CHAPTER IX.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH
The days went on; and the dull, heavy pain in the head, complained of by Henry Arkell, increased in intensity. At first his absence from his desk at school, his vacant place at college, excited comment, but in time, as the newness of it wore off, it grew to be no longer noticed. It is so with all things. On the afternoon of the fall, the family surgeon was called in to him: he saw no cause for apprehension, he said; the head only required rest. It might have been better, perhaps, had the head (including the body and brain) been able to take the recommended rest; but it could not. On the Monday morning came the excitement of the medal affair, as related to him by Mr. St. John, and also by many of the school; in the evening there occurred the excitement of that business of the register; the interview with the Prattletons, and subsequently with Mr. Fauntleroy. On the next day he had to appear as a witness; and then came the deanery dinner in the evening and Georgina Beauclerc. All sources of great and unwonted excitement, had he been in his usual state of health: what it was to him now, never could be ascertained.
As the days went on, and the pain grew no better, but worse, and the patient more heavy, it dawned into the surgeon's mind that he possibly did not understand the case, and it might be as well to have the advice of a physician. The most clever the city afforded was summoned, and he did not appear to understand it either. That there was some internal injury to the head, both agreed; but what it might be, it was not so easy to state. And thus more days crept on, and the doctors paid their regular visits, and the pain still grew worse; and then the half-shadowed doubt glided into a certainty which had little shadow about it, but stern substance—that the injury was rapidly running on to a fatal issue.
He did not take to his bed: he would sit at his chamber window in an easy chair, his poor aching-head resting on a pillow. "You would be better in bed," everybody said to him. "No, he thought he was best up," he answered; "it was more change: when he was tired of the chair and the pillow, he could lie down outside the bed." "It is unaccountable his liking to be so much at the window," Mrs. Peter Arkell remarked to Lucy. To them it might be; for how could they know that a sight of one who might pass and cast a glance up to him, made his day's happiness?
That considerable commotion was excited by the opinion of the doctors, however cautiously intimated, was only to be expected. Mr. Arkell heard of it, and brought another physician, without saying anything beforehand at Peter's. But it would seem that this gentleman's opinion did not differ in any material degree from that of his brethren.
The Reverend Mr. Wilberforce sat at the head of his dinner-table, eating his own dinner and carving for his pupils. His face looked hot and angry, and his spectacles were pushed to the top of his brow, for if there was one thing more than another that excited the ire of the master, it was that of the boys being unpunctual at meals, and Cookesley had this day chosen to be absent. The second serving of boiled beef was going round when he made his appearance.
"What sort of behaviour do you call this, sir?" was the master's salutation. "Do you expect to get any dinner?"
"I am very sorry to be so late, sir," replied Cookesley, eyeing the boiled beef wishfully, but not daring to take his seat. "I went to see Arkell, and–"
"And who is Arkell, pray, or you either, that you must upset the regulations of my house?" retorted the master. "You should choose your visiting times better, Mr. Cookesley."
"Yes, sir. I heard he was worse; that's the reason I went; and when I got there the dean was with him. I waited, and waited, but I had to come away without seeing Arkell, after all."
"The dean with Arkell!" echoed Mr. Wilberforce, in a disbelieving tone.
"He is there still, sir. Arkell is a great deal worse. They say he will never come to school or college again."
"Who says so, pray?"
"Everybody's saying it now," returned Cookesley. "There's something wrong with his head, sir; some internal injury caused by the fall; but they don't know whether it's an abscess, or what it is. It will kill him, they think."
The master's wrath had faded: truth to say, his anger was generally more fierce in show than in reality. "You may take your seat for this once, Cookesley, but if ever you transgress again–Hallo!" broke off the master, as he cast his eyes on another of his pupils, "what's the matter with you, Lewis junior? Are you choking, sir?"
Lewis junior was choking, or gasping, or something of the sort, for his face was distorted, and his eyes were round with seeming fright. "What is it?" angrily repeated the master.
"It was the piece of meat, sir," gasped Lewis. A ready excuse.
"No it wasn't," put in Vaughan the bright, who sat next to Lewis junior. "Here's the piece of meat you were going to eat; it dropped off the fork on to your plate again; it couldn't be the meat. He's choking at nothing, sir."
"Then, if you must choke, you had better go and choke outside, and come back when it's over," said the master to Lewis. And away Lewis went; none guessing at the fear and horror which had taken possession of him.
