"Yes, sir, I did; but it was not my fault: I was kept out."
"Where were you, and who kept you out?"
"Oh, sir, if you would be so kind as not to press me—for indeed I cannot tell. I was kept out, and I could not help myself."
"I never heard so impudent an avowal from any boy in my life," proceeded Mr. Wilberforce, when he recovered his astonishment. "What was the nature of the mischief you were in? Come; I will know it."
"I was not in any mischief, sir. If I might tell the truth, you would say that I was not.'"
"This is most extraordinary behaviour," returned the master. "What reason have you for not telling the truth?"
"Because—because—well, sir, the reason is, that I could not speak without getting others into trouble. Indeed, sir," he earnestly added, "though I did stop out from your house all night, I did no wrong; I was in no mischief, and it was no fault of mine."
Strange perhaps to say, the master believed him: from his long experience of the boy, he could believe nothing but good of Harry Arkell, and if ever words bore the stamp of truth, his did now.
"I am in a hurry at present," said the master, "but don't flatter yourself this matter will rest."
Henry touched his cap again, and the master strode on to the residence of the Reverend Mr. Prattleton, and entered it without ceremony. Mr. Prattleton was seated with his two sons, and with George.
"Send the boys away for a minute, will you?" cried the master to his brother clergyman.
The boys went away, exceedingly glad to be sent. "You can go on with your Greek in the other room," said their father. But to that suggestion they were conveniently deaf, preferring to take an evening gallop through some of the more obscure streets, where they knocked furiously at all the doors, and pulled out a few of the bell-wires.
"An unpleasant affair has happened, Prattleton," began the master. "The register at St. James's has been robbed."
"The register robbed!" echoed Mr. Prattleton. "Not the book taken?"
"Not the book itself. A leaf has been taken out of it."
"How?"
"We must endeavour to find out how. Hunt protests that nobody has had access to it but ourselves, save in his presence."
"I do not suppose they have," returned Mr. Prattleton. "How could they? When was it taken?"
"Sometime since the beginning of November. And there'll be a tremendous stir over it, as sure as that we are sitting here: it was wanted for—for—some trial at the next assizes," concluded the master, recollecting that Mr. Fauntleroy had cautioned him still not to speak of it. "Fauntleroy's people went to-day to take a copy of it, and found it gone; so Fauntleroy came on to me."
"You are sure it is gone?" continued Mr. Prattleton. "An entry is so easily overlooked."
"I am sure it is not in the book now: and I read it there last November."
"Well, this is an awkward thing. Have you no suspicion?—no clue?"
"Not any. Hunt was telling a tale——By the way," added Mr. Wilberforce, turning to George Prattleton, who had moved himself to a polite distance, as if not caring to hear, "you were mixed up in that. He says, that last November you and Lewis had some secret between you, about the church. Lewis went down to his house one morning by moonlight, got the key by stratagem, and brought it back, saying it was the wrong one: and you then went to the church with him, and both of you were agitated. What was it all about? What did he want in the church?"
"Oh—something had been left there, I think he said, when one of the college boys had gone in to practise. That was nothing, Mr. Wilberforce. We did not go into the church, after all."
George Prattleton spoke with eagerness, and then hastened from the room, but not before Mr. Wilberforce had caught a glimpse of his countenance.
"What is the matter with George?" whispered he.
Mr. Prattleton turned, and looked at the door by which he had gone out. "With George?" he repeated: "nothing that I know of. Why?"
"He turned as pale as my cravat: just as Hunt describes him to have been when he went into the church with Lewis. I shall begin to think there is a mystery in this."
"But not one that touches the register," said Mr. Prattleton. "I'll tell you what that mystery was, but you must not bring in me as your informant; and don't punish the boy, now it's over, Wilberforce; though it was a disgraceful and dangerous act. It seems that young Arkell—what a nice lad that is! but he comes of a good stock—went into St. James's one evening to practise, and Lewis, who owed him a grudge, stole after him and locked him in, and took back the key to Hunt's, where he broke some heirloom of the dame's, in the shape of a china saucer, Hunt and his wife taking it to be Arkell. Arkell was locked in the church all night."
"Locked in the church all night!" repeated the amazed Sir. Wilberforce. "Why the fright might have turned him—turned him—stone blind!"
"It might have turned him stone dead," rejoined Mr. Prattleton. "Lewis, it appears, got terrified for the consequences, and as soon as your servants were up, he went to Hunt's to get the key and let Arkell out. Hunt would not give it him, and Lewis appealed to George. That's what has sent George out of the room, pale, as you call it; he was afraid lest you should question him too closely, and he passed his word to Lewis not to betray him."
"What a villanous rascal!" uttered the master. "I never liked Lewis, but I would not have given him credit for this. Did George tell you?"
"Not he; he is not aware I know it. Lewis, some days afterwards, imparted the exploit to my boy, Joe. Joe, in his turn, imparted it to his brother, under a formidable injunction of secrecy, and I happened to overhear them, and became as wise as they were."
"You ought to have told me this," remarked Mr. Wilberforce, his countenance bearing its most severe expression.
"Had one of my own boys been guilty of it, I would have brought him to you and had him punished in the face of the school; but as no harm had come of it, I did not care to inform against Lewis: though I don't excuse him; it was a dastardly action."
"Well, this explains what Lewis wanted in the church, but it brings us no nearer the affair of the register. I think I shall offer a reward for the discovery."
Mr. Wilberforce proceeded home, and into the study where his boarders were assembled, some half dozen of the head boys. One of them, a great tall fellow, stood on his head on a table, his feet touching the wall. "Who's that?" uttered the master. "Is that the way you prepare your lessons, sir?"
Down clattered the head and the feet, and the gentleman stood upright on the floor. It was Lewis senior. Mr. Wilberforce took a seat, and the boys held their breath: they saw something was wrong.
"Vaughan."
"Yes, sir."
"Did you lock Henry Arkell up in St. James's Church, and compel him to pass a night there?"
Mr. Vaughan opened all the eyes he possessed.
"I, sir! I have not locked him up, sir. I don't think Arkell is locked up," added Vaughan, in the confusion of his ideas. "I saw him talking to you, sir, just now, in Wage-street."
Lewis pricked up his ears, which had turned of a fiery red; then Arkellhadbeen locked in! Mr. Wilberforce sharply seized upon Vaughan's words.
"What brought you in Wage-street, pray?"
"If you please, sir," coughed Vaughan, feeling he had betrayed himself, "I only went out for an exercise book. I finished mine last night, sir, and forgot it till I went to do my Latin just now. I didn't stop anywhere a minute, sir; I ran there and back as quick as lightning. Here's the book, sir."
Believing as much of this as he chose, Mr. Wilberforce did not pursue the subject. "Then which of you gentlemen was it who did shut up Arkell?" asked he, gazing round. "Lewis, senior, what is the matter with you, that you are skulking behind? Didyoudo it?"
Lewis saw that all was up. "That canting hound has been peaching at last," quoth he to himself. "I laid a bet with Prattleton he'd do it."
"It is the most wicked and cowardly action that I believe ever disgraced the college school," continued Mr. Wilberforce, "and it depends upon how you meet it, Lewis, whether or not I shall expel you. Equivocate to me now, if you dare. Had it come to my knowledge at the time, you should have been flogged till you could not stand, and ignominiously expelled. Flogged you will be, as it is. Do you know, sir, that he might have died through it?"
