CHAPTER VI.
PEACHING TO THE DEAN
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 medal there," 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. What could 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.
Early school was excused that morning, as a matter of necessity; for the master—relying upon the holiday—did not emerge from his bed-chamber until between eight and nine; and you may be very sure that the boys did not proceed to the college hall of their own accord. But after breakfast they assembled as usual at half-past nine, and the master, uneasy and angry, went in also to the minute. Henry Arkell failed to make his appearance, and it was remarked upon by the masters.
"By the way," said Mr. Wilberforce, "how came he to fall down in college yesterday? Does anybody know?"
"Please, sir, he trod upon a surplice," said Vaughan the bright. "Lewis junior says so."
"Trod upon a surplice!" repeated Mr. Wilberforce. "How could he do that? You were standing. Your surplices are not long enough to be trodden upon. What do you mean by saying that, Lewis junior?"
Lewis junior's face turned red, and he mentally vowed a licking to Bright Vaughan, for being so free with his tongue; but he looked up at the master with an expression as innocent as a lamb's.
"I only said he might have trodden on a surplice, sir. Perhaps he was giddy yesterday afternoon, as he fainted afterwards."
The subject dropped. The choristers went into college for service at ten o'clock, but the master remained in his place. It was not his week for chanting. Before eleven they were back again; and the master had called up the head class, and was again remarking on the absence of Henry Arkell, when the dean and Mr. St. John walked into the hall. Mr. Wilberforce rose, and pushed his spectacles to the top of his brow in his astonishment.
"Have the goodness to call up Aultane," said the dean, after a few words of courtesy, as he stood by the master's desk.
"Senior, or junior, Mr. Dean?"
"The chorister."
"Aultane, junior, walk up," cried the master. And Aultane, junior, walked up, wishing himself and his tongue and the dean, and all the rest of the world within sight and hearing, were safely boxed up in the coffins in the cathedral crypt.
"Now, Aultane," began the dean, regarding him with as much severity as it was in the dean's nature to regard anyone, even a rebellious college boy, "you preferred a charge to me yesterday against the senior chorister; that he had been pledging his gold medal at Rutterley's. Have the goodness to substantiate it."
"Oh, my heart alive, I wish he'd drop through the floor!" groaned Aultane to himself. "What will become of me? What a jackass I was!"
"I did not enter into the matter then," proceeded the dean, for Aultane remained silent. "You had no business to make the complaint to me on a Sunday. What grounds have you for your charge?"
Aultane turned red and white, and green and yellow. The dean eyed him closely. "What proof have you?"
"I have no proof," faltered Aultane.
"No proof! Did you make the charge to me, knowing it was false?"
"No, sir. He has pledged his medal."
"Tell me how you know it. Mr. St. John knows he had it in his own house on Saturday."
Aultane shuffled first on one foot, and then on the other; and the dean, failing explanation from him, appealed to the school, but all disclaimed cognizance of the matter. "If you behave in this extraordinary way, you will compel me to conclude that you have made the charge to prejudice me against Arkell; who, I hear, had a serious charge to prefer against you for ill-behaviour in college," continued the dean to Aultane.
"If you will send to the place, you will find his medal is there, sir," sullenly replied Aultane.
"The shortest plan would be to send to Arkell's, and request him to dispatch his medal here, if the dean approves," interposed Mr. St. John, speaking for the first time.
The dean did approve, and Cookesley was despatched on the errand. He brought back the medal. Henry was not in the way, but Mrs. Arkell had found it and given it to him.
"Now what do you mean by your conduct?" sternly asked the dean of Aultane.
"I know he pledged it on Saturday, if he has got it out to-day," persisted the discomfited Aultane, who was in a terrible state, between wishing to prove his charge true, and the fear of compromising himself.
"I know Henry Arkell could not be guilty of a despicable action," spoke up Mr. St. John; "and, hearing of this charge, I went to Rutterley's to ask him a few questions. He informed me there was a college boy at his place on Saturday, endeavouring to pledge a table-spoon, but he knew the crest, and would not take it in—not wishing, he said, to encourage boys to rob their parents. Perhaps Aultane can tell the dean who that was?"
There was a dead silence in the school, and the look of amazement on the head-master's face was only matched by the confusion of Aultane's. The dean, a kind-hearted man, would not examine further.
"I do not press the matter until I hear the complaint of the senior chorister against Aultane," said he aloud, to Mr. Wilberforce. "It was something that occurred in the cathedral yesterday, in the hearing, unfortunately, of the judges. But a few preliminary tasks, by way of present punishment, will do Aultane no harm."
"I'll give them to him, Mr. Dean," heartily responded the master, whose ears had been so scandalised by the mysterious allusions to Rutterley's, that he would have liked to treat the whole school to "tasks" and to something else, all round. "I'll give them to him."
