FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[28]The Anglo-Saxon form of Harrow.[29]The terminal examination.[30]"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

[28]The Anglo-Saxon form of Harrow.

[29]The terminal examination.

[30]"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

"Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, thou liar of the first magnitude!"

Lovell betrayedhis astonishment by a slight start; however, he faced Warde with a smile. Warde, clean-shaven, alert, with youthful figure, looked but little older than his pupil. For a moment the two stared steadily at each other; then, very politely, Lovell said—

"No, sir, he does not."

Warde continued curtly, "Then he has paid you what he did owe you?"

Lovell nodded, shrugging his shoulders. Plainly, Warde had discovered the fact of the debt. Probably that fool Beaumont-Greene had applied to his father, and the father had written to Warde. It was unthinkable that Warde knew more than this. Having reached this conclusion, Lovell turned over in his mind two or three specious lies that might meet the exigency.

"Yes," he replied, with apparent frankness, "Beaumont-Greene did owe me money, and he has paid me."

After a slight pause, Warde said quietly, "It is my duty, as your tutor, to ask you how Beaumont-Greene became indebted to you?"

"I lent him the money," said Lovell.

"Ah! Please call 'Boy.'"

Lovell went into the passage. Had he an intuition that he was about to call "Boy" for the last time, or did the pent-up excitement find an outlet in sound? He had never called "Boy" so loudly or clearly. The night-fag scurried up again.

"Tell him to send Scaife here," said Warde.

Lovell's florid face paled. Scaife would introduce complications. And yet, if it had come to Warde's ears that Beaumont-Greene was in debt to two of his schoolfellows, and if he had found out the name of one, it was not surprising that he knew the name of the other also. As he gave the fag the message, he regretted that Scaife and he could not have a minute's private conversation together.

"You lent Beaumont-Greene ten pounds, Lovell?"

"Yes, sir."

Scaife came in, cool, handsomer than usual because of the sparkle in his eyes.

"Shut the door, Scaife. Look at me, please. Beaumont-Greene owed you money?"

Scaife glanced at Lovell, whose left eyelid quivered.

"Kindly stand behind Scaife, Lovell. Thank you. Answer my question, Scaife."

"Yes, sir; he owed me money."

"Haveyoulent him money, too?" said Lovell.

It was admirably done—the hint cleverly conveyed, the mild amazement. Warde smiled grimly. Scaife understood, and took his cue.

"Yes; I have lent him money," said he, after a slight pause.

"Twenty pounds?"

"I believe, sir, that is the amount."

"And can you offer me any explanation why Beaumont-Greene, whose father, to my knowledge, has always given him a very large allowance, should borrow thirty pounds of you two?"

"I haven't the smallest idea, have you, Lovell?"

"No," said Lovell. "Unless his younger brother, who is at Eton, has got into trouble. He's very fond of his brothers."

"Um! You speak up for your—friend."

Lovell frowned. "A friend, sir—no."

"Of course," said Warde, reflectively, "if it is true that Beaumont-Greene borrowed this money to help a brother——"

He paused, staring at Lovell. From the bottom of a big heart he was praying that Lovell would not lie.

"Beaumont-Greene certainly gave me to understand that the affair was pressing. Having the money, I hadn't the heart to refuse."

"But you pressed for repayment?" said Warde, sharply.

"That is true, sir. I'm on an allowance; and I shall have many expenses this holidays."

"You, Scaife, asked for your money?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, between you, you have driven this unhappy wretch into crime."

"Crime, sir?"

At last their self-possession abandoned them. Crime is a word which looms large in the imaginations of youth. What had Beaumont-Greene done?

"What crime, sir?"

Scaife, the more self-possessed, although fully two years the younger, asked the question.

"Forgery."

"Forgery?" Lovell repeated. He was plainly shocked.

"The idiot!" exclaimed Scaife.

"Yes—forgery. Have you anything to say? It is a time when the truth, all the truth, might be accepted as an extenuating circumstance. I speak to you first, Lovell. You're a Sixth Form boy—remember, I have been one myself—and it is your duty to help me."

"I beg pardon, sir," Lovell replied. "I have never considered it my duty as a Sixth Form boy to play the usher."

"Nor did I; but you ought to work on parallel lines with us. You accepted the privileges of the Sixth."

Lovell's flush deepened.

"More," continued Warde, "you know that we, the masters, have implicit trust in the Sixth Form, a trust but seldom betrayed. For instance, I should not think of entering your room without tapping on the door; underordinary circumstances I should accept your bare word unhesitatingly. I say emphatically that if you, knowing these things, have accepted the privileges of your order with the deliberate intention of ignoring its duties, you have not acted like a man of honour."

