The sweet bells of Helstonleigh Cathedral were ringing out in the summer’s afternoon. Groups of people lined the streets, in greater number than the ordinary business of the day would have brought forth; some pacing with idle steps, some halting to talk with one another, some looking in silence towards a certain point, as far as the eye could reach; all waiting in expectation.

It was the first day of Helstonleigh Assizes; that is, the day on which the courts of law began their sittings. Generally speaking, the commission was opened at Helstonleigh on a Saturday; but for some convenience in the arrangements of the circuit, it was fixed this time for Wednesday; and when those cathedral bells burst forth, they gave signal that the judges had arrived and were entering the sheriff’s carriage, which had gone out to meet them.

A fine sight, carrying in it much of majesty, was the procession, as it passed through the streets with its slow and stately steps; and although Helstonleigh saw it twice a year, it looked at it with gratified eyes still, and made the day into a sort of holiday. The trumpeters rode first, blowing the proud note of advance, and the long line of well-mounted javelin men came next, two abreast; their attire that of the livery of the high sheriff’s family, and their javelins held in rest. Sundry officials followed, and the governor of the county gaol sat in an open carriage, his long white wand raised in the air. Then appeared the handsome, closed equipage of the sheriff, its four horses, caparisoned with silver, pawing the ground, for they chafed at the slow pace to which they were restrained. In it, in their scarlet robes and flowing wigs, carrying awe to many a young spectator, sat the judges. The high sheriff sat opposite to them, his chaplain by his side, in his gown and bands. A crowd of gentlemen, friends of the sheriff, followed on horseback; and a mob of ragamuffins brought up the rear.

To the assize courts the procession took its way, and there the short business of opening the commission was gone through, when the judges re-entered the carriage to proceed to the cathedral, having been joined by the mayor and corporation. The sweet bells of Helstonleigh were still ringing out, not to welcome the judges to the city now, but as an invitation to them to come and worship God. Within the grand entrance of the cathedral, waiting to receive the judges, stood the Dean of Helstonleigh, two or three of the chapter, two of the minor canons, and the king’s scholars and choristers, all in their white robes. The bells ceased; the fine organ pealed out—and there are few finer organs in England than that of Helstonleigh—the vergers with their silver maces, and the decrepit old bedesmen in their black gowns, led the way to the choir, the long scarlet trains of the judges held up behind: and places were found for all.

The Rev. John Pye began the service; it was his week for chanting. He was one of the senior minor canons, and head-master of the college school. At the desk opposite to him sat the Rev. William Yorke, a young man who had only just gained his minor canonry.

The service went on smoothly until the commencement of the anthem. In one sense it went on smoothly to the end, for no person present, not even the judges themselves, could see that anything was wrong. Mr. Pye was what was called “chanter” to the cathedral, which meant that it was he who had the privilege of selecting the music for the chants and other portions of the service, when the dean did not do so himself. The anthem he had put up for this occasion was a very good one, taken from the Psalms of David. It commenced with a treble solo; it was, moreover, an especial favourite of Mr. Pye’s; and he complacently disposed himself to listen.

But no sooner was the symphony over, no sooner had the first notes of the chorister sounded on Mr. Pye’s ear, than his face slightly flushed, and he lifted his head with a sharp, quick gesture. That was not the voice which ought to have sung this fine anthem; that was a cracked, passÉe voice, belonging to the senior chorister, a young gentleman of seventeen, who was going out of the choir at Michaelmas. He had done good service for the choir in his day, but his voice was breaking now; and the last time he had attempted a solo, the bishop (who interfered most rarely with the executive of the cathedral; and, indeed, it was not his province to do so) had spoken himself to Mr. Pye on the conclusion of the service, and said the boy ought not to be allowed to sing alone again.

Mr. Pye bent his head forward to catch a glimpse of the choristers, five of whom sat on his side of the choir, the decani; five on the opposite, or cantori side. So far as he could see, the boy, Stephen Bywater, who ought to have taken the anthem, was not in his place. There appeared to be only four of them; but the senior boy with his clean, starched surplice, partially hid those below him. Mr. Pye wondered where his eyes could have been, not to have noticed the boy’s absence when they had all been gathered round the entrance, waiting for the judges.

