by Ellen Wood
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. I must get 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.
CHAPTER V.
ASSIZE SUNDAY.
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 affect him.
“I shall return when I please,” said he, commencing a whispered parley with Lewis.
“Return this instant, Aultane. I order you.”
“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.
“He knows. 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 of you,” 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 or
gan-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,” from the Messiah.
“Are you prepared to do justice to this?” he demanded.