"You see what a Tom-fool you have made of yourself!" grumbled Prattleton senior to Aultane, as the latter returned to his desk, laden with work. "That's all the good you have got by splitting to the dean."
"I wish the dean was in the sea, I do!" madly cried Aultane, as he savagely watched the retreat of that very reverend divine, who went out carrying the gold medal between his fingers, and followed by Mr. St. John. "And I wish that brute, St. John was hung! He–"
Aultane's words and bravery alike faded into silence, for the two were coming back again. The master stood up.
"I forgot to tell you, Mr. Wilberforce, that I have recommended Henry Arkell to take a holiday for a day or two. That was a violent fall yesterday; and his fainting afterwards struck me as not wearing a favourable appearance."
"Have you seen him, Mr. Dean?"
"I saw him an hour ago, just before service. I was going by the house as he came out of it, on his way to college, I suppose. It is a strange thing what it could have been that caused the fall."
"So it is," replied the master. "I was inquiring about it just now, but the school does not seem to know anything."
"Neither does he, so far as I can learn. At any rate, rest will be best for him for a day or two."
"No doubt it will, Mr. Dean. Thank you for thinking of it."
They finally went out, St. John casting a significant look behind him, at the boys in general, at Aultane junior in particular. It said as plainly as looks could say, "I'd not peach again, boys, if I were you;" and Aultane junior, but for the restraining presence of the head master, would assuredly have sent a yell after him.
How much St. John told of the real truth to the dean, that the medal had been pledged, we must leave between them. The school never knew. Henry himself never knew. St. John quitted the dean at the deanery, and went on to restore the medal to its owner: although Georgina Beauclerc was standing at one of the deanery windows, looking down expectantly, as if she fancied he was going in.
Travice was at that moment at Peter Arkell's, perched upon a side-table, as he talked to them. Henry leaned rather languidly back in an elbow-chair, his fingers pressed upon his head; Lucy was at work near the window; Mrs. Peter, looking very ill, sat at the table. Travice had not been at service on the previous afternoon, and the accident had been news to him this morning.
"But how did you fall?" he was asking with uncompromising plainness, being unable to get any clear information on the point. "What threw you down?"
"Well—I fell," answered Henry.
"Of course you fell. But how? The passage is all clear between the seats of the king's scholars and the cross benches; there's nothing for you to strike your foot against; how did you fall?"
"There was some confusion at the time, Travice; the first lesson was just over, and the people were rising for the cantate. I was walking very fast, too."
"But something must have thrown you down: unless you turned giddy, and fell of your own accord."
"I felt giddy afterwards," returned Henry, who had been speaking with his hand mostly before his eyes, and seemed to answer the questions with some reluctance. "I feel giddy now."
"I think, Travice, he scarcely remembers how it happened," spoke Mrs. Arkell. "Don't press him; he seems tired. I am so glad the dean gave him holiday."
At this juncture, Mr. St. John came in with the medal. He stayed a few minutes, telling Harry he should take him for a drive in the course of the day, which Mrs. Arkell negatived; she thought it might not be well for the giddiness he complained of in the head. St. John took his leave, and Henry went with him outside, to hear the news in private of what had taken place in the college hall. Mrs. Arkell had left the room then, and Travice took the opportunity to approach Lucy.
"Does it strike you that there's any mystery about this fall, Lucy?"
"Mystery!" she repeated, raising her eyes. "In what way?"
"It is one of two things: either that he does not remember how he fell, or that he won't tell. I think it is the latter; there is a restraint in his manner when speaking of it: an evident reluctance to speak."
"But why should he not speak of it?"
"There lies what I call the mystery. A sensational word, you will say, for so slight a matter. I may be wrong—if you have not noticed anything. What's that you are so busy over?"
Lucy held it up to the light, blushing excessively at the same time. It was Harry's rowing jersey, and it was getting the worse for wear. Boating would soon be coming in.
"It wants darning nearly all over, it is so thin," she said. "And the difficulty is to darn it so that the darn shall be neither seen nor suspected on the right side."
"Can't you patch it?" asked Travice.
She laughed out loud. "Would Harry go rowing in a patched jersey? Would you, Travice?"
He laughed too. "I don't think I should much mind it."
"Ah, but you are Travice Arkell," she said, her seriousness returning. "A rich man may go about without shoes if he likes; but a poor one must not be seen even in mended ones."
"True: it's the way of the world, Lucy. Well, I should mend that jersey with a new one. Why, you'll be a whole day over it."
"I dare say I shall be two. Travice, there's Mr. St. John looking round for you. He was beckoning. Did you not see him.
"No, I only saw you," answered Travice, in a tone that was rather a significant one. "I see now; he wants me. Good-bye, Lucy."
He took her hand in his. There was little necessity for it, seeing that he came in two or three times a day. And he kept it longer than he need have done.