Lewis hung his head, wishing Arkell had died; and then he could not have told the master.
"I think the best punishment will be, to lock you up in St. James's all the night, and see how you will like it," continued Mr. Wilberforce.
Lewis wondered whether he was serious; and the perspiration ran down him at the thought. "He was not locked in all night," he said, sullenly, by way of propitiating the master. "When we went to open the church, he was gone."
"Gone! What do you mean now?"
"He had got out somehow, sir, for Hunt said he had just seen him, and when I ran back to morning school, he was in the college hall. Mr. George Prattleton advised me not to make a stir, to know how he had got out, but to let it drop."
As Lewis spoke, Mr. Wilberforce suddenly remembered that Hunt said Henry Arkell was in his kitchen, when Lewis came, frightened, and thumping for the key. It occurred to him now, for the first time, to wonder how that could have been.
"When you locked Arkell in, what did you do with the key?"
"I took it to Hunt's, sir."
"And gave it to Hunt?"
"Yes, sir. That is," added Lewis, thinking it might be as well to be correct, "I pushed it into the kitchen, where Hunt was."
"And broke Dame Hunt's saucer," retorted Mr. Wilberforce. "When did you have the key again. Speak up, sir?"
"I didn't have it again, sir," returned Lewis. "The key I took from the hook, next morning, would not fit into the lock, and I took it back. Hunt said it was the right key, and George Prattleton said it was the key; but I am sure it was not, although George Prattleton called me a fool for thinking so."
The master revolved all this in his mind, and thought it very strange. He was determined to come to the bottom of it, and despatched Vaughan to Arkell's house to fetch him. The two boys came back together, and Mr. Wilberforce, without circumlocution, addressed the latter.
"When this worthy companion of yours," waving his hand contemptuously towards Lewis, "locked you in the church, how did you get out?"
Henry Arkell glanced at Lewis, and hesitated in his answer. "I can't tell, sir."
"You can't tell!" exclaimed Mr. Wilberforce. "Did you walk out of it in your sleep? Did you get down from a window?—or through the locked door? How did you get out, I ask?"
Before there was time for any reply, the master's servant entered, and said the Rev. Mr. Prattleton was waiting to speak to the master immediately. Mr. Wilberforce, leaving the study door open, went into the opposite room. Mr. Prattleton, who stood there, came forward eagerly.
"Wilberforce, a thought has struck me, and I came in to suggest it. When the boy passed the night in the church, did he get playing with the register?"
"He would not do it; Arkell would not," spoke the master, in the first flush of thought.
"Not mischievously; but he may have got fingering anything he could lay his hands upon—and it is the most natural thing he would do, to while away the long hours. A spark may have fallen on the leaf, and——"
"How could he get a light?—or find the key of the safe?" interrupted Mr. Wilberforce.
"Schoolboys can ferret out anything, and he may have found its hiding-place. As to a light, half the boys keep matches in their pockets."
Mr. Wilberforce mused upon the suggestion till it grew into a probability. He called in Arkell, and shut the door.
"Now," said he, confronting him, "will you speak the truth to me, or will you not?"
"I have hitherto spoken the truth to you, sir," answered Arkell, in a tone of pain.
"Well; I believe you have: it would be bad for you now, if you had not. It is about that register, you know," added Mr. Wilberforce, speaking slowly, and staring at him.
There was but one candle on the table, and Henry Arkell pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed it over his face: between the handkerchief and the dim light, the master failed to detect any signs of emotion.
"Did you get fingering the register-book in St. James's, the night you were in the church?"
"No, sir, that I did not," he readily answered.
"Had you a light in the church?"
"You boys have a propensity for concealing matches in your clothes, in defiance of the risk you run," interrupted Mr. Prattleton. "Had you any that night?"
"I had no matches, and I had no light," replied Henry. "None of the boys keep matches about them except those who"—smoke, was the ominous word which had all but escaped his lips—"who are careless."
"Pray what did you do with yourself all the time?" resumed the master.
"I played the organ for a long while, and then I lay down on the singers' seat, and went to sleep."
"Now comes the point: how did you get out?"
"I can't say anything about it, sir, except that I found the door open towards morning, and I walked out."
"You must have been dreaming, and fancied it," said the master.
"No, sir, I was awake. The door was open, and I went out."
"Is that the best tale you have got to tell?"
"It is all I can tell, sir. I did get out that way."
"You may go home for the present," said Mr. Wilberforce, in anger.
"Are you satisfied?" asked Mr. Prattleton, as Arkell retired.
"I am satisfied that he is innocent as to the register; but not as to how he escaped from the church. Allowing it to be as he says—and I have always found him so strictly truthful—that he found the door open in the middle of the night, how did it come open? Who opened it? For what purpose?"
"It is an incomprehensible affair altogether," said the Rev. Mr. Prattleton. "Let us sit down and talk it over."
As Arkell left the room, Lewis, senior, appeared at the opposite door, propelling forth the fire-tongs, a note held between them.
"This is for you," cried he, rudely, to Arkell, who took the note. Lewis flung the tongs back in their place. "My hands shouldn't soil themselves by touching yours," said he.
When Arkell got out, he opened the letter under a gas-lamp, and read it as well as he could for the blots. The penmanship was Lewis, junior's.
"Mr.Arkell,—Has you have chozen to peech to the master, like a retch has you ar, we give you notise that from this nite you will find the skool has hot has the Inphernal Regeons, a deal to hot for you. And my brother don't care a phether for the oisting he is to get, for he'll serve you worce. And if you show this dockiment to any sole, you'l be a dowble-died sneek, and we will thresh your life out of you, and then duck you in the rivor."
"Mr.Arkell,—Has you have chozen to peech to the master, like a retch has you ar, we give you notise that from this nite you will find the skool has hot has the Inphernal Regeons, a deal to hot for you. And my brother don't care a phether for the oisting he is to get, for he'll serve you worce. And if you show this dockiment to any sole, you'l be a dowble-died sneek, and we will thresh your life out of you, and then duck you in the rivor."
Henry Arkell tore the paper to bits, and ran home, laughing at the spelling. But it was a very fair specimen of the orthography of Westerbury collegiate school.
To attempt to describe the state of Mr. Fauntleroy would be a vain effort. It was the practice of that respected solicitor never to advance a fraction of money out of his pocket for any mortal client, unless the repayment was as safe and sure as the Bank of England. He had deemed the return so in the case of Mrs. Carr, and had really advanced a good bit of money; and now there was no marriage recorded in the register.
How had it gone out of it? Mr. Fauntleroy's first thought, in his desperation, was to suspect Mynn and Mynn, clean-handed practitioners though he knew them to be, as practitioners went, of having by some sleight of hand spirited the record away. But for the assertion of Mr. Wilberforce, that he had read it, the lawyer would have definitely concluded that it had never been there, in spite of Mr. Omer and his pencilled names. He went tearing over to Mynn and Mynn's in a fine state of excitement, could see neither Mr. Mynn nor Mr. George Mynn, hired a gig at Eckford, and drove over to Mr. Mynn's house, two miles distant. Mr. Mynn, strong in the gout, and wrapped up in flannel and cotton wool in his warm sitting-room, thought at first his professional brother had gone mad, as he listened to the tale and the implied accusation, and then expressed his absolute disbelief that any record of any such marriage had ever been there.