Had Mr. Pye’s attention not been fully engrossed with his book, as the service had gone on, he might have seen the boy opposite to him; for there sat Bywater, before the bench of king’s scholars, and right in front of Mr. Pye. Mr. Pye’s glance fell upon him now, and he could scarcely believe it. He rubbed his eyes, and looked, and rubbed again. Bywater there! and without his surplice! braving, as it were, the head-master! What could he possibly mean by this act of insubordination? Why was he not in his place in the school? Why was he mixing with the congregation? But Mr. Pye could as yet obtain no solution to the mystery.

The anthem came to an end; the dean had bent his brow at the solo, but it did no good; and, the prayers over, the sheriff’s chaplain ascended to the pulpit to preach the sermon. He selected his text from St. John’s Gospel: “That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit.” In the course of his sermon he pointed out that the unhappy prisoners in the gaol, awaiting the summons to answer before an earthly tribunal for the evil deeds they had committed, had been led into their present miserable condition by the seductions of the flesh. They had fallen into sin, he went on, by the indulgence of their passions; they had placed no restraint upon their animal appetites and guilty pleasures; they had sunk gradually into crime, and had now to meet the penalty of the law. But did no blame, he asked, attach to those who had remained indifferent to their downward course; who had never stretched forth a friendly hand to rescue them from destruction; who had made no effort to teach and guide in the ways of truth and righteousness these outcasts of society? Were we, he demanded, at liberty to ignore our responsibility by asking in the words of earth’s first criminal, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” No; it was at once our duty and our privilege to engage in the noble work of man’s reformation—to raise the fallen—to seek out the lost, and to restore the outcast; and this, he argued, could only be accomplished by a widely-disseminated knowledge of God’s truth, by patient, self-denying labour in God’s work, and by a devout dependence on God’s Holy Spirit.

At the conclusion of the service the head-master proceeded to the vestry, where the minor canons, choristers, and lay-clerks kept their surplices. Not the dean and chapter; they robed in the chapter-house: and the king’s scholars put on their surplices in the schoolroom. The choristers followed Mr. Pye to the vestry, Bywater entering with them. The boys grouped themselves together: they were expecting—to use their own expression—a row.

“Bywater, what is the meaning of this conduct?” was the master’s stern demand.

“I had no surplice, sir,” was Bywater’s answer—a saucy-looking boy with a red face, who had a propensity for getting into “rows,” and, consequently, into punishment.

“No surplice!” repeated Mr. Pye—for the like excuse had never been offered by a college boy before. “What do you mean?”

“We were ordered to wear clean surplices this afternoon. I brought mine to college this morning; I left it here in the vestry, and took the dirty one home. Well, sir, when I came to put it on this afternoon, it was gone.”

“How could it have gone? Nonsense, sir! Who would touch your surplice?”

“But I could not find it, sir,” repeated Bywater. “The choristers know I couldn’t; and they left me hunting for it when they went into the hall to receive the judges. I could not go into my stall, sir, and sing the anthem without my surplice.”

“Hurst had no business to sing it,” was the vexed rejoinder of the master. “You know your voice is gone, Hurst. You should have gone up to the organist, stated the case, and had another anthem put up.”

“But, sir, I was expecting Bywater in every minute. I thought he’d be sure to find his surplice somewhere,” was Hurst’s defence. “And when he did not come, and it grew too late to do anything, I thought it better to take the anthem myself than to give it to a junior, who would be safe to have made a mess of it. Better for the judges and other strangers to hear a faded voice in Helstonleigh Cathedral, than to hear bad singing.”

The master did not speak. So far, Hurst’s argument had reason in it.

“And—I beg your pardon for what I am about to say, sir,” Hurst went on: “but I hope you will allow me to assure you beforehand, that neither I, nor my juniors under me, have had a hand in this affair. Bywater has just told me that the surplice is found, and how; and blame is sure to be cast upon us; but I declare that not one of us has been in the mischief.”

Mr. Pye opened his eyes. “What now?” he asked. “What is the mischief?”

“I found the surplice afterwards, sir,” Bywater said. “This is it.”

He spoke meaningly, as if preparing them for a surprise, and pointed to a corner of the vestry. There lay a clean, but tumbled surplice, half soaked in ink. The head-master and Mr. Yorke, lay-clerks and choristers, all gathered round, and stared in amazement.

“They shall pay me the worth of the surplice,” spoke Bywater, an angry shade crossing his usually good-tempered face.