"Sir!"

"Don't bluff! Now, for the last time, will you give me what I have given you—trust?"

"I have nothing more to say," Lovell answered stiffly.

"And you, Scaife?"

"I am sorry, sir, that Beaumont-Greene has been such a fool. We lent him this money, because he wanted it badly; and he said he would pay us back before the end of the term."

"You stick to that story?"

"Why, yes, sir. Why should we tell you a lie?"

"Ah, why, indeed?" sighed Warde. Then his voice grew hard and sharp. The persuasiveness, the carefully-framed sentences, gave place to his curtest manner. "This matter," said he, "is out of my hands. The Head Master will deal with it. I must ask you for your keys, Lovell."

"And if I refuse to give them up?"

"Then we must break into your boxes. Thanks." He took the keys. "Follow me, please."

The pair followed him into the private side, upstairs, and into the sick-room. There were three beds in it; upon one sat Beaumont-Greene. His complexion turned a sickly drab when he saw Lovell and Scaife. He even glanced at the window with a hunted expression. The window was three stories from the ground, and heavily barred ever since a boy in delirium had tried to jump from it.

"Your night-things will be brought to you," said Warde.

He went out slowly. The boys heard the key turn in the massive lock. They were prisoners. Scaife walked up to Beaumont-Greene.

"You told Warde about the bridge?"

"Ye-es; I had to. Scaife, don't look at me like that. Lovell"—his voice broke into a terrified scream—"don't let him hit me. I couldn't help it—I swear I——"

"You cur!" said Scaife. "I wouldn't touch you with a forty-foot pole."

Just what passed between Warde and the Head Master must be surmised. Carefully hidden in Lovell's boxes were found cards and markers. Upon the latter remained the results of the last game played, and under the winning column a rough calculation in pounds, shillings, and pence. There were no names.

Next day, during first school, a notice came round to each Form to be in the Speech-room at 8.30. Not a boy knew or guessed the reason of this summons. The Manorites, aware that three of their House were in the sick-room, believed that an infectious disease had broken out. Only Desmond, John, and the Caterpillar experienced heart-breaking fears that a catastrophe had taken place.

When the School assembled at half-past eight, the monitors came in, followed by the Head Master in cap and gown. Then, a moment later, the School Custos entered with Scaife. They sat down upon a small bench near the door. Immediately the whispers, the shuffling of feet, the occasional cough, died down into a thrilling silence. The Head Master stood up.

He was a man of singularly impressive face and figure. And his voice had what may be described as an edge to it—the cutting quality so invaluable to any speaker who desires to make a deep impression upon his audience. He began his address in the clear, cold accents of one who sets forth facts which can neither be controverted nor ignored. Slowly, inexorably, without wasting a word or a second, he told the School what had happened. Then he paused.

As his voice melted away, the boys moved restlessly. Upon their faces shone a curious excitement and relief. Gambling in its many-headed forms is too deeply rooted inhuman hearts to awaken any great antipathy. So far, then, the sympathy of the audience lay with the culprits; this the Head Master knew.

When he spoke again, his voice had changed, subtly, but unmistakably.

"You were afraid," he said, "that I had something worse—ah, yes, unspeakably worse—to tell you. Thank God, this is not one of those cases from which every clean, manly boy must recoil in disgust. But, on that account, don't blind yourselves to the issues involved. This playing of bridge—a game you have seen your own people playing night after night, perhaps—is harmless enough in itself. I can say more—it is a game, and hence its fascination, which calls into use some of the finest qualities of the brain: judgment, memory, the faculty of making correct deductions, foresight, and patience. It teaches restraint; it makes for pleasant fellowship. It does all this and more, provided that it never degenerates into gambling. The very moment that the game becomes a gamble, if any one of the players is likely to lose a sum greater than he can reasonably afford to pay, greater than he would cheerfully spend upon any other form of entertainment, then bridge becomes cursed. And because you boys have not the experience to determine the difference between a mere game and a gamble, card-playing is forbidden you, and rightly so. Now, let us consider what has happened. A stupid, foolish fellow, playing with boys infinitely cleverer than himself, has lost a sum of money which he could not pay. To obtain the means of paying it, he deliberately forged a letter and a signature. And then followed the inevitable lying—lie upon lie. That is always the price of lies—'to lie on still.'