"You must be mad, Fauntleroy! Go and tamper with a register!—suspect us of stealing a page out of a church's register! If you were in your senses, and I had the use of my legs, I'd kick you out of my house for your impudence. I might just as well turn round and tell you, you had been robbing the archives of the Court of Chancery."
"Nobody knew of the record's being there but you, and I, and the rector," debated Mr. Fauntleroy, wiping his great face. "You say you went and saw it."
"I say I went and didn't see it," roared the afflicted man, who had a dreadful twinge just then. "It seems—if this story of yours is true—that I never heard it was there until it was gone. Don't be a simpleton, Fauntleroy."
In his heart of hearts, of course Mr. Fauntleroy did not think Mynn and Mynn had been culpable, only in his passion. His voice began to cool down to calmness.
"I'm ready to accuse the whole world, and myself into the bargain," he said. "So would you be, had you been played the trick. I wish you'd tell me quietly what you know about the matter altogether."
"That's where you should have begun," said old Mynn. "We never heard of any letter having been found, setting forth that the record of the marriage was in the register of St. James's, never thought for a moment that there had been any marriage, and I don't think it now, for the matter of that," he added,par parenthèse, "until the day our new manager, Littelby, took possession, and I and George were inducting him a little into our approaching assize and other causes. We came to CarrversusCarr, in due course, and then Littelby, evidently surprised, asked how it was that the letter despatched to you—to you, Mr. Fauntleroy, and which letter it seems you kept to yourself, and gave us no notice of—had not served to put an end to the cause. Naturally I and my brother inquired what letter Mr. Littelby alluded to, and what were its contents, and then he told us that it was a letter written by Robert Carr, of Holland, stating that the marriage had taken place at the church of St. James the Less, and that its record would be found entered on the register. My impression at the first moment was—and it was George's very strongly—that there had been nothing of the sort; no marriage, and consequently no record; but immediately a doubt arose whether any fraud had been committed by means of making a false entry in the register. I went off at once to Westerbury, fully determined to detect and expose this fraud—and my eyes are pretty clear for such things—I paid my half-crown, and went with the clerk and examined the register, and found I had my journey for nothing. There was no such record in the register—no mention whatever of the marriage.Thatis all I know of the affair, Mr. Fauntleroy."
Had Mr. Fauntleroy talked till now, he could have learnt no more. It evidently was all that his confrère knew; and he went back to Westerbury as wise as he came, and sought the house of Mr. Wilberforce. The record must have been taken out between the beginning of November and the 2nd of December, he told the master. Omer, and the master himself, had both seen it at the former time; old Mynn searched on the 2nd of December, and it was gone.
This information did not help Mr. Wilberforce in his perplexity, as to who could have tampered with it. It was impossible but that his suspicion should be directed to the night already spoken of, when Arkell was locked up in the church, and seemed to have got out in a manner so mysterious nobody knew how. Arkell adhered to his story: he had found the door open in the night, and walked out; and that was all that could be got from him. The master took him at his word. Had he pressed him much, he might have heard more; had he only given him a hint that he knew the register had been robbed, and that both trouble and injustice were likely to arise from it, he might have heard all; for Henry fully meant to keep his word with George Prattleton, and declare the truth, if a necessity arose for it. But it appeared to be the policy of both the master and Mr. Fauntleroy to keep the register out of sight and discussion altogether. Not a word of the loss was suffered to escape. Mr. Fauntleroy had probably his private reasons for this, and the rector shrank from any publicity, because the getting at the register seemed to reflect some carelessness on him and his mode of securing it.
Meanwhile the public were aware that some internal commotion was agitating the litigants in the great cause CarrversusCarr. What it was, they could not penetrate. They knew that a young lady, Mrs. Carr the widow, was stopping in Westerbury, and had frequent interviews with Mr. Fauntleroy; and they saw that the renowned lawyer himself was in a state of ferment; but not a breath touching the register in any way had escaped abroad, and George Prattleton and Henry Arkell were in ignorance that there was trouble connected with it. George had ventured to put a question to the Reverend Mr. Prattleton, regarding Mr. Wilberforce's visit in connection with it, and was peremptorily ordered to mind his own business.
And the whole city, ripe for gossip and for other people's affairs, as usual, lived in a perpetual state of anticipation of the assizes, and the cause that was to come on at them.
It is probable that this blow to Mr. Fauntleroy—and he regarded it in no less a light—rendered him more severe than customary in his other affairs. On the first of March, another ten pound was due to him from Peter Arkell. The month came in, and the money was not paid; and Mr. Fauntleroy immediately threatened harsh measures: that he would sell him up for the whole of the debt. He had had judgment long ago, and therefore possessed the power to do it; and Peter Arkell went to him. But the grace he pleaded for, Mr. Fauntleroy refused longer to give; refused it coarsely and angrily; and Peter was tempted to remind him of the past. Never yet had he done so.
"Have you forgotten what I did for you?" he asked. "I saved you once from what was perhaps worse than debt."
"And what if you did?" returned the strong-minded lawyer—not to speak more plainly. "I paid you back again."
"Yes; but how? In driblets, which did me no good. And if you did repay me, does that blot out the obligation? If any one man should be lenient to another, you ought to be so to me, Fauntleroy."
"Have I not been lenient?"
"No. It is true, you have not taken the extreme measures you threaten now, but what with the sums you have forced me to pay, the costs, the interest, I know not what all, for I have never clearly understood it, you have made my life one of worry, hardship, and distress. But for that large sum I had to pay suddenly for you I might have done differently in the world. It was my ruin; yes, I assert it, for it is the simple truth, the finding of that sum was my ruin. It took from me all hope of prosperity, and I have been obliged ever since to be a poor, struggling man."
"I paid you, I say; what d'ye mean?" roughly spoke Mr. Fauntleroy.
Peter Arkell shook his head. He had said his say, and was too gentle-minded, too timid-mannered to contend. But the interview did him no good: it only served to further anger Mr. Fauntleroy.
A few days more, and Assize Saturday came in—as it is called in the local phraseology. The judges were expected in some time in the afternoon to open court, and the town was alive with bustle and preparation. On this bright day—and it was one of the brightest March ever gave us—a final, peremptory, unmistakable missive arrived for Peter Arkell from Mr. Fauntleroy. And yet the man boasted in it of his leniency of giving him a few hours more grace; it even dared to hint that perhaps Mr. Arkell, if applied to, might save his home. But the gist of it was, that if the ten pounds were not paid that afternoon by six o'clock, at Mr. Fauntleroy's office, on Monday morning he should proceed to execution.
It was not a pleasant letter for Mrs. Peter Arkell.Shereceived it. Peter was out; and she lay on the sofa in great agitation, as might be seen from the hectic on her cheeks, the unnatural brightness of her eyes. How lovely she looked as she lay there, a lace cap shading her delicate features, no description could express. The improvement so apparent in her when they returned from the sea-side had not lasted; and for the last few weeks she had faded ominously.
