"Yes; Lord Charles Russell's Shakespeare Medal. The exam. is next
October. I'll coach you. Is it a bargain?"
He held out his hand, staring frankly, but piercingly, into John's eyes.
"All right, sir," said John, after a pause. "I'll try."
"And buck up for your remove."
John smiled feebly, and sighed.
[1] There is a tablet on the wall of the Old Schools which bears the following inscription:—Near this spot ANTHONY ASHLEY COOPER Afterwards the 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, K.G. While yet a boy in Harrow School Saw with shame and indignation The pauper's funeral Which helped to awaken his lifelong Devotion to the service of the poor And the oppressed.
CHAPTER IX
BLACK SPOTS
"The Avon bears to endless years
A magic voice along,
Where Shakespeare strayed in Stratford's shade,
And waked the world to song.
We heard the music soft and wild,
We thrilled to pulses new;
The winds that reared the Avon's child
Were Herga's[1] nurses too."
That evening John told Caesar what Warde had said to him, and then added, "I mean to have a shot at 'the Swan of Avon.'" Caesar looked glum.
"But how about the remove? We'd agreed to stay in the Second Fifth till Christmas. It's the jolliest form in the school."
"If we put our backs—and heads—into Trials,[2] we can easily get a remove."
"Blow Trials."
John turned aside.
"Look here, Jonathan," said Caesar, eagerly. "To please me, give up your swatting scheme. We can't spoil the end of this jolly term."
He caught hold of John's arm, squeezing it affectionately. Never had our hero been so sorely tempted.
"We must stick together, you and I," entreated Desmond.
"No," said John.
"As you please," Caesar replied coldly.
A detestable week followed. John tackled his Shakespeare alone, working doggedly. Then, quite suddenly, the giant gripped him. He had always possessed a remarkable memory, and as a child he had learnt by heart many passages out of the plays (a fact well known to the crafty Warde); but these he had swallowed without digesting them. Now he became keen, the keener because he met with violent opposition from the Caterpillar and the Duffer, who were of opinion that Shakespeare was a "back number."
John won the prize, and on the following Speech Day saw his mother's face radiant with pride and happiness, as he received the Medal from the Head Master's hands.
"You look as pleased as if I'd got my Flannels," said John.
"Surely this Medal is a greater thing?"
"Oh, mum, you don't know much about boys."
"Perhaps not, but," her eyes twinkled, "I know something about Shakespeare, and he's a friend that will stand by you when cricketing days are over."
"If you're pleased, so am I," said John.
Scaife got his Flannels; and at Lord's his fielding was mentioned as the finest ever seen in a Public School match. John witnessed the game from the top of the Trent coach, and he stopped at Trent House. But he didn't enjoy his exeat, because he knew that Caesar was in trouble. Caesar owed Scaife thirteen pounds, and the fact that this debt could not be paid without confession to his father was driving him distracted. Scaife, it is true, laughed genially at Caesar's distress. "Settle when you please," he said; "but, for Heaven's sake, don't peach to your governor! Mine would laugh and pay up; yours will pay up and make you swear not to touch another card while you're at Harrow."
"Just what he will do," Caesar told John.
"And the best thing that could happen," John said bluntly. "If you don't cut loose now, it will be much worse next term."
"Rot," Desmond had replied. "I'm paying the usual bill for learning a difficult game. That's how the Demon puts it. But I've a turn for bridge, and now I can hold my own. I'm better than Beaumont-Greene, and quite as good as Lovell. The Demon, of course, is in another class."
"And therefore he oughtn't to play with you. It's robbery."
"Now you're talking bosh."
The Eton and Harrow match ended in another draw. Time and Scaife's fielding saved Harrow from defeat. The fact of a draw had significance. A draw spelled compromise. John had indulged in a superstitious fancy common enough to persons older than he. "If Harrow wins," he put it to himself, "Caesar will triumph; if Eton wins, Caesar will lose." When the match proved a draw, John drew the conclusion that his pal would "funk" telling the truth; an apprehension presently confirmed.
"I didn't tell the governor," said Caesar, when John and he met. "My
eldest brother, Hugo, is coming home, and I shall screw it out of him.
He's a good sort, and he's going to marry a girl who is simply rolling.
He'll fork out, I know he will. I feel awfully cheery."
"I don't," said John.
He had good reason to fear that Caesar and he were drifting apart. Now he worked by himself. And his voice had broken. A small thing this, but John was sensible that his singing voice touched corners in Caesar's soul to which his speaking voice never penetrated. More, Caesar and he had agreed to differ upon points of conscience other than card-playing. And every point of conscientious difference increases the distance between true friends in geometrical progression. Poor Jonathan!
But we have his grateful testimony that Warde stood by him. And Warde made him see life at Harrow (and beyond) in a new light. Warde, indeed, decomposed the light into primary colours, a sort of experiment in moral chemistry, and not without fascination for an intelligent boy. Sometimes, it became difficult to follow Warde—members of the Alpine Club said that often it was impossible—because he jumped where others crawled. And he clipped words, phrases, thoughts so uncommonly short.
"You're beginning to see, Verney, eh? Scales crumbling away, my boy. And strong sunshine hurts the eyes—at first. Black spots are dancing before you. I know the little devils."
Or again—
"This remove will wipe a bit more off the debt, won't it? Ha, ha! I've made you reckon up what you owe Mrs. Verney. But there are others——"
"I'm awfully grateful to you, sir."
"Never mind me."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"New Testament; Matthew; twenty-fifth chapter—I forget verse.[3] Look it up. Christ answers your question. Make life easier and happier for some of the new boys. Pass on gratitude. Set it a-rolling. See?"
John had appetite for such talk, but Warde never gave much of it—half a dozen sentences, a smile, a nod of the head, a keen look, and a striding off elsewhere. But when John repeated what Warde had said to Caesar, that young gentleman looked uneasy.
"Warde means well," he said; "and he's doing wonders with the Manor, but I hope he's not going to make a sort of tin parson of you?"
"As if he could!" said John.
"You're miles ahead of me, Jonathan."
"No, no."
"I say—yes."
"Caesar," said John, in desperation, "perhaps we are sliding apart, but it isn't my fault, indeed it isn't. And