The assize week had passed, and the week following it, and still Henry Arkell had not made his appearance in the cathedral or the school. The master could not make it out. Was it likely that the effects of a fall, which broke no bones, bruised no limbs, only told somewhat heavily upon his head, should last all this while, and incapacitate him from his duties? Had it been any other of the king's scholars, no matter which of the whole thirty-nine Mr. Wilberforce would have said that he was skulking, and sent a sharp mandate for him to appear in his place; but he thought he knew better things of Henry Arkell. He did not much like what Cookesley said now—that Arkell might never come out again, though he received the information with disbelief.
Mr. St. John was a daily visitor to the invalid. On the day before this, when he entered, Henry was at his usual post, the window, but standing up, his head resting against the frame, and his eyes strained after some distant object outside. So absorbed was he, that Mr. St. John had to touch his arm to draw his attention, and Henry drew back with a start.
"How are you to-day, Harry? Better?"
"No, thank you. This curious pain in my head gets worse."
"Why do you call it curious?"
"It is not like an ordinary pain. And I cannot tell exactly where it is. I cannot put my hand on any part of my head and say it is here or it is there. It seems to be in the centre of the inside—as if it could not be got at."
"What were you watching so eagerly?"
"I was looking outside," was Henry's evasive reply. "They had Dr. Ware to me this morning; did you know it?"
"I am glad of that!" exclaimed Mr. St. John. "What does he say?"
"I did not hear him say much. He asked me where my head was struck when I fell, but I could not tell him—I did not know at the time, you remember. He and Mr.–"
Henry's voice faltered. A sudden, almost imperceptible, movement of the head nearer the window, and a wild accession of colour to his feverish cheek, betrayed to Mr. St. John that something was passing which bore for him a deep interest. He raised his own head and caught a sufficient glimpse: Georgina Beauclerc.
It told Mr. St. John all: though he had not needed to be told; and Miss Beauclerc's mysterious words, and Henry's past conduct became clear to him. So! the boy's heart had been thus early awakened—and crushed.
"The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers
Is always the first to be touched by the thorns,"
whistled Mr. St. John to himself.
Ay, crushing is as sure to follow that early awaking, as that thorns grow on certain rose-trees. But Mr. St. John said nothing more that day.
On the following day, upon going in, he found Henry in bed.
"Like a sensible man as you are," quoth Mr. St. John, by way of salutation. "Now don't rise from it again until you are better."
Henry looked at him, an expression in his eyes that Mr. St. John did not like, and did not understand. "Did they tell you anything downstairs, Mr. St. John?" he inquired.
"I did not see anyone but the servant. I came straight up."
"Mamma is lying down, I dare say; she has been sitting with me part of the night. Then I will tell it you. I shall not be here many days," he whispered, putting his hand within Mr. St. John's.
Mr. St. John did not take the meaning: that the case would have a fatal termination had not yet crossed his mind. "Where shall you be?" cried he, gaily, "up in the moon?"
Henry sighed. "Up somewhere. I am going to die."
"Going to what?" was the angry response.
"I am dying, Mr. St. John."
Mr. St. John's pulses stood still. "Who has been putting that rubbish in your head?" cried he, when he recovered them sufficiently to speak.
"The doctors told my father yesterday evening, that as I went on, like this, from bad to worse, without their being able to discover the true nature of the case, they saw that it must terminate fatally. He knew that they had feared it before. Afterwards mamma came and broke it to me."
"Why did she do so?" involuntarily uttered Mr. St. John, in an accent of reproach. "Though their opinion may be unfavourable—which I don't believe, mind—they had no right to frighten you with it."
"It does not frighten me. Just at first I shrank from the news, but I am quite reconciled to it now. A faint idea that this might be the ending, has been running through my own mind for some days past, though I would not dwell on it sufficiently to give it a form."
"I am astonished that Mrs. Arkell should have imparted it to you!" emphatically repeated Mr. St. John. "What could she have been thinking of?"
"Oh, Mr. St. John! mamma has striven to bring us up not to fear death. What would have been the use of her lessons, had she thought I should run in terror from it when it came?"
"She ought not to have told you—she ought not to have told you!" was the continued burden of Mr. St. John's song. "You may get well yet."
"Then there is no harm done. But, with death near, would you have had me, the only one it concerns, left in ignorance to meet it, not knowing it was there? Mamma has not waited herself for death—as she has done, you know, for years—without learning a better creed than that."
Mr. St. John made no reply, and Henry went on: "I have had such a pleasant night with mamma. She read to me parts of the Revelation; and in talking of the glories which I may soon see, will you believe that I almost forgot my pain? She says how thankful she is now, that she has been enabled to train me up more carefully than many boys are trained—to think more of God."
"You are a strange boy," interrupted Sir. St. John.
"In what way am I strange?"