The cathedral clock chimed out the quarter to three, and the bell rang out for service. It had been going some time, when Henry, who had been hard at his studies in the little room that was once exclusively his father's, came in. The great likeness between mother and son was more apparent than ever, and the tall, fine boy of sixteen had lost none of his inherited beauty. It was the same exquisite face; the soft, dark eyes, the transparent complexion, the pure features. Perhaps I have dwelt more than I ought on this boy's beauty; but he is no imaginary creation; and it was of that rare order that enchains the eye and almost enforces mention whenever seen, no matter how often. It is still vivid in the remembrance of Westerbury.
"I am going now, mamma."
"You will be late, Henry."
Something in the tone of the voice struck on his ear, and he looked attentively at his mother. The signs of past emotion were not quite obliterated from her face.
"Mamma, you have been crying."
It was of no use to deny it; indeed the sudden accusation brought up fresh tears then. Painful matters had been kept as much as possible from Henry; but he could not avoid knowing of the general embarrassments: unavoidable, and, so to speak, honourable embarrassments.
"What is it now?" he urgently asked.
"Nothing new; only the old troubles over and over again. Of course, the longer they go on, the worse they get. Never mind, dear;youcannot mend matters, so there's no necessity for allowing them to trouble you. There is an invitation come for you from the Palmers'. I told Lucy to put the note on the mantel-piece."
He saw a letter lying there and opened it. His colour rose vividly as he read, and he turned to look at the direction. It was addressed "Mr. Peter Arkell;" but Henry had read it then.
"You see, they want you to spend Monday with them at Heath Hall, and as it will be the judges' holiday, you can get leave from college and do so."
"Mother," he interrupted—and every vestige of colour had forsaken his sensitive face—"what does this letter mean?"
Mrs. Arkell started up and clasped her hands. "Oh, Henry! what have you been reading? What has Lucy done? She has left out the wrong letter. That was not meant for you."
"Does it mean a prison for papa?" he asked, controlling his voice and manner to calmness, though his heart turned sick with fear. "You must tell me all, mother, now I have read this."
"Perhaps it does, Henry. Or else the selling up of our home. I scarcely know what myself, except that it means great distress and confusion."
He could hardly speak for consternation. But, if he understood the letter aright, a sum of ten pounds would for the present avert it. "It is not much," he said aloud to his mother.
"It is a great deal to us, Henry; more than we know where to find."
"Papa could borrow it from Mr. Arkell."
"I am sure he will not, let the consequences be what they may. I don't wonder. If you only knew, my dear, how much, how often, he has had to borrow from William Arkell—kind, generous William Arkell!—you could hardly wish him to."
"But what will be done?" he urged.
"I don't know. Unless things come to the crisis they have so long threatened. Child," she added, bursting into tears, "in spite of my firmly-seated trust, these petty anxieties are wearing me out. Every time a knock comes to the door, I shiver and tremble, lest it should be people come to ask for money which we cannot pay. Henry, you will be late."
"Plenty of time, mamma. I timed myself one day, and ran from this to the cloister entrance in two minutes and a half. Are you being pressed for much besides this?" he continued, touching the letter.
"Not very much for anything else," she replied. "That is the worst: if that were settled, I think we might manage to stave off the rest till brighter days come round. If we can but retain, our home!—several times it would have gone, but for Mr. Arkell. But I was wrong to speak of this to you," she sighed: "and I am wrong to give way, myself. It is not often that I do. God never sent a burden, but He sent strength to bear it: and we have always, hitherto, been wonderfully helped. Henry, you will surely be late."
He slowly took his elbow from the mantel-piece, where it had been leaning. "No. But if I were, it would be something new: it is not often they have to mark me late."
Kissing his mother, he walked out of the house in a dreamy mood, and with a slow step; not with the eager look and quick foot of a schoolboy, in dread of being marked late on the cathedral roll. As he let the gate swing to, behind him, and turned on his way, a hand was laid upon his shoulder. Henry looked round, and saw a tall, aristocratic man, looking down upon him. In spite of his mind's trouble, his face shone with pleasure.
"Oh, Mr. St. John! Are you in Westerbury?"
"Well, I think you have pretty good ocular demonstration of it. Harry, you have grown out of all knowledge: you will be as tall as my lanky self, if you go on like this. How is Mrs. Arkell?"
"Not any better, thank you. I am so very pleased to see you," he continued: "but I cannot stop now. The bell has been going ten minutes."
"In the choir still? Are you the senior boy?"
"Senior chorister as before, but not senior boy yet. Prattleton is senior. Jocelyn went to Oxford in January. Did you come home to-day?"
"Of course. I came in with the barristers."
"But you are not a barrister?" returned Henry, half puzzled at the words.
"I a barrister! I am nothing but my idle self, the heir of all the St. Johns. How is your friend, Miss Beauclerc?"
"She is very well," said Henry; and he turned away his head as he answered. Did St. John's heart beat at the name, as his did, he wondered.
"Harry, I must see your gold medal."
"Oh, I'll fetch it out in a minute: it is only in the parlour."
He ran in, and came out with the pretty toy hanging to its blue ribbon. Mr. St. John took it in his hand.
"The dean displayed taste," was his remark. "Westerbury cathedral on one side, and the inscription to you on the other. There; put it up, and be off. I don't want you to be marked late through me."
There was not another minute to be lost, so Henry slipped the medal into his jacket-pocket, flew away, and got on to the steps in his surplice one minute before the dean came in.
There was a bad practice prevailing in the college school, chiefly resorted to by the senior boys: it was that of pledging their goods and chattels. Watches, chains, silver pencil-cases, books, or anything else available, were taken to Rutterley, the pawnbroker's, without scruple. Of course this was not known to the masters. A tale was told of Jones tertius having taken his surplice to Rutterley's one Monday morning; and, being unable to redeem it on the Saturday, he had lain in bed all day on the Sunday, and sent word to the head master that he had sprained his ankle. On the Monday, he limped into the school, apparently in excruciating pain, to the sympathy of the masters, and intense admiration of the senior boys. Henry Arkell had never been guilty of this practice, but he was asking himself, all college time, why he should not be, for once, and so relieve the pressure at home. His gold watch, the gift of Mr. Arkell, was worth, at his own calculation, twenty pounds, and he thought there could be no difficulty in pledging it for ten. "It is not an honourable thing, I know," he reasoned with himself; "but the boys do it every day for their own pleasures, and surely I may in this dreadful strait."
Service was over in less than an hour, and he left the cathedral by the front entrance. Being Saturday afternoon, there was no school. The streets were crowded; the high sheriff and his procession had already gone out to meet the judges, and many gazers lingered, waiting for their return. Henry hastened through them, on his way to the pawnbroker's. Possessed of that sensitive, refined temperament, had he been going into the place to steal, he could not have felt more shame. The shop was partitioned off into compartments or boxes, so that one customer should not see another. If Henry Arkell could but have known his ill-luck! In the box contiguous to the one he entered, stood Alfred Aultane, the boy next below him in the choir, who had stolen down with one of the family tablespoons, which he had just been protesting to the pawnbroker was his own, and that he would have it out on Monday without fail, for his godfather the counsellor was coming in with the judges, and never failed to give him half a sovereign. But that disbelieving pawnbroker obstinately persisted in refusing to have anything to do with the spoon, for he knew the Aultane crest; and Mr. Alfred stood biting his nails in mortification.