“And have a double flogging into the bargain,” exclaimed the master. “Who has done this?”

“It looks as though it had been rabbled up for the purpose,” cried Hurst, in schoolboy phraseology, bending down and touching it gingerly with his finger. “The ink has been poured on to it.”

“Where did you find it?” sharply demanded the master—not that he was angry with the boys before him, but he felt angry that the thing should have taken place.

“I found it behind the screen, sir,” replied Bywater. “I thought I’d look there, as a last resource, and there it was. I should think nobody has been behind that screen for a twelvemonth past, for it’s over ankles in dust there.”

“And you know nothing of it, Hurst?”

“Nothing whatever, sir,” was the reply of the senior chorister, spoken earnestly. “When Bywater whispered to me what had occurred, I set it down as the work of one of the choristers, and I taxed them with it. But they all denied it strenuously, and I believe they spoke the truth. I put them on their honour.”

The head-master peered at the choristers. Innocence was in every face—not guilt; and he, with Hurst, believed he must look elsewhere for the culprit. That it had been done by a college boy there could be no doubt whatever; either out of spite to Bywater, or from pure love of mischief. The king’s scholars had no business in the vestry; but just at this period the cathedral was undergoing repair, and they could enter, if so minded, at any time of the day, the doors being left open for the convenience of the workmen.

The master turned out of the vestry. The cathedral was emptied of its crowd, leaving nothing but the dust to tell of what had been, and the bells once more went pealing forth over the city. Mr. Pye crossed the nave, and quitted the cathedral by the cloister door, followed by the choristers. The schoolroom, once the large refectory of the monks in monkish days, was on the opposite side of the cloisters; a large room, which you gained by steps, and whose high windows were many feet from the ground. Could you have climbed to those windows, and looked from them, you would have beheld a fair scene. A clear river wound under the cathedral walls; beyond its green banks were greener meadows, stretching out in the distance; far-famed, beautiful hills bounded the horizon. Close by, were the prebendal houses; some built of red stone, some covered with ivy, all venerable with age. Pleasant gardens surrounded most of them, and dark old elms towered aloft, sheltering the rooks, which seemed as old as the trees.

The king’s scholars were in the schoolroom, cramming their surplices into bags, or preparing to walk home with them thrown upon their arms, and making enough hubbub to alarm the rooks. It dropped to a dead calm at sight of the master. On holidays—and this was one—it was not usual for the masters to enter the school after service. The school was founded by royal charter—its number limited to forty boys, who were called king’s scholars, ten of whom, those whose voices were the best, were chosen choristers. The master marched to his desk, and made a sign for the boys to approach, addressing himself to the senior boy.

“Gaunt, some mischief has been done in the vestry, touching Bywater’s surplice. Do you know anything of it?”

“No, sir,” was the prompt answer. And Gaunt was one who scorned to tell a lie.

The master ranged his eyes round the circle. “Who does?”

There was no reply. The boys looked at one another, a sort of stolid surprise for the most part predominating. Mr. Pye resumed:

“Bywater tells me that he left his clean surplice in the vestry this morning. This afternoon it was found thrown behind the screen, tumbled together, beyond all doubt purposely, and partially covered with ink. I ask, who has done this?”

“I have not, sir,” burst forth from most of the boys simultaneously. The seniors, of whom there were three besides Gaunt, remained silent. But this was nothing unusual; for the seniors, unless expressly questioned or taxed with a fault, did not accustom themselves to a voluntary denial.

“I can only think this has been the result of accident,” continued the head-master. “It is incredible to suppose any one of you would wantonly destroy a surplice. If so, let that boy, whoever he may have been, speak up honourably, and I will forgive him. I conclude that the ink must have been spilt upon it, I say accidentally, and that he then, in his consternation, tumbled the surplice together, and threw it out of sight behind the screen. It had been more straightforward, more in accordance with what I wish you all to be—boys of thorough truth and honour—had he candidly confessed it. But the fear of the moment may have frightened his better judgment away. Let him acknowledge it now, and I will forgive him; though of course he must pay Bywater for another surplice.”

A dead silence.

“Do you hear, boys?” the master sternly asked.

No answer from any one; nothing but continued silence. The master rose, and his countenance assumed its most severe expression.

