Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “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.

  CHAPTER XLII. — AN OFFICIAL CEREMONY INTERRUPTED.

  A grey dusky morning, enveloped in fog, succeeded to the fine night. Before seven o’clock — so watchful and alert are boys when mischief is afloat — most of those who had been in the conspiracy were assembled, and waiting round the schoolroom doors. Generally, they could tear up at the twelfth moment. They would not have missed the sight of Charles Channing’s arrival for half-a-crown apiece, so curious were they to see how he looked, after his fright. As it happened, it was not at any of their homes that inquiries had been made the previous night; not one of them was, to say, intimate with Charley: they were most of them older than he. Consequently, they knew nothing of the search. Tod Yorke, who did know of it, had not yet arrived. Of all the king’s scholars, none were marked late more frequently than Master Tod.

  The senior boy had gone to the head-master’s for the keys as usual, and now came down the cl
oisters, clanking them in his hand.

  “Has Charles Channing turned up?” he called out, before he was well abreast of them.

  Pierce senior choked away his inclination to laughter, which the sound of the name excited, and saucy Bywater answered. “Where should he turn up from, Huntley? Has he been swallowed?”

  “Hamish Channing came to our house last night, ages after I was in bed, saying they couldn’t find him,” replied Huntley. “What was in the wind last night with old Calcraft?”

  The boys looked at him demurely; and Huntley, receiving no reply, unlocked the schoolroom and entered it. They remained behind, winking at each other, and waiting still for Charles. It wanted yet a few minutes to seven.

  “I say, what d’ye think?” whispered Bywater. “After I had got our sheet smuggled in, all right, and was putting it on the bed, I found two big holes burnt in it. Won’t there be a commotion when my old aunt finds it out! She’ll vow I have been reading in bed. That was you, Pierce senior!”

  “I’m sure I never burnt it,” retorted Pierce. “It was the flame did it, if anything.”

  “Here comes Bill Simms!” exclaimed Bywater, when their smothered laugh was over. “What has he been doing to himself? He’s as white as the ghost!”

  Mr. Bill Simms assuredly did look white. He had a pale face at the best of times, and it was embellished with straw-coloured hair. But at the present moment it had turned ghastly, and his frame seemed shaking as he came along.

  “What on earth has taken you, Simms?” demanded Hurst.

  “Oh, goodness!” uttered Simms. “I wish I was well out of this! They are saying there’s a college boy drowned!”

  “What?” cried the boys, gathering round him.

  “There was a crowd down by the boat-house as I came along,” responded Simms, as well as he could speak for his chattering teeth. “I asked a fellow what it was, and he said he didn’t rightly know, but he thought one of the college boys had been found drowned in the water.”

  Some of the gentlemen-listeners’ faces turned as pale as Mr. Bill Simms’s; as pale as each conscience. Bywater was the first to gather courage.