"Will you lend me ten pounds on this?" asked Henry, coming in, and not suspecting that anybody was so near.
"Ten pounds!" uttered Rutterley, after examining the watch. "You college gentlemen have got a conscience! I could not give more than half."
"That would be of no use: I must have ten. I shall be sure to redeem it, Mr. Rutterley."
"I am not afraid of that. The college boys mostly redeem their pledges; I will say that for them. I will lend you six pounds upon it, not a farthing more. What can you be wanting with so large a sum?"
"That is my business, if you please," returned Henry, civilly.
"Oh, of course. Six pounds: take it, or leave it."
A sudden temptation flashed across Henry's mind. What if he pledged the gold medal? But for his having it in his pocket, the thought would not have occurred to him. "But how can I?" he mentally argued——"the gift of the dean and chapter! But it is my own," temptation whispered again, "and surely this is a righteous cause. Yes: I will risk it: and if I can't redeem it before, it must wait till I get my money from the choir. So he put the watch and the gold medal side by side on the counter, and received two tickets in exchange, and eight sovereigns and four half-sovereigns.
"Be sure keep it close, Mr. Rutterley," he enjoined; "you see my name is on it, and there is no other medal like it in the town. I would not have it known that I had done this, for a hundred times its worth."
"All right," answered Mr. Rutterley; "things left with me are never seen." But Alfred Aultane, from the next box, had contrived both to hear and see.
Henry Arkell was speeding to the office of Mr. Fauntleroy, when he heard sounds behind him "Iss—iss—I say! Iss!"
It was Aultane. "What became of you that you were not at college this afternoon?" demanded Henry, who, as senior chorister, had much authority over the nine choristers under him.
"College be jiggered! I stopped out to see the show; and it isn't come yet. If Wilberforce kicks up a row, I shall swear my mother kept me to make calls with her. I say, Arkell, you couldn't do a fellow a service, could you?"
Henry was surprised at the civil, friendly tone—never used by some of the boys to him. "If I can, I will," said he. "What is it?"
"Lend me ten bob, in gold. Imustget it: it's for something that can't wait. I'll pay you back next week. I know you must have as much about you."
"All the money I have about me is wanted for a specific purpose. I have not a sixpence that I can lend: if I had, you should be welcome to it."
"Nasty mean wretch!" grunted Aultane, in his heart. "Won't I serve him out!"
The cathedral bells had been for some time ringing merrily, giving token that the procession had met the judges, and was nearing the city, on its return. Just then a blast was heard from the trumpets of the advancing heralds, and Aultane tore away to see the sight.
The next day was Assize Sunday. A dense crowd collected early round the doors of the cathedral, and, as soon as they were opened, rushed in, and took possession of the edifice, leaving vacant only the pulpit, the bishop's throne, and the locked-up seats. It was the custom for the bishop (if in Westerbury), the dean and chapter, and the forty king's scholars, to assemble just inside the front entrance and receive the judges, who were attended in state to the cathedral, just as they had been attended into Westerbury the previous afternoon, the escort being now augmented by the mayor and corporation, and an overflowing shoal of barristers.
The ten choristers were the first to take up their standing at the front entrance. They were soon followed by the rest of the king's scholars, the surplices of the whole forty being primly starched for the occasion. They had laid in their customary supply of pins, for it was the boys' pleasure, during the service on Assize Sunday, to stick pins into people's backs, and pin women's clothes together; the density of the mob permitting full scope to the delightful amusement, and preventing detection.
The thirty king's scholars bustled in from the cloisters two by two, crossed the body of the cathedral to the grand entrance, and placed themselves at the head of the choristers. Which was wrong: they ought to have gone below them. Henry Arkell, as senior chorister, took precedence of all when in the cathedral; but not when out of it, and that was a somewhat curious rule. Out of the cathedral, Arkell was under Prattleton; the latter, as senior boy, being head of all. He told Prattleton to move down.
Prattleton declined. "Then we must move up," observed Henry. "Choristers."
He was understood: and the choristers moved above the king's scholars.
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Prattleton. "How dare you disobey me, Mr. Arkell?"
"How dare you disobey me?" was Henry Arkell's retort, but he spoke civilly. "I am senior here, and you know it, Prattleton." It must be understood that this sort of clashing could only occur on occasions like the present: on ordinary Sundays and on saints' days the choristers and king's scholars did not come in contact in the cathedral.
"I'll let you know who's senior," said Prattleton. "Choristers, move down; you juniors, do you hear me? Move down, or I'll have you hoisted to-morrow."
"If Mr. Arkell tells us, please, sir," responded a timid junior, who fancied Mr. Prattleton looked particularly at him.
The choristers did not stir, and Prattleton was savage. "King's scholars, move up, and shove."
Some of the king's scholars hesitated, especially those of the lower school. It was no light matter to disobey the senior chorister in the cathedral. Others moved up, and proceeded to "shove." Henry Arkell calmly turned to one of his own juniors.
"Hardcast, go into the vestry, and ask Mr. Wilberforce to step here. Should he have gone into college, fetch him out of the chanting-desk."
"Remain where you are, Hardcast," foamed Prattleton. "I dare you to stir."
Hardcast, a little chap of ten, was already off, but he turned round at the word. "I am not under your orders, Mr. Prattleton, when the senior chorister's present."
A few minutes, and then the Reverend Mr. Wilberforce, in his surplice and hood, was seen advancing. Hardcast had fetched him out of the chanting-desk.
"What's all this? what hubbub are you boys making? I'll flog you all to-morrow. Arkell, Prattleton, what's the matter?"
"I thought it better to send for you, sir, than to have a disturbance here," said Arkell.
"A disturbance here! You had better not attempt it."
"Don't the king's scholars take precedence of the choristers, sir?" demanded Prattleton.
"No, they don't," returned the master. "If you have not been years enough in the college to know the rules, Mr. Prattleton, you had better return to the bottom of school, and learn them. Arkell, in this place, you have the command. King's scholars move down, and be quick over it: and I'll flog you all round," concluded Mr. Wilberforce, "if you strike up a dispute in college again."
The master turned tail, and strode back as fast as his short legs would carry him: for the dean and chapter, marshalled by a verger and the bedesmen, were crossing the cathedral; and a flourish of trumpets, outside, told of the approach of the judges. The Reverend Mr. Wilberforce was going to take the chanting for an old minor canon whose voice was cracked, and he would hardly recover breath to begin.
The choristers all grinned at the master's decision, save Arkell and Aultane, junior: the latter, though second chorister, took part with Prattleton, because he hated Arkell; and as the judges passed in their flowing scarlet robes with the trains held up behind, and their imposing wigs, so terrible to look at, the bows of the choristers were much more gracious than those of the king's scholars. The additional mob, teeming in after the judges' procession, was unlimited; and a rare field had the boys and their pins that day.
