. She grew excessively alarmed, when Judy
mentioned the doubt lest he had been shut in the cloisters. “But that
fear is done away with,” said Hamish. “We have searched them thoroughly.
Do not distress yourself, Constance.”
“There goes midnight!” exclaimed Judy.
“Ugh!” shivered Sarah. “I feel just as if somebody was walking over my
grave, Judith.”
“If they were walking over you, it mightn’t be amiss,” reprimanded
Judith. “Don’t talk such stuff as that, girl, in the young mistress’s
ears.”
The words died away into silence, and they stood listening to the
strokes of the deep-toned cathedral bell. With the last, twelve, another
day had dawned upon the world. What would it bring forth for them?
“I shall go to the police-station,” said Hamish. “Constance, my dear,
you had better not remain outside. Go indoors.”
It was well to say “Go indoors,” but in the agitation and suspense at
that moment overwhelming Constance, “indoors” was not so easy to bear.
Hamish strode off, Tom following him. Arthur remained with his sister,
waiting and watching still.
And so they waited and watched through the livelong night. Hamish was
at work; the police were at work; Tom was at work: but neither sign nor
trace could be found of Charles Channing.