Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Yes, I believe I am,” replied Henry. “But — —”

  “But me no buts,” interrupted the organist, who was always very short with the choristers. “‘I know that my Redeemer liveth. Pitt.’”

  As Henry Arkell descended the stairs, Mr. Wilberforce was concluding the first lesson. So instead of giving notice of the change of anthem to Mr. Wilberforce and the singers on the cantori side, he left that until later, and made haste to his own stall, to be in time for the soli parts in the Cantate Domino, which was being sung that afternoon in place of the Magnificat. In passing the bench of king’s scholars, a foot was suddenly extended out before him, and he fell heavily over it, striking his head on the stone step that led to the stalls of the minor canons. A sexton, a verger, and one or two of the senior boys, surrounded, lifted, and carried him out.

  The service proceeded; but his voice was missed in the Cantate; Aultane’s proved but a poor substitute.

  “I wonder whether the anthem’s changed?” debated the bass to the contre tenor.

  “Um — no,” decided the latter. “Arkell was coming straight to his place. Had there been any change, he would have gone and told Wilberforce and the opposites. Paul is in a pet, and won’t alter it.”

  “Then he’ll play the solo without my accompaniment,” retorted the bass, loftily.

  Henry Arkell was only stunned by the fall, and before the conclusion of the second lesson, he appeared in the choir, to the surprise of many. After giving the requisite notice of the change in the anthem to Mr. Wilberforce and Aultane, he entered his stall; but his face was white as the whitest marble. He sang, as usual, in the Deus Misereatur. And when the time for the anthem came, Mr. Wilberforce rose from his knees to give it out.

  “The anthem is taken from the burial service.”

  The symphony was played, and then Henry Arkell’s voice rose soft and clear, filling the old cathedral with its harmony, and the words falling as distinctly on the ear as if they had been spoken. “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh I shall see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.” The organist could not have told why he put up that particular anthem, but it was a remarkable coincidence, noticed afterwards, that it should have been a funeral one.

  But though Henry Arkell’s voice never faltered or trembled, his changing face spoke of bodily disease or mental emotion: one moment it was bright as a damask rose, the next of a transparent whiteness. Every eye was on him, wondering at the beauty of his voice, at the marvellous beauty of his countenance: some sympathised with his emotion; some were wrapt in the solemn thoughts created by the words. When the solo was concluded, Henry, with an involuntary glance at the pew of Mrs. Beauclerc, fell against the back of his stall for support: he looked exhausted. Only for a moment, however, for the chorus commenced.

  He joined in it; his voice rose above all the rest in its sweetness and power; but as the ending approached, and the voices ceased, and the last sound of the organ died upon the ear, his face bent forward, and rested without motion on the choristers’ desk.

  “Arkell, what are you up to?” whispered one of the lay-clerks from behind, as Mr. Wilberforce recommenced his chanting.

  No response.

  “Nudge him, Wilberforce; he’s going to sleep. There’s the dean casting his eyes this way.”

  Edwin Wilberforce did as he was desired, but Arkell never stirred.

  So Mr. Tenor leaned over and grasped him by the arm, and pulled him up with a sudden jerk. But he did not hold him, and the poor head fell forward again upon the desk. Henry Arkell had fainted.

  Some confusion ensued: for the four choristers below him had every one to come out of the stall before he could be got out. Mr. Wilberforce momentarily stopped chanting, and directed his angry spectacles towards the choristers, not understanding what caused the hubbub, and inwardly vowing to flog the whole five on the morrow. Mr. Smith, a strong man, came out of his stall, lifted the lifeless form in his arms, and carried it out to the side aisle, the head, like a dead weight, hanging down over his shoulder. All the eyes and all the glasses in the cathedral were bent on them; and the next to come out of his stall, by the prebendaries, and follow in the wake, was Mr. St. John, a flush of emotion on his pale face.

  The dean’s family, after service, met Mr. St. John in the cloisters. “Is he better?” asked Mrs. Beauclerc. “What was the matter with him the second time?”

  “He fainted; but we soon brought him to in the vestry. Young Wilberforce ran and got some water. They are walking home with him now.”

  “What caused him to fall in the choir?” continued Mrs. Beauclerc. “Giddiness?”

  “It was not like giddiness,” remarked Mr. St. John. “It was as if he fell over something.”

  “So I thought,” interrupted Georgina. “Why did you leave your seat to follow him?” she continued, in a low tone to Mr. St. John, falling behind her mother.

  “It was a sudden impulse, I suppose. I was unpleasantly struck with his appearance as I went into college. He was looking ghastly.”

  “The choristers had been quarrelling: Aultane’s fault, I am sure. He lifted his hand to strike Arkell. Aultane reproached him with having” — Georgina Beauclerc hesitated, with an amused look— “disposed of his prize medal.”

  “Disposed of his prize medal?” echoed Mr. St. John.

  “Pawned it.”

  St. John uttered an exclamation. He remembered the tricks of the college boys, but he could not have believed this of his favourite, Henry Arkell.

  “And his watch also, Lewis junior added,” continued Georgina. “They gave me the information in a spiteful glow of triumph. Henry did not deny it: he looked as if he could not. But I know he is the soul of honour, and if he has done anything of the sort, those beautiful companions of his have over-persuaded him: possibly to lend the money to them.”

  “I’ll see into this,” mentally spoke Mr. St. John.

  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 sanctu
m 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 th
is 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.