The hubbub and the bustle of the morning passed, and the cathedral bell was again tolling out for afternoon service. Save the dust, and there was plenty of that, no trace remained of the morning's scene. The king's scholars were already in their seats in the choir, and the ten choristers stood at the choir entrance, for they always waited there to go in with the dean and chapter. One of them, and it was Mr. Wilberforce's own son, had made a mistake in the morning in fastening his own surplice to a countrywoman's purple stuff gown, instead of two gowns together; and, when they came to part company, the surplice proved the weakest. The consequence was an enormous rent, and it had just taken the nine other choristers and three lay-clerks five minutes and seventeen pins, fished out of different pockets, to do it up in any way decent. Young Wilberforce, during the process, rehearsing a tale over in his mind, for home, about that horrid rusty nail that would stick out of the vestry door.
The choristers stood facing each other, five on a side, and the dean and canons would pass between them when they came in. They stood at an equidistance, one from the other, and it was high treason against the college rules for them to move an inch from their places. Arkell headed one line, Aultane the other, the two being face to face. Suddenly a college boy, who was late, came flying from the cloisters and dashed into the choir, to crave the keys of the schoolroom from the senior boy, that he might procure his surplice. It was Lewis junior; so, against the rules, Prattleton condescended to give him the keys; almost any other boy he would have told to whistle for them, and marked him up for punishment as "absent." Prattleton chose to patronise him, on account of his friendship with Lewis senior. Lewis came out again, full pelt, swinging the keys in his hand, rather vain of showing to the choristers that he had succeeded in obtaining them, just as two little old gentlemen were advancing from the front entrance.
"Hi, Lewis! stop a moment," called out Aultane, in a loud whisper, as he crossed over and went behind Arkell.
"Return to your place, Aultane," said Arkell.
Mr. Aultane chose to be deaf.
"Aultane, to your place," repeated Henry Arkell, his tone one of hasty authority. "Do you see who are approaching?"
Aultane looked round in a fluster. But not a soul could he see, save a straggler or two making their way to the side aisles; and two insignificant little old men, arm-in-arm, close at hand, in rusty black clothes and brown wigs. Nobody to affecthim.
"I shall return when I please," said he, commencing a whispered parley with Lewis.
"Return this instant, Aultane. Iorderyou."
"You be——"
The word was not a blessing, but you are at liberty to substitute one. The little old men, to whom each chorister had bowed profoundly as they passed him, turned, and bent their severe yellow faces upon Aultane. Lewis junior crept away petrified; and Aultane, with the red flush of shame on his brow, slunk back to his place. They were the learned judges.
They positively were. But no wonder Aultane had failed to recognise them, for they bore no more resemblance to the fierce and fiery visions of the morning, than do two old-fashioned black crows to stately peacocks.
"What may your name be, sir?" inquired the yellower of the two. Aultane hung his head in an agony: he was wondering whether they could order him before them on the morrow and transport him. Wilberforce was in another agony, lest those four keen eyes should wander to his damaged surplice and the pins. Somebody else answered: "Aultane, my lord."
The judges passed on. Arkell would not look towards Aultane: he was too noble to add, even by a glance, to the confusion of a fallen enemy: but the other choristers were not so considerate, and Aultane burst into a flow of bad language.
"Be silent," authoritatively interrupted Henry Arkell. "More of this, and I will report you to the dean."
"I shan't be silent," cried Aultane, in his passionate rage. "There! not for you." Beside himself with anger, he crossed over, and raised his hand to strike Arkell. But one of the sextons, happening to come out of the choir, arrested Aultane, and whirled him back.
"Do you know where you are, sir?"
In another moment they were surrounded. The dean's wife and daughter had come up; and, following them, sneaked Lewis junior, who was settling himself into his surplice. Mrs. Beauclerc passed on, but Georgina stopped. Even as she went into college, she would sometimes stop and chatter to the boys.
"You were quarrelling, young gentlemen! What is the grievance?"
"That beggar threatened to report me to the dean," cried Aultane, too angry to care what he said, or to whom he spoke.
"Then I know you deserved it; as you often do," rejoined Miss Beauclerc; "but I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, if I were you, Aultane. I only wonder he has not reported you before. You should have me for your senior."
"If he does go in and report me, please tell the dean to ask him where his gold medal is," foamed Aultane. "And to make him answer it."
"What do you mean?" she questioned.
"Heknows. If the dean offered him a thousand half-crowns for his medal, he could not produce it."
"What does he mean?" repeated Miss Beauclerc, looking at Henry Arkell.
He could not answer: he literally could not. Could he have dropped down without life at Georgina's feet, it had been welcome, rather than that she should hear of an act, which, to his peculiarly refined temperament, bore an aspect of shame so utter. His face flushed a vivid red, and then grew white as his surplice.
"He can't tell you," said Aultane; "that is, he won't. He has put it into pawn."
"And his watch too," squeaked Lewis, from behind, who had heard of the affair from Aultane.
Henry Arkell raised his eyes for one deprecating moment to Miss Beauclerc's face; she was struck with their look of patient anguish. She cast an annihilating frown at Lewis, and, raising her finger haughtily motioned Aultane to his place. "I believe nothing ill ofyou," she whispered to Henry, as she passed on to the choir.
The next to come in was Mr. St. John. "What's the matter?" he hurriedly said to Henry, who had not a vestige of colour in his cheeks or lips.
"Nothing, thank you, Mr. St. John."
Mr. St. John went on, and Lewis skulked to his seat, in his wake. Lewis's place was midway on the bench on the decani side, seven boys being above him and seven below him. The choristers were on raised seats in front of the lay-clerks, five on one side the choir, five opposite on the other; Arkell, as senior, heading the five on the decani side.
The dean and canons came in, and the service began. While the afternoon psalms were being sung, Mr. Wilberforce pricked the roll, a parchment containing the names of the members of the cathedral, from the dean downwards, marking those who were present. Aultane left his place and took the roll to the dean, continuing his way to the organ-loft, to inquire what anthem had been put up. He brought word back to Arkell, 'The Lord is very great and terrible. Beckwith.' Aultane would as soon have exchanged words with the yellow-faced little man sitting in the stall next the dean, as with Arkell, just then, but his duty was obligatory. He spoke sullenly, and crossed to his seat on the opposite side, and Arkell rose and reported the anthem to the lay-clerks behind him. Mr. Wilberforce was then reading the first lesson.
Now it happened that there was only one bass at service that afternoon, he on the decani side, Mr. Smith; the other had not come; and the moment the words were out of Arkell's mouth, "The Lord is very great. Beckwith," Mr. Smith flew into a temper. He had a first-rate voice, was a good singer, and being inordinately vain, liked to give himself airs. "I have a horrid cold on the chest," he remonstrated, "and I cannot do justice to the solo; I shan't attempt it. The organist knows I'm as hoarse as a raven, and yet he goes and puts up that anthem for to-day!"
"What is to be done?" whispered Henry.
"I shall send and tell him I can't do it. Hardcast, go up to the organ-loft, and tell——Or I wish you would oblige me by going yourself, Arkell: the juniors are always making mistakes. My compliments to Paul, and the anthem must be done without the bass solo, or he must put up another."
Henry Arkell, ever ready to oblige, left his stall, proceeded to the organ-loft, and delivered the message. The organist was wroth: and but for those two little old gentlemen, whom he knew were present, he would have refused to change the anthem, which had been put up by the dean.