“Hear further, boys. That it is one of you, I am convinced; and your refusing to speak compels me to fear that it was not an accident, but a premeditated, wicked act. I now warn you, whoever did it, that if I can discover the author or authors, he or they shall be punished with the utmost severity, short of expulsion, that is allowed by the rules of the school. Seniors, I call for your aid in this. Look to it.”

The master left the schoolroom, and Babel broke loose—questioning, denying, protesting, one of another. Bywater was surrounded.

“Won’t there be a stunning flogging? Bywater, who did it? Do you know?”

Bywater sat himself astride over the end of a bench, and nodded. The senior boy turned to him, some slight surprise in his look and tone.

“Do you know, Bywater?”

“Pretty well, Gaunt. There are two fellows in this school, one’s at your desk, one’s at the second desk, and I believe they’d either of them do me a nasty turn if they could. It was one of them.”

“Who do you mean?” asked Gaunt eagerly.

Bywater laughed. “Thank you. If I tell now, it may defeat the ends of justice, as the newspapers say. I’ll wait till I am sure—and then, let him look to himself. I won’t spare him, and I don’t fancy Pye will.”

“You’ll never find out, if you don’t find out at once, Bywater,” cried Hurst.

“Shan’t I? You’ll see,” was the significant answer. “It’s some distance from here to the vestry of the cathedral, and a fellow could scarcely steal there and steal back without being seen by somebody. It was done stealthily, mark you; and when folks go on stealthy errands they are safe to be met.”

Before he had finished speaking, a gentlemanly-looking boy of about twelve, with delicate features, a damask flush on his face, and wavy auburn hair, sprang up with a start. “Why!” he exclaimed, “I saw—” And there he came to a sudden halt, and the flush on his cheek grew deeper, and then faded again. It was a face of exceeding beauty, refined almost as a girl’s, and it had gained for him in the school the sobriquet of “Miss.”

“What’s the matter with you, Miss Charley?”

“Oh, nothing, Bywater.”

“Charley Channing,” exclaimed Gaunt, “do you know who did it?”

“If I did, Gaunt, I should not tell,” was the fearless answer.

“Do you know, Charley?” cried Tom Channing, who was one of the seniors of the school.

“Where’s the good of asking that wretched little muff?” burst forth Gerald Yorke. “He’s only a girl. How do you know it was not one of the lay-clerks, Bywater? They carry ink in their pockets, I’ll lay. Or any of the masons might have gone into the vestry, for the matter of that.”

“It wasn’t a lay-clerk, and it wasn’t a mason,” stoically nodded Bywater. “It was a college boy. And I shall lay my finger upon him as soon as I am a little bit surer than I am. I am three parts sure now.”

“If Charley Channing does not suspect somebody, I’m not here,” exclaimed Hurst, who had closely watched the movement alluded to; and he brought his hand down fiercely on the desk as he spoke. “Come, Miss Channing, just shell out what you know; it’s a shame the choristers should lie under such a ban: and of course we shall do so, with Pye.”

“You be quiet, Hurst, and let Miss Charley alone,” drawled Bywater. “I don’t want him, or anybody else to get pummelled to powder; I’ll find it out for myself, I say. Won’t my old aunt be in a way though, when she sees the surplice, and finds she has another to make! I say, Hurst, didn’t you croak out that solo! Their lordships in the wigs will be soliciting your photograph as a keepsake.”

“I hope they’ll set it in diamonds,” retorted Hurst.

The boys began to file out, putting on their trenchers, as they clattered down the steps. Charley Channing sat himself down in the cloisters on a pile of books, as if willing that the rest should pass out before him. His brother saw him sitting there, and came up to him, speaking in an undertone.

“Charley, you know the rules of the school: one boy must not tell of another. As Bywater says, you’d get pummelled to powder.”

“Look here, Tom. I tell you—”

“Hold your tongue, boy!” sharply cried Tom Channing. “Do you forget that I am a senior? You heard the master’s words. We know no brothers in school life, you must remember.”

Charley laughed. “Tom, you think I am a child, I believe. I didn’t enter the school yesterday. All I was going to tell you was this: I don’t know any more than you who inked the surplice; and suspicion goes for nothing.”

“All right,” said Tom Channing, as he flew after the rest; and Charley sat on, and fell into a reverie.