"I would mitigate the punishment, if I could, but I must think of the majority. This sort of malignant disease must be cut out. Two of the three offenders are young men; they were leaving at the end of this term. They will leave, instead—to-day. The third boy is muchyounger. Because of his youth, I have been persuaded by his house-master to give him a further chance."

Again he paused. Then he exclaimed loudly, "Scaife!"

Scaife stood up, very pale. "Here, sir!"

"Scaife, you will go into the Fourth Form Room,[31]and prepare to receive the punishment which no member of the Eleven should ever deserve."

John sat with his Form while the Head Master was addressing the School. Not far off was the Caterpillar, less cool than usual, so John remarked. His collar, for instance, seemed to be too tight; and he moved restlessly upon his chair. Many very brave men become nervous when a great danger has passed them by. Egerton said afterwards, "I felt like getting down a hole, and pulling the hole after me. Not my own. Some Yankee's, you know." Still, he displayed remarkable self-possession under trying circumstances. Two of Lovell's particular friends were seen to turn the colour of Cheddar cheese. But Desmond, so John noticed, grew red rather than yellow. Nor did he tremble, but his fists were clenched, and his eyes kindled.

As Scaife left the Speech-room, followed by Titchener (the provider of birches, whose duty it is to see that boys about to be swished are properly prepared to receive punishment), the boys began to shuffle in their places. But the Head Master held up his hand. It was then that Lovell's two particular friends, who had partially recovered, felt that the earth was once more slipping from under them.

"It takes four to play bridge." The Caterpillar's fingers went to his collar again. "In this case there must have been a fourth, possibly a fifth and a sixth. Not more, I think, because the secret was too well kept. We are confronted with the disagreeable fact that three boys are going to receive the most severe punishments I can inflict, andthat another escapes scot-free.For I do not know the—name—of—the—fourth."

The Head Master waited to let each deliberate word soak in. Perhaps he had calculated the effect of his voice upon a boy of sensibility and imagination. That Scaife, his friend, should suffer the indignity of a swishing, and that he should escape scot-free, seemed to Cæsar Desmond not a bit of rare good fortune—as it appeared to the others—but an incredible miscarriage of justice. To submit tamely to such a burden was unthinkable. He sprang to his feet, ardent, impetuous, afire with the spirit which makes men accept death rather than dishonour; and then, in a voice that rang through the room, thrilling the coldest and most callous heart, he exclaimed—

"I was the fourth."

A curious sound escaped from the audience—a gasp of surprise, of admiration, and of dismay; at least, so the Head Master interpreted it. And looking at the faces about him, he read approval or disapproval, according as each boy betrayed the feeling in his heart.

"You, Desmond?"

"Yes, sir."

The Caterpillar rose slowly. He was cool enough now.

"I was the fifth."

But Lovell's two particular friends sat tight, as they put it. Let us not blame them.

"You, Egerton?"

"Yes, sir."

For a moment the Head Master hesitated. Into his mind there flashed the image of two notable figures—the fathers whom he had entreated to send sons to the Manor. If—if by so doing he had compassed the boys' ruin, could he ever have forgiven himself? But now, the boys themselves had justified his action; they had proved worthy of their breeding and the traditions of the Hill.

"Come here," he said.

When they stood opposite to him, he continued—

"You give yourselves up to receive the punishment I am about to inflict upon Scaife?"

The boys did not answer, save with their eyes. The silence in the great room was so profound that John made sure that the beating of his heart must be heard by everybody.

"I shall not punish you. This voluntary confession has done much to redeem your fault. Meet me in my study at nine this evening, and I will talk to you. When I came here I hardly hoped to find saints, but I did expect to find—gentlemen. And I have not been disappointed." He addressed the others. "You will return to your boarding-houses, and quietly, if you please."

The immediate and most noticeable effect of Lovell's expulsion was the loss of the next House match. Damer's defeated the Manor easily. Some of the fags whispered to each other that the injuries inflicted by the Head Master on Scaife had been so severe as to incapacitate the star-player of the House. Two boys had concealed themselves in the Armoury (which is just below the Fourth Form Room) upon the morning when Scaife was flogged. But they reported—nothing. However severe the punishment might have been, Scaife received it without a whimper.

In truth, Scaife received but one cut, and that a light one. The Head Master wished to lay stripes upon the boy's heart, not his body. When he saw him prepared to receive punishment, he said gravely—

"I have never flogged a member of the Eleven. And now, at the last moment, I offer you the choice between a flogging and expulsion."

"I prefer to be flogged."

And then—one cut.