"To anticipate death in that tone of cool ease. Have you no regrets to leave behind you?"
"Many regrets; but they seemed to fade into insignificance last night, while mamma was talking with me. It is best that they should."
"Henry, it strikes me that you have had your griefs and troubles, inexperienced as you are," resumed Mr. St. John.
"Oh yes, I have," he answered, betrayed into an earnestness, incompatible with cautious reserve. "Some of the college boys have not suffered me to lead a pleasant life with them," he continued, more calmly; "and then there has been my father's gradually straitening income."
"I think there must have been some other grief than these," was Mr. St. John's remark.
"What other grief could there have been?"
"I know but of one. And you are over young for that."
"Of course I am; too young," was the eager answer.
"That is enough," quietly returned Mr. St. John; "I did not tell you to betray yourself. Nay, Henry, don't shrink from me; let me hear it: it will be better and happier for you that I should."
"There is nothing—I don't know what you mean—what are you talking of, Mr. St. John?" was the incoherent answer.
"Harry, my poor boy, I know almost as much as you," he whispered. "I know what it is, and who it is. Georgie Beauclerc. There; you cannot tell me much, you see."
Henry Arkell laid his hand across his face and aching eyes; his chest was heaving with emotion. Mr. St. John leaned over him, not less tenderly than a mother.
"You should not have wasted your love upon her: she is a heartless girl. I expect she drew you on, and then turned round and said she did not mean it."
"Oh yes, she did draw me on," he replied, in a tone full of anguish; "otherwise, I never–But it was my fault also. I ought to have remembered the many barriers that divided us; the–"
"You ought to have remembered that she is an incorrigible flirt, that is what you ought to have remembered," interrupted Mr. St. John.
"Well, well," sighed Henry, "I cannot speak of these things to you: less to you than to any one."
"Is that an enigma? I should think you could best speak of them to me, because I have guessed your secret, and the ice is broken."
Again Henry Arkell sighed. "Speaking of them at all will do no good; and I would now rather think of the future than of the past. My future lies there," he added, pointing to the blue sky, which, as seen from his window, formed a canopy over the cathedral tower. "She has, in all probability, many years before her here: Mr. St. John, if she and you spend those years together, will you sometimes talk of me? I should not like to be quite forgotten by you—or by her."
"Spend them together!" he echoed. "Another enigma. What should bring me spending my years with Georgina Beauclerc?"
Henry withdrew his hands from his eyes, and turned them on Mr. St. John. "Do you think she will never be your wife?"
"She! Georgina Beauclerc! No, thank you."
Henry Arkell's face wore an expression that Mr. St. John understood not. "It was for your sake she treated me so ill. She loves you, Mr. St. John. And I think you know it."
"She is a little simpleton. I would not marry Georgie Beauclerc if there were not another English girl extant. And as to loving her–Harry, I only wish, if we are to lose you, that I loved you but one tenth part as little."
"Sorrow in store for her! sorrow in store for her!" he murmured, as he turned his face to the pillow. "I must send her a message before I die: you will deliver it for me?"
"I won't have you talk about dying," retorted Mr. St. John. "You may get well yet, I tell you."
Henry opened his eyes again to reply, and the calm peace had returned to them. "It maybe very soon; and it is better to talk of death than to shrink from it." And Mr. St. John grumbled an ungracious acquiescence.
"And there is another thing I wish you would do for me: get Lewis junior here to-day. If I send to him, I know he will not come; but I must see him. Tell him, please, that it is only to shake hands and make friends; that I will not say a word to grieve him. He will understand."
"It's more than I do," said Mr. St. John. "He shall come."
"I should like to see Aultane—but I don't think my head will stand it all. Tell him from me, not to be harsh with the choristers now he is senior–"
"He is not senior yet," interposed Mr. St. John in a husky tone.
"It will not be long first. Give him my love, and tell him, when I sent it, I meant it fully; and that I have no angry feeling towards him."
"Your love?"
"Yes. It is not an ordinary message from one college boy to another," panted the lad, "but I am dying."
After Mr. St. John left the house, he encountered the dean. "Dr. Beauclerc, Henry Arkell is dying."
The dean stared at Mr. St. John. "Dying! Henry Arkell!"
"The inward injury to the head is now pronounced by the doctors to be a fatal one. They told the family last night there was little, if any, more hope. The boy knows it, and seems quite reconciled."
The dean, without another word or question, turned immediately off to Mr. Arkell's, and Westerbury as immediately turned its aristocratic nose up. "The idea of his condescending to enter the house of those poor Arkells! had it been the other branch of the Arkell family, it would not have been quite so lowering. But Dr. Beauclerc never did display the dignity properly pertaining to a dean."