"Where's Cliff, this afternoon?" asked he, sharply, alluding to the other bass.
"I don't know," replied Henry. "He is not at service."
The organist took up one of the anthem books with a jerk, and turned over its leaves. He came to the anthem, "I know that my Redeemer liveth," fromthe Messiah.
"Are you prepared to do justice to this?" he demanded.
"Yes, I believe I am," replied Henry. "But——"
"But me no buts," interrupted the organist, who was always very short with the choristers. "'I know that my Redeemer liveth. Pitt.'"
As Henry Arkell descended the stairs, Mr. Wilberforce was concluding the first lesson. So instead of giving notice of the change of anthem to Mr. Wilberforce and the singers on the cantori side, he left that until later, and made haste to his own stall, to be in time for the soli parts in the Cantate Domino, which was being sung that afternoon in place of the Magnificat. In passing the bench of king's scholars, a foot was suddenly extended out before him, and he fell heavily over it, striking his head on the stone step that led to the stalls of the minor canons. A sexton, a verger, and one or two of the senior boys, surrounded, lifted, and carried him out.
The service proceeded; but his voice was missed in the Cantate; Aultane's proved but a poor substitute.
"I wonder whether the anthem's changed?" debated the bass to the contre tenor.
"Um—no," decided the latter. "Arkell was coming straight to his place. Had there been any change, he would have gone and told Wilberforce and the opposites. Paul is in a pet, and won't alter it."
"Then he'll play the solo without my accompaniment," retorted the bass, loftily.
Henry Arkell was only stunned by the fall, and before the conclusion of the second lesson, he appeared in the choir, to the surprise of many. After giving the requisite notice of the change in the anthem to Mr. Wilberforce and Aultane, he entered his stall; but his face was white as the whitest marble. He sang, as usual, in the Deus Misereatur. And when the time for the anthem came, Mr. Wilberforce rose from his knees to give it out.
"The anthem is taken from the burial service."
The symphony was played, and then Henry Arkell's voice rose soft and clear, filling the old cathedral with its harmony, and the words falling as distinctly on the ear as if they had been spoken. "I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh I shall see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another." The organist could not have toldwhyhe put up that particular anthem, but it was a remarkable coincidence, noticed afterwards, that it should have been a funeral one.
But though Henry Arkell's voice never faltered or trembled, his changing face spoke of bodily disease or mental emotion: one moment it was bright as a damask rose, the next of a transparent whiteness. Every eye was on him, wondering at the beauty of his voice, at the marvellous beauty of his countenance: some sympathised with his emotion; some were wrapt in the solemn thoughts created by the words. When the solo was concluded, Henry, with an involuntary glance at the pew of Mrs. Beauclerc, fell against the back of his stall for support: he looked exhausted. Only for a moment, however, for the chorus commenced.
He joined in it; his voice rose above all the rest in its sweetness and power; but as the ending approached, and the voices ceased, and the last sound of the organ died upon the ear, his face bent forward, and rested without motion on the choristers' desk.
"Arkell, what are you up to?" whispered one of the lay-clerks from behind, as Mr. Wilberforce recommenced his chanting.
No response.
"Nudge him, Wilberforce; he's going to sleep. There's the dean casting his eyes this way."
Edwin Wilberforce did as he was desired, but Arkell never stirred.
So Mr. Tenor leaned over and grasped him by the arm, and pulled him up with a sudden jerk. But he did not hold him, and the poor head fell forward again upon the desk. Henry Arkell had fainted.
Some confusion ensued: for the four choristers below him had every one to come out of the stall before he could be got out. Mr. Wilberforce momentarily stopped chanting, and directed his angry spectacles towards the choristers, not understanding what caused the hubbub, and inwardly vowing to flog the whole five on the morrow. Mr. Smith, a strong man, came out of his stall, lifted the lifeless form in his arms, and carried it out to the side aisle, the head, like a dead weight, hanging down over his shoulder. All the eyes and all the glasses in the cathedral were bent on them; and the next to come out of his stall, by the prebendaries, and follow in the wake, was Mr. St. John, a flush of emotion on his pale face.
The dean's family, after service, met Mr. St. John in the cloisters. "Is he better?" asked Mrs. Beauclerc. "What was the matter with him the second time?"
"He fainted; but we soon brought him to in the vestry. Young Wilberforce ran and got some water. They are walking home with him now."
"What caused him to fall in the choir?" continued Mrs. Beauclerc. "Giddiness?"
"It was not like giddiness," remarked Mr. St. John. "It was as if he fell over something."
"So I thought," interrupted Georgina. "Why did you leave your seat to follow him?" she continued, in a low tone to Mr. St. John, falling behind her mother.
"It was a sudden impulse, I suppose. I was unpleasantly struck with his appearance as I went into college. He was looking ghastly."
"The choristers had been quarrelling: Aultane's fault, I am sure. He lifted his hand to strike Arkell. Aultane reproached him with having"—Georgina Beauclerc hesitated, with an amused look—"disposed of his prize medal."
"Disposed of his prize medal?" echoed Mr. St. John.
"Pawned it."
St. John uttered an exclamation. He remembered the tricks of the college boys, but he could not have believed this of his favourite, Henry Arkell.
"And his watch also, Lewis junior added," continued Georgina. "They gave me the information in a spiteful glow of triumph. Henry did not deny it: he looked as if he could not. But I know he is the soul of honour, and if he has done anything of the sort, those beautiful companions of his have over-persuaded him: possibly to lend the money to them."
"I'll see into this," mentally spoke Mr. St. John.
Mr. St. John went at once to Peter Arkell's. Henry was alone, lying on his bed.
"After such a fall as that, how could you be so imprudent as to come back and take the anthem?" was his unceremonious salutation.
"I felt equal to it," replied Henry. "The one, originally put up, could not be done."
"Then they should have put up a third, for me. The cathedral does not lack anthems, I hope. Show me where your head was struck."
Henry put his hand to his ear, then higher up, then to his temple. "It was somewhere here—all about here—I cannot tell the exact spot."
As he spoke, a tribe of college boys was heard to clatter in at the gate. Henry would have risen, but Mr. St. John laid his arm across him.
"You are not going to those boys. I will send them off. Lie still and go to sleep, and dream of pleasant things."
"Pleasant things!" echoed Henry Arkell, in a tone full of pain. Mr. St. John leaned over him.
"Henry, I have never had a brother of my own; but I have almost loved you as such. Treat me as one now. What tale is it those demons of mischief have got hold of, about your watch and medal?"
With a sharp cry, Henry Arkell turned his face to the pillow, hiding its distress.
"I suppose old Rutterley has got them. But that's nothing; it's the fashion in the school: and I expect you had some urgent motive."
"Oh, Mr. St. John, I shall never overget this day's shame: they told Georgina Beauclerc! I would rather die this moment, here, as I lie, than see her face again."
His tone was one of suppressed anguish, and Mr. St. John's heart ached for him: though he chose to appear to make light of the matter.
"Told Georgina Beauclerc: what if they did? She is the very one to glory in such exploits. Had she been the dean's son, instead of his daughter, she would have been in Rutterley's sanctum three times a week. I don't think she would stand at going, as it is, if she were hard up."