But Scaife never forgot the walk from the Yard to the Manor, after execution. He was too proud to run, too proud not to face the boys he happened to meet. They turned aside their eyes from his furious glare. But he metno members of his own House. They had the delicacy to leave the coast clear. When he reached his room, he found Desmond alone. Desmond said nervously—

"I asked Warde if we could have breakfast here this morning, instead of going into Hall. I've got some ripping salmon."

Scaife had faced everything with a brazen indifference, but the sympathy in his friend's voice overpowered him. He flung himself upon the sofa by the window and wept, not as a boy weeps, but with the cruel, grinding sobs of a man. He wept for his stained pride, for his vain-glory, not because he had sinned and caused others to sin. The boy watching him, seeing the hero self-abased, hearing his heartbreaking sobs, interpreted very differently those sounds. Infinitely distressed, turning over and over in his mind some soothing phrases, some word of comfort and encouragement, Desmond waited till the first paroxysm had passed. What he said then shall not be set down in cold print. You may be sure he proved that friendship between two strong, vigorous boys is no frail thread, but a golden chain which adversity strengthens and refines. Scaife rose up with his heart softened, not by his own tears, but by the tears he saw in Desmond's eyes.

"I'm all right now," he said. Then, with frowning brows, he added thoughtfully, "I deserve what I got for being a fool. I ought to have foreseen that such a swine as Beaumont-Greene would be sure to betray us sooner or later. I shall be wiser next time."

"Next—time?" The dismay in Desmond's voice made Scaife smile.

"Don't worry, Cæsar. No more bridge for me; but," he laughed harshly, "the leopard can't change his spots, and he won't give up hunting because he has fallen into a trap, and got out of it. Come, let's tackle the salmon."

The winter term came to an end, and the School broke up. Upon the evening of the last Sunday, Warde said a few words to John.

"I propose to make some changes in the house," he said abruptly. "Would you like to share No. 7 with Desmond?"

No. 7 was the jolliest two-room at the Manor. It overlooked the gardens, and was larger than some three-rooms. Then John remembered Scaife and the Duffer.

"Desmond has been with Scaife ever since he came to the house, sir."

"True. But I'm going to give Scaife a room to himself. He's entitled to it as the future Captain of the Eleven. That is—settled. You and Duff must part. He's two forms below you in the school, and never likely to soar much higher than the Second Fifth. Next term you will be in the Sixth, and by the summer I hope Desmond will have joined you. You will find[32]together. Of course Scaife can find with you, if you wish. I've spoken to him and Desmond."

And so, John's fondest hope was realized. When he came back to the Manor, Desmond and he spent much time and rather more money than they could afford in making No. 7 the cosiest room in the house. Consciences were salved thus:—John bought for Desmond some picture or other decorative object which cost more money than he felt justified in spending on himself; then Desmond made John a similar present. It was whipping the devil round the stump, John said, but oh! the delight of giving his friend something he coveted, and receiving presents from him in return.

During this term, Scaife became one of the school racquet-players. In many ways he was admittedly the most remarkable boy at Harrow, the Admirable Crichton who appears now and again in every decade. He won the high jump and the hurdle-race. These triumphs kept him out of mischief, and occupied every minute of his time. He associated with the "Bloods," and one day Desmond toldJohn that he considered himself to have been "dropped" by this tremendous swell. John discreetly held his tongue; but in his own mind, as before, he was convinced that Scaife and Desmond would come together again. The inexorable circumstance of Scaife's superiority at games had separated the boys, but only for a brief season. Desmond would become a "Blood" soon, and then it would be John's turn to be "dropped." Being a philosopher, our hero did not worry too much over the future, but made the most of the present, with a grateful and joyous heart. In his humility, he was unable to measure his influence on Desmond. In athletic pursuits an inferior, in all intellectual attainments he was pulling far ahead of his friend. The artful Warde had a word to say, which gave John food for thought.

"You can never equal your friend at cricket or footer, Verney. If you wish to score, it is time to play your own game."

Shortly after this, John realized that Warde had read Cæsar aright. Charles Desmond's son, as has been said, acclaimed quality wherever he met it. John's intellectual advance amazed and then fascinated him. When John discovered this, he worked harder. Warde smiled. John ran second for the Prize Poem. He had genuine feeling for Nature, but he lacked as yet the technical ability to display it. A more practised versifier won the prize; but John's taste for history and literature secured him the Bourchier, not without a struggle which whetted to keenness every faculty he possessed. More, to his delight, he realized that his enthusiasm was contagious. Cæsar entered eagerly into his friend's competitions; struggle and strife appealed to the Irishman. He talked over John's themes, read his verses, and predicted triumphs. Warde told John that Cæsar Desmond might have stuck in the First Fifth, had it not been for this quickening of the clay. The days succeeded each other swiftly and smoothly. Warde was seen to smile more than ever during this term.Certain big fellows who opposed him were leaving or had already left. Bohun, now Head of the House, was a sturdy, straightforward monitor, not a famous athlete, but able to hold his own in any field of endeavour. Just before the Christmas holidays, Warde discovered, to his horror, that the drainage at the Manor was out of order. At great expense a new and perfect system was laid down. At last Warde told himself his house might be pronounced sanitary within and without.