Dr. Beauclerc, forgetful as usual of a dean's dignity, was shown into Mrs. Arkell's parlour, and from thence into Henry Arkell's chamber. The boy's ever lovely face flushed crimson, from its white pillow, when he saw the dean. "Oh, sir! you to come here! how kind!"
"I am sorry for this, my poor lad," said the dean, as he sat down. "I hear you are not so well: I have just met Mr. St. John."
"I shall never be well again, sir. But do not be sorry. I shall be better off; far, far happier than I could be here."
"Do you feel this, genuinely, heartily?" questioned the dean.
"Oh yes, how can I do otherwise than feel it? If it is God's will to take me, I know it must be for my good."
"Say that again," said the dean. "I do not know that I fully caught your meaning."
"I am in God's hands: and if He takes me to Him earlier than I thought to have gone, I know it must be for the best."
"How long have you reposed so firm a trust in God?"
"All my life," answered Henry, with simplicity: "mamma taught me that with my letters. She taught me to take God for my guide; to strive to please Him; implicitly to trust in Him."
"And you have done this?"
"Oh no, sir, I have only tried to do it. But I know that there is One to intercede for me."
"Have you sure and certain trust in Christ?" returned the dean, after a pause.
"I have sure and certain trust in Him," was the boy's reply, spoken fervently: "if I had not, I should not dare to die. I wish I might have received the Sacrament," he whispered; "but I have not been confirmed."
"Henry," said the dean, in his quick manner, "I do believe you are more fitted for it than are some who take it. Would it be a comfort to you?"
"It would indeed, sir."
"Then I will come and administer it. At seven to-night, if that hour will suit your friends. I will ascertain when I go down."
"Oh, sir, you are too good," he exclaimed, in his surprise: "mamma thought of asking Mr. Prattleton. I am but a poor college boy, and you are the Dean of Westerbury."
"Just so. But when the great King of Terrors approaches, as he is now approaching you, it makes us remember that in Christ's kingdom the poor college boy may stand higher than the Dean of Westerbury. Henry, I have watched your conduct more than you are aware of, and I believe you to have been as truly good a boy as it is in human nature to be: I believe that you have continuously striven to please God, in little things as in great."
"If I could but have done it more than I have!" thought the boy.
It was during this interview that Mr. Cookesley arrived; and, as you have seen, nearly lost his dinner. As soon as the boys rose from table, they, full of consternation, trooped down to Arkell's, picking up several more of the king's scholars on their way, who were not boarders at the house of Mr. Wilberforce. The dean had gone then, but Mr. St. John was at the door, having called again to inquire whether there was any change. He cast his eyes on the noisy boys, as they approached the gate, and discerned amongst them Lewis junior. Mr. St. John stepped outside, and pounced upon him, with a view to marshal him in. But Lewis resisted violently; ay, and shook and trembled like a girl.
"I will not go into Arkell's, sir," he panted. "You have no right to force me. I won't! I won't!"
He struggled on to his knees, and clasped a deep-seated stone in the Arkells' garden for support. Mr. St. John, not releasing his collar, looked at him with amazement, and the troop of boys watched the scene over the iron railings.
"Lewis, what is the meaning of this?" cried Mr. St. John. "You are panting like a coward; and a guilty one: What are you afraid of?"
"I'm afraid of nothing, but I won't go into Arkell's. I don't want to see him. Let me go, sir. Though you are Mr. St. John, that's no reason why you should set up for master over the college boys."
"I am master over you just now," was the significant answer. "Listen: I have promised Arkell to take you to him, and I will do it: you may have heard, possibly, that the St. Johns never break their word. But Arkell has sent for you in kindness: he appeared to expect this opposition, and bade me tell it you: he wants to clasp your hand in friendship before he dies. Walk on, Lewis."
"You are not master over us boys," shrieked Lewis again, whose opposition had increased to sobs.
But Mr. St. John proved his mastership. Partly; by coaxing, partly by authoritative force, he conducted Mr. Lewis to the door of Henry's chamber. There Lewis seized his arm in abject terror; he had turned ghastly white, and his teeth chattered.
"I cannot fathom this," said Mr. St. John, wondering much. "Have I not told you there is nothing to fear? What is it that you do fear?"
"No; but does he look very frightful?" chattered Lewis.
"What should make him look frightful? He looks as he has always looked. Be off in; and I'll keep the door, if you want to talk secrets."
Mr. St. John pushed him in, and closed the door upon them. Henry held out his hand, and spoke a few hearty words of love and forgiveness; and Lewis put his face down on the counterpane and began to howl.