The senior boy of the school, you have heard, was Gaunt. The other three seniors, Tom Channing, Harry Huntley, and Gerald Yorke, possessed a considerable amount of power; but nothing equal to that vested in Gaunt. They had all three entered the school on the same day, and had kept pace with each other as they worked their way up in it, consequently not one could be said to hold priority; and when Gaunt should quit the school at the following Michaelmas, one of the three would become senior. Which, you may wish to ask? Ah, we don’t know that, yet.

Charley Channing—a truthful, good boy, full of integrity, kind and loving by nature, and a universal favourite—sat tilted on the books. He was wishing with all his heart that he had not seen something which he had seen that day. He had been going through the cloisters in the afternoon, about the time that all Helstonleigh, college boys included, were in the streets watching for the sheriff’s procession, when he saw one of the seniors steal (Bywater had been happy in the epithet) out of the cathedral into the quiet cloisters, peer about him, and then throw a broken ink-bottle into the graveyard which the cloisters enclosed. The boy stole away without perceiving Charley; and there sat Charley now, trying to persuade himself by some ingenious sophistry—which, however, he knew was sophistry—that the senior might not have been the one in the mischief; that the ink-bottle might have been on legitimate duty, and that he threw it from him because it was broken. Charles Channing did not like these unpleasant secrets. There was in the school a code of honour—the boys called it so—that one should not tell of another; and if the head-master ever went the length of calling the seniors to his aid, those seniors deemed themselves compelled to declare it, if the fault became known to them. Hence Tom Channing’s hasty arrest of his brother’s words.

“I wonder if I could see the ink-bottle there?” quoth Charles to himself. Rising from the books he ran through the cloisters to a certain part, and there, by a dexterous spring, perched himself on to the frame of the open mullioned windows. The gravestones lay pretty thick in the square, enclosed yard, the long, dank grass growing around them; but there appeared to be no trace of an ink-bottle.

“What on earth are you mounted up there for? Come down instantly. You know the row there has been about the walls getting defaced.”

The speaker was Gerald Yorke, who had come up silently. Openly disobey him, young Channing dared not, for the seniors exacted obedience in school and out of it. “I’ll get down directly, sir. I am not hurting the wall.”

“What are you looking at? What is there to see?” demanded Yorke.

“Nothing particular. I was looking for what I can’t see,” pointedly returned Charley.

“Look here, Miss Channing; I don’t quite understand you to-day. You were excessively mysterious in school, just now, over that surplice affair. Who’s to know you were not in the mess yourself?”

“I think you might know it,” returned Charley, as he jumped down. “It was more likely to have been you than I.”

Yorke laid hold of him, clutching his jacket with a firm grasp. “You insolent young jackanapes! Now! what do you mean? You don’t stir from here till you tell me.”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Yorke; I’d rather tell,” cried the boy, sinking his voice to a whisper. “I was here when you came peeping out of the college doors this afternoon, and I saw you come up to this niche, and fling away an ink-bottle.”

Yorke’s face flushed scarlet. He was a tall, strong fellow, with a pale complexion, thick, projecting lips, and black hair, promising fair to make a Hercules—but all the Yorkes were finely framed. He gave young Channing a taste of his strength; the boy, when shaken, was in his hands as a very reed. “You miserable imp! Do you know who is said to be the father of lies?”

“Let me alone, sir. It’s no lie, and you know it’s not. But I promise you on my honour that I won’t split. I’ll keep it in close; always, if I can. The worst of me is, I bring things out sometimes without thought,” he added ingenuously. “I know I do; but I’ll try and keep in this. You needn’t be in a passion, Yorke; I couldn’t help seeing what I did. It wasn’t my fault.”

Yorke’s face had grown purple with anger. “Charles Channing, if you don’t unsay what you have said, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life.”

“I can’t unsay it,” was the answer.

“You can’t!” reiterated Yorke, grasping him as a hawk would a pigeon. “How dare you brave me to my presence? Unsay the lie you have told.”

“I am in God’s presence, Yorke, as well as in yours,” cried the boy, reverently; “and I will not tell a lie.”

“Then take your whacking! I’ll teach you what it is to invent fabrications! I’ll put you up for—”

Yorke’s tongue and hands stopped. Turning out of the private cloister-entrance of the deanery, right upon them, had come Dr. Gardner, one of the prebendaries. He cast a displeased glance at Yorke, not speaking; and little Channing, touching his trencher to the doctor, flew to the place where he had left his books, caught them up, and ran out of the cloisters towards home.