When the summer term came, Desmond joined John in the Sixth Form. They were entitled to single rooms, but they asked and obtained permission to remain in No. 7. Desmond was invested with the right to fag, and the right to "find." How blessed a privilege the right to find is, boys who have enjoyed it will attest. The cosy meals in one's own room, the pleasant talk, the sense of intimacy, the freedom from restraint. Custom stales all good things, but how delicious they taste at first!

The privilege of fagging is not, however, unadulterated bliss. When Warde said to Cæsar, "Well, Desmond, how do you like ordering about your slave?" Desmond replied, ruefully, "Well, sir, little Duff has broken my inkstand, spilt the ink on our new carpet, and let Verney's bullfinch escape. I think, on the whole, I'd as lief wait on myself."

Early in June it became plain that unless the unforeseen occurred, Harrow would have a strong Eleven, and that Desmond would be a member of it. John and Fluff were playing in the Sixth Form game; but John had no chance of his Flannels, although he had improved in batting and bowling, thanks to Warde's indefatigable coaching. Scaife hardly ever spoke to John now, but occasionally he came into No. 7 to talk to Desmond. Upon these rare occasions John would generally find an excuse for leaving the room. Always, when he returned, Desmond seemed to be restless and perplexed. His admiration for Scaife had waxed rather than waned. Indeed, John himself, detesting Scaife—for it had come to that—fearing him on Desmond'saccount, admired him notwithstanding: captivated by his amazing grace, good looks, and audacity. His recklessness held even the "Bloods" spellbound. A coach ran through Harrow in the afternoons of that season. Scaife made a bet that he would drive this coach from one end of the High Street to the other, under the very nose of Authority. The rules of the school set forth rigorously that no boy is to drive in or on any vehicle whatever. Only the Cycle Corps are allowed to use bicycles. Scaife's bet, you may be sure, excited extraordinary interest. He won it easily, disguised as the coachman—a make-up clever enough to deceive even those who were in the secret. His friends knew that he kept two polo-ponies at Wembley. One afternoon he dared to play in a match against the Nondescripts. Warde's daughter, just out of the schoolroom, happened to be present, and she rubbed her lovely eyes when she saw Scaife careering over the field. Scaife laughed when he saw her; but before she left the ground a note had reached her.

"Dear Miss Warde,"I am sure that you have too much sporting blood in your veins to tell your father that you have seen me playing polo."Yours very sincerely,"Reginald Scaife."

"Dear Miss Warde,

"I am sure that you have too much sporting blood in your veins to tell your father that you have seen me playing polo.

"Yours very sincerely,"Reginald Scaife."

To run such risks seemed to John madness; to Desmond it indicated genius.

"There never was such a fellow," said Cæsar to John.

When Cæsar spoke in that tone John knew that Scaife had but to hold up a finger, and that Cæsar would come to him even as a bird drops into the jaws of a snake. Cæsar was strong, but the Demon was stronger.

After the Zingari Match, Desmond got his Flannels. He was cheered at six Bill. Everybody liked him; everybody was proud of him, proud of his father, proud of the long line of Desmonds, all distinguished, good-looking, andwith charming manners. The School roared its satisfaction. John stood a little back, by the cloisters. Cæsar ran past him, down the steps and into the street, hat in hand, blushing like a girl. John felt a lump in his throat. He thrilled because glory shone about his friend; but the poignant reflection came, that Cæsar was running swiftly, out of the Yard and out of his own life. And before lock-up he saw, what he had seen in fancy a thousand times, Cæsar arm-in-arm with Scaife and the Captain of the Eleven, Cæsar in his new straw,[33]looking happier than John had ever seen him, Cæsar, the "Blood," rolling triumphantly down the High Street, the envied of all beholders, the hero of the hour.

John called himself a selfish beast, because he had wished for one terrible moment, wished with heart and soul, that Cæsar was unpopular and obscure.