"Lewis, take comfort. It was done, I know, in the impulse of the moment, and you never thought it would hurt me seriously. I freely forgive you."
"Are you sure to die?" sobbed Lewis.
"I think I am. The doctors say so."
"O-o-o-o-o-o-h!" howled Lewis; "then I know you'll come back and haunt me with being your murderer: Prattleton junior says you will. He saw it done, so he knows about it. I shall never be able to sleep at night, for fear."
"Now, Lewis, don't be foolish. I shall be too happy where I am, to come back to earth. No one knows how it happened: you say Prattleton does, but he is your friend, and it is safe with him. Take comfort."
"Some of us have been so wicked and malicious to you!" blubbered Lewis. "I, and my brother, and Aultane, and a lot of them."
"It is all over now," sighed Henry, closing his heavy eyes. "You would not, had you foreseen that I should leave you so soon."
"Oh, what a horrid wretch I have been!" sobbed Lewis, rubbing his smeared face on the white bedclothes, in an agony. "And, if it's found out, they might try me next assizes and hang me. And it is such a dreadful thing for you to die!"
"It is a happy thing, Lewis; I feel it is, and I have told the dean I feel it. Say good-bye to the fellows for me, Lewis; I am too ill to see them. Tell them how sorry I am to leave them; but we shall meet again in heaven."
Lewis grasped his offered hand, and, with a hasty, sheepish movement, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek: then turned and burst out of the room, nearly upsetting Mr. St. John, and tore down the stairs. Mr. St. John entered the chamber.
"Well, is the conference satisfactorily over?"
Again Henry reopened his heavy eyes. "Is that you, Mr. St. John?"
"Yes, I am here."
"The dean is coming here this evening at seven, for the sacrament. He said my not being confirmed was no matter in a case like this. Will you come?"
"Henry, no," was the grave answer. "I am not good enough."
"Oh, Mr. St. John!" The ready tears filled his eyes. "I wish you could!" he beseechingly whispered.
"I wish so too. Are you distressed for me, Henry? Do not look upon me as a monster of iniquity: I did not mean to imply it. But I do not yet think sufficiently of serious things to be justified in partaking of that ordinance without preparation."
"It would have seemed like a bond of union between us—a promise that you will some time join me where I am going," pleaded the dying boy.
"I hope I shall: I trust I shall: I will not forget that you are there."
As Mr. St. John left the house, he made his way to the grounds, in a reflective mood: the cathedral bell was then ringing for afternoon service, and, somewhat to his surprise, he saw the dean hurrying from the college; not to it.
"I'm on my way back to Arkell's! I'm on my way back to Arkell's!" he exclaimed, in an impetuous manner; and forthwith he began recounting a history to Mr. St. John; a history of wrong, which filled him, the dean, with indignation.
"I suspected something of the sort," was Mr. St. John's quiet answer; and the dean strode on his way, and Mr. St. John stood looking after him, in painful thought. When the dean came out of Mr. Peter Arkell's again, he was too late for service that afternoon. Although he was in residence!
Just in the unprepared and sudden manner that the news of Henry Arkell's approaching death must have fallen upon my readers, so did it fall upon the town. People could not believe it: his friends could not believe it: the doctors scarcely believed it. The day wore on; and whether there may have lingered any hope in the morning, the evening closed it, for it brought additional agony to his injured head, and the most sanguine saw that he was dying.
All things were prepared for the service, about to take place, and Henry lay flushed, feverish, and restless, lest he should become delirious ere the hour should arrive: he had become so rapidly worse since the forepart of the day. Precisely as the cathedral clock struck seven, the house door was thrown open, and the dean placed his foot on the threshold:
"Peace be unto this house, and to all that dwell within it!"
The dean was attended to the chamber, and there he commenced the office for the Visitation of the Sick, omitting part of the exhortation, but reading the prayer for a soul on the point of departure. Then he proceeded with the Communion.
When the service was over, all, save Mrs. Arkell and the dean, quitted the room. Henry's mind was tranquil now.
"I will not forget your request," whispered the dean.
"Near to the college door, as we enter," was Henry's response.
"It shall be done as you wish, my dear."
"And, sir, you have promised to forgive them."
"For your sake. You are suffering much just now," added the dean, as he watched his countenance.
"It gets more intense with every hour. I cannot bear it much longer. Oh, I hope I shall not suffer beyond my strength!" he panted; "I hope I shall be able to bear the agony!"
"Do not fear it. You know where to look for help!" whispered the dean; "you cannot look in vain. Henry, my dear boy, I leave you in peace, do I not?"
"Oh yes, sir, in perfect peace. Thank you greatly for all."