"But why did they tell her! I could not have acted so cruelly by them. If I could but go to some far-off desert, and never face her, or the school, again!"
"If you could but work yourself into a brain fever, you had better say! that's what you seem likely to do. As to falling in Georgina Beauclerc's opinion, which you seem to estimate so highly (it's more than I do), if you pledged all you possess in a lump, and yourself into the bargain, she would only think the better of you. Now I tell you so, for I know it."
"I could not help it; I could not, indeed. Money is so badly wanted——"
He stopped in confusion, having said more than he meant: and St. John took up the discourse in a careless tone.
"Money is wanted badly everywhere. I have done worse than you, Harry, for I am pawning my estate, piecemeal. Mind! that's a true confession, and has never been given to another soul: it must lie between us."
"It was yesterday afternoon when college was over," groaned Henry. "I only thought of giving Rutterley my watch: I thought he would be sure to let me have ten pounds upon it. But he would not; only six: and I had the medal in my pocket; I had been showing it to you. I never did such a thing in all my life before."
"That is more than your companions could say. How did it get to their knowledge?"
"I cannot think."
"Where's the——the exchange?"
"The what?" asked Henry.
"How dull you are!" cried Mr. St. John. "I am trying to be genteel, and you won't let me. The ticket. Let me see it."
"They are in my jacket-pocket. Two." He languidly reached forth the pieces, and Mr. St. John slipped them into his own.
"Why do you do that, Mr. St. John?"
"To study them at leisure. What's the matter?"
"My head is beginning to ache."
"No wonder, with, all this talking. I'm off. Good-bye. Get to sleep as fast as you can."
The boys were in the garden and round the gate still, when he went down.
"Oh, if you please, sir, is he half killed? Edwin Wilberforce says so."
"No, he is not half killed," responded Mr. St. John. "But he wants quiet, and you must disperse, that he may have it."
"My brother, the senior boy, says he must have fallen down from vexation, because his tricks came out," cried Prattleton junior.
Mr. St. John ran his eyes over the assemblage. "What tricks?"
"He has been pawning the gold medal, Mr. St. John," cried Cookesley, the second senior of the school. "Aultane junior has told the dean: Bright Vaughan heard him."
"Oh, he has told the dean, has he?"
"The dean was going into the deanery, sir, and Miss Beauclerc was standing at the door, waiting for him," explained Vaughan to Mr. St. John. "Something she said to Aultane put him in a passion, and he took and told the dean. It was his temper made him do it, sir."
"Such a disgrace, you know, Mr. St. John, to take the dean's medalthere," rejoined Cookesley. "Anything else wouldn't have signified."
"Oh, been rather meritorious, no doubt," returned Mr. St. John. "Boys!"
"Yes, Mr. St. John."
"You know I was one of yourselves once, and I can make allowance for you in all ways. But when I was in the school, our motto was, Fair play, and no sneaking."
"It's our motto still," cried the flattered boys.
"It does not appear to be. We would rather, any one of us, have pitched ourselves off that tower," pointing to it with his hand, "than have gone sneaking to the dean with a private complaint."
"And so we would still, in cool blood," cried Cookesley. "Aultane must have been out of his mind with passion when he did it."
"How does Aultane know that Arkell's medal is in pawn?"
"He does not say how. He says he'll pledge his word to it."
"Then listen to me, boys: my word will, I believe, go as far with you as Aultane's. Yesterday afternoon I met Henry Arkell at the gate here; I asked to see his medal, and he brought it out of the house to show me. He is in bed now, but perhaps if you ask him to-morrow, he will be able to show it to you. At any rate, do not condemn him until you are sure there's a just reason. If he did pledge his medal, how many things have you pledged? Some of you would pledge your heads if you could. Fair play's a jewel, boys—fair play for ever!"
Off came the trenchers, and a shout was being raised for fair play and Mr. St. John; but the latter put up his hand.
"I thought it was Sunday. Is that the way you keep Sunday in Westerbury? Disperse quietly."
"I'll clear him," thought Mr. St. John, as he walked home. "Aultane's a mean-spirited coward. To tell the dean!"
Indeed, the incautious revelation of Mr. Aultane was exciting some disagreeable consternation in the minds of the seniors; and that gentleman himself already wished his passionate tongue had been bitten out before he made it.
The following morning the college boys were astir betimes, and flocked up in a body to the judges' lodgings, according to usage, to beg what was called the judges' holiday. The custom was for the senior judge to send his card out and his compliments to the head master, requesting him to grant it; and the boys' custom was, as they tore back again, bearing the card in triumph, to raise the whole street with their shouts of "Holiday! holiday!"
But there was no such luck on this morning. The judges, instead of the card and the request, sent out a severe message—that from what they had heard the previous day in the cathedral, the school appeared to merit punishment rather than holiday. So the boys went back, dreadfully chapfallen, kicking as much mud as they could over their trousers and boots, for it had rained in the night, and ready to buffet Aultane junior as the source of the calamity.
Aultane himself was in an awful state of mind. He felt perfectly certain that the affair in the cathedral must now come out to the head master, who would naturally inquire into the cause of the holiday's being denied; and he wondered how it was that judges dared to come abroad without their gowns and wigs, deceiving unsuspicious people to perdition.
Before nine, Mr. St. John was at Henry Arkell's bedside. "Well," said he, "how's the head?"
"It feels light—or heavy. I hardly know which. It does not feel as usual. I shall get up presently."
"All right. Put on this when you do," said Mr. St. John, handing him the watch. "And put up this in your treasure place, wherever that may be," he added, laying the gold medal beside it.
"Oh, Mr. St. John! You have——"
"I shall have some sport to-day. I have wormed it all out of Rutterley; and he tells me who was down there and on what errand. Ah, ah, Mr. Aultane! so you peached to the dean. Wait until your turn comes."
"I wonder Rutterley told you anything," said Henry, very much surprised.
"He knew me, and the name of St. John bears weight in Westerbury," smiled he who owned it. "Harry, mind! you must not attempt to go into school to-day."
"It is the judges' holiday."
"The judges have refused it, and the boys have sneaked back like so many dogs with their tails scorched."
"Refused it! Refused the holiday!" interrupted Henry. Such a thing had never been heard of in his memory.
"They have refused it. Something must be wrong with the boys, but I am not at the bottom of the mischief yet. Don't you attempt to go near school or college, Harry: it might play tricks with your head. And now I'm going home to breakfast."
Henry caught his arm as he was departing. "How can I ever thank you, Mr. St. John? I do not know when I shall be able to repay you the money; not until——"
"You never will," interrupted Mr. St. John. "I should not take it if you were rolling in gold. I have done this for my own pleasure, and I will not be cheated out of it. I wonder how many of the boys have got their watches in now. Good-bye, old fellow."
When Mr. Wilberforce came to know of the refused holiday, his consternation nearly equalled Aultane's.Whatcould the school have been doing that had come to the ears of the judges? He questioned sharply the senior boy, and it was as much as Prattleton's king's scholarship was worth to attempt to disguise by so much as a word, or to soften down, the message sent out from the judges. But the closer the master questioned the rest of the boys, the less information he could get; and all he finally obtained was, that some quarrel had taken place between the two head choristers, Arkell and Aultane, on the Sunday afternoon, and that the judges overheard it.