FOOTNOTES:[31]The place of execution.[32]"Finding" is the privilege, accorded to the Sixth Form, of having breakfast and tea served in their own rooms instead of in Hall.[33]The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the School Cricket Eleven.

[31]The place of execution.

[32]"Finding" is the privilege, accorded to the Sixth Form, of having breakfast and tea served in their own rooms instead of in Hall.

[33]The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the School Cricket Eleven.

"Friend, of my infinite dreamsLittle enough endures;Little howe'er it seems,It is yours, all yours.Fame hath a fleeting breath,Hope may be frail or fond;But Love shall be Love till death,And perhaps beyond."

Until theMetropolitan Railway joined Harrow to Baker Street, the Hill stood in the midst of genuine and unspoilt country, separated by five miles of grass from the nearest point of the metropolis, and encompassed by isolated dwellings, ranging in rank and scale from villas to country houses.[34]Most of the latter have fallen victims to the speculative builder, and have been cut up into alleys of brick and stucco. But one or two still remain among their hayfields and rhododendrons.

John Verney had an eager curiosity, not common in schoolboys, to know something about the countryside in which he dwelt. As a Lower Boy, whenever released from "Compulsory" and House-games, he used to wander with alert eyes and ears up and down the green lanes of Roxeth and Harrow Weald, enjoying fresh glimpses of the far-seen Spire, making friends with cottagers, picking up traditions of an older and more lawless[35]epoch, and, with these, anever-increasing love and loyalty to Harrow. So Byron had wandered a hundred years before.

These solitary rambles, however, were regarded with disfavour by schoolfellows who lacked John's imaginative temperament. The Caterpillar, for instance, protested, "Did I see you hobnobbing with a chaw the other day? I thought so; and you looked like a confounded bughunter." The Duffer's notions of topography were bounded by the cricket-ground on the one side of the Hill, and the footer-fields on the other; and his traditions held nothing much more romantic than A. J. Webbe's scores at Lord's. Fluff, as has been said, was too far removed from John to make him more than an occasional companion. And so, for several terms, John, for the most part, walked alone. By the time Desmond joined him, he had gleaned a knowledge which fascinated a friend of like sensibility and imagination. Together they revisited the old and explored the new. One never-to-be-forgotten day the boys discovered a deserted house of some pretensions about a mile from the Hill. Its grounds, covering several acres, were enclosed by a high oak paling, within which stood a thick belt of trees, effectually concealing what lay beyond. Grim iron gates, always locked, frowned upon the wayfarer; but John, flattening an inquisitive nose against the ironwork, could discern a carriage-drive overgrown with grass and weeds, and at the end of it a white stone portico. After this the place became to both boys a sort of Enchanted Castle. A dozen times they peered through the gates. No one went in or out of the grass-grown drive. The gatekeeper's lodge was uninhabited; there were no adjacent cottages where information might be sought. The boys called it "The Haunted House," and peopled it with ghosts; gorgeous bucks of the Regency, languishing beauties such as Lawrence painted, fiery politicians, duellists, mysterious black-a-vised foreigners. John connected it in fancy with the days when the gorgeous Duke of Chandos (who had Handel for his chapel-organist and was a Governor of Harrow andguardian of Lord Rodney) kept court at Cannons. He told Cæsar anecdotes of Dr. Parr, with his preposterous wig, his clouds of tobacco, his sesquipedalian quotations, coming down from Stanmore; and also of the great Lord Abercorn, another Governor of the school, who used to go out shooting in the blue riband of the Garter, and who entertained Pitt and Sir Walter Scott at Bentley Priory.

"What a lot you know!" said Cæsar. "And you have a memory like my father's. I'm beginning to think, Jonathan, that you'll be a swell like him some day—in the Cabinet, perhaps."

"Ah," said John, with shining eyes.

"I hope I shall live to see it," Desmond added, with feeling.

"Thanks, old chap. A crust or a triumph shared with a pal tastes twice as good."

One soft afternoon in spring, after four Bill, Desmond and John were approaching the iron gates of the Haunted House. They had not taken this particular walk since the day when Desmond got his Flannels. During the winter term, Scaife and Desmond became members of the Football Eleven. During this term Scaife won the hundred yards and quarter-mile; Desmond won the half-mile and mile. In a word, they had done, from the athletic point of view, nearly all that could be done. A glorious victory at Lord's seemed assured. Scaife, Captain and epitome of the brains and muscles of the Eleven, had grown into a powerful man, with the mind, the tastes, the passions of manhood. Desmond, on the other hand, while nearly as tall (and much handsomer in John's eyes), still retained the look of youth. Indeed, he looked younger than John, although a year his senior; and John knew himself to be the elder and wiser, knew that Desmond leaned upon him whenever a crutch was wanted.

The chief difficulty which besets a school friendship between two boys is that of being alone together. In Form, in the playing-fields, in the boarding-house, life is public. Even in the most secluded lane, a Harrow boy is not secureagainst the unwelcome salutations of heated athletes who have been taking a cross-country run, or leaping over, or into, the Pinner brook. To John the need of sanctuary had become pressing.

Upon this blessed spring afternoon—ever afterwards recalled with special affection—a retreat was suddenly provided. As the boys jumped over the last stile into the lane which led to the Haunted House, Desmond exclaimed—

"By Jove, the gates are open!"

Then they saw that a man, a sort of caretaker, was in the act of shutting them.

"May we go in?" John asked civilly.

The man hesitated, eyeing the boys. Desmond's smile melted him, as it would have melted a mummy.

"There's nothing to see," he said.

Then, in answer to a few eager questions, he told the story of the Haunted House; haunted, indeed, by the ghosts of what might have been. A city magnate owned the place. He had bought it because he wished to educate his only son at Harrow as a "Home-Boarder," or day-boy. A few weeks before the boy should have joined the school, he fell ill with diphtheria, and died. The mother, who nursed him, caught the disease and died also. The father, left alone, turned his back upon a place he loathed, resolving to hold it till building-values increased, but never to set eyes on it again. The caretaker and his wife occupied a couple of rooms in the house.

The boys glanced at the house, a common-place mansion, and began to explore the gardens. To their delight they found in the shrubberies, now a wilderness of laurel and rhododendron, a tower—what our forefathers called a "Gazebo," and their neighbours a "Folly." The top of it commanded a wide, unbroken view—

"Of all the lowland western lea,The Uxbridge flats and meadows,To where the Ruislip waters seeThe Oxhey lights and shadows."

"There's the Spire," said John.

The man, who had joined them, nodded. "Yes," said he, "and my mistress and her boy are buried underneath it. She wanted him to be there—at the school, I mean—and there he is."

"We're very much obliged to you," said Desmond. He slipped a shilling into the man's hand, and added, "May we stay here for a bit? and perhaps we might come again—eh?"

"Thank you, sir," the man replied, touching his hat. "Come whenever you like, sir. The gates ain't really locked. I'll show you the trick of opening 'em when you come down."

He descended the steep flight of steps after the boys had thanked him.

"Sad story," said John, staring at the distant Spire.

Desmond hesitated. At times he revealed (to John alone) a curious melancholy.

"Sad," he repeated. "I don't know about that. Sad for the father, of course, but perhaps the son is well out of it. Don't look so amazed, Jonathan. Most fellows seem to make awful muddles of their lives. You won't, of course. I see you on pinnacles, but I——" He broke off with a mirthless laugh.

John waited. The air about them was soft and moist after a recent shower. The south-west wind stirred the pulses. Earth was once more tumid, about to bring forth. Already the hedges were green under the brown; bulbs were pushing delicate spears through the sweet-smelling soil; the buds upon a clump of fine beeches had begun to open. In this solitude, alone with teeming nature, John tried to interpret his friend's mood; but the spirit of melancholy eluded him, as if it were a will-o'-the-wisp dancing over an impassable marsh. Suddenly, there came to him, as there had come to the quicker imagination of his friend, the overpowering mystery of Spring, the sense of inevitable change, the impossibility of arresting it. At the moment all thingsseemed unsubstantial. Even the familiar Spire, powdered with gold by the slanting rays of the sun, appeared thinly transparent against the rosy mists behind it. The Hill, the solid Hill, rose out of the valley, a lavender-coloured shade upon the horizon.

"He came here," continued Desmond, dreamily—John guessed that he was speaking of the father—"a rich, prosperous man. I dare say he worked like a slave in the city. And he wanted peace and quiet after the Stock Exchange. Who wouldn't? And he planted out these gardens, thinking that every plant would grow up and thrive, and his son with them. And then the boy died; and the wife followed; and the enchanted castle became a place of horror; and now it is a wilderness. Haunted? I should think it was—haunted! I wish we'd never set foot in it. There's a curse on it."

"Let's go," said John.

"Too late. We'll stay now, and we'll come again, every Sunday. Wild and desolate as things look, they will be lovely when we get back in summer. Don't talk. I'm going to light a pipe."

Through the circling cloud of tobacco-smoke John stared at the face which had illumined nearly every hour of his school-life. Its peculiar vividness always amazed John, the vitality of it, and yet the perfect delicacy. Scaife's handsome features were full of vitality also, but coarseness underlay their bold lines and peered out of the keen, flashing eyes. When the Caterpillar left Harrow he had said to John—

"Good-bye, Jonathan. Awful rot your going to such a hole as Oxford! One has had quite enough schooling after five years here. It's settled I'm going into the Guards. My father tells me that old Scaife tried to get the Demon down on the Duke's list. But we don't fancy the Scaife brand."

Often and often John wondered whether Desmond saw the brand as plainly as the Caterpillar and he did. Sometimes he felt almost sure that a word, a look, a gesturebetraying the bounder, had revolted Desmond; but a few hours later the bounder bounded into favour again, captivating eye and heart by some brilliant feat. And then his brains! He was so diabolically clever. John could always recall his face as he lay back in the chair in No. 15, sick, bruised, befuddled, and yet even in that moment of extreme prostration able to "play the game," as he put it, to defeat house-master and doctor by sheer strength of will and intellect. It was Scaife who had persuaded Desmond to smoke.... Cæsar's voice broke in upon these meditations.

"I say—what are you frowning about?"

John, very red, replied nervously, "Now that you're in the Sixth, you ought to chuck smoking."

"What rot!" said Cæsar. "And here, in this tower, where one couldn't possibly be nailed——"

"That's it," said John. "It's just because you can't possibly be nailed that it seems to me not quite square."

Cæsar burst out laughing. "Jonathan, youarea rum 'un. Anyway—here goes!"

As he spoke he flung the pipe into the bushes below.

"Thanks," said John, quietly.

"We'll come here again. I like this old tower."

"You won't come here without me?"

"Oh, ho! I'm not to let the Demon into our paradise—eh? What a jealous old bird you are! Well, I like you to be jealous." And he laughed again.

"I am jealous," said John, slowly.

The School broke up on the following Tuesday, and Desmond went home with John.

This happened to be the first time that the friends had spent Easter together. John wondered whether Cæsar would take the Sacrament with his mother and him. He and Cæsar had been confirmed side by side in the Chapel at Harrow. He felt sure that Desmond would not refuse if he were asked. On Easter Eve, Mrs. Verney said, in her quiet, persuasive voice—

"You will join us to-morrow morning, Harry?"

Desmond flushed, and said, "Yes."

Not remembering his own mother, who had died when he was a child, he often told John that he felt like a son to Mrs. Verney. Upon Easter morning, the three met in the hall, and Desmond asked for a Prayer-book.

"I've lost mine," he murmured.

That afternoon, when they were alone upon the splendid moor above Stoneycross, Desmond said suddenly—

"Religion means a lot to you, Jonathan, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"But you never talk about it."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know how to begin."

"There's such sickening hypocrisy in this world."

John nodded.

"But your religion is a help to you, eh? Keeps you straight?"

John nodded again. Then Desmond said with an air of finality—

"I wish I'd some of your faith. I want it badly."

"If you want it badly, you will get it."

A long silence succeeded. Then Desmond exclaimed—

"Hullo! By Jove, there's a fox, a splendid fellow! He's come up here amongst the rabbits for a Sunday dinner. Gone awa-a-a-ay!"

He put his hand to his mouth and halloaed. A minute later he was talking of hunting. Religion was not mentioned till they were approaching the house for tea. On the threshold, Desmond said with a nervous laugh—

"I'd like your mother to give me a Prayer-book—a small one, nothing expensive."

During the following week they hunted with foxhounds or staghounds every day, except Wednesday. In the New Forest the Easter hunting is unique. Tremendous fellows come down from the shires—masters offamous packs, thrusters, keen to see May foxes killed. And the Forest entertains them handsomely, you may be sure. Big hampers are unpacked under the oaks which may have been saplings when William Rufus ruled in England; there are dinners, and, of course, a hunt-ball in the ancient village of Lyndhurst. But as each pleasant day passed, John told himself that the end was drawing near. This was almost the last holidays Cæsar and he would spend together; and, afterwards, would this friendship, so romantic a passion with one at least of them—would it wither away, or would it endure to the end?

At the end of a fortnight, Desmond returned to Eaton Square. Upon the eve of departure, Mrs. Verney gave him a small Prayer-book.

"I have written something in it," she said; "but don't open it now."

He looked at the fly-leaf as the train rolled out of Lyndhurst Station. Upon it, in Mrs. Verney's delicate handwriting, were a few lines. First his name and the date. Below, a text—"Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required." And, below that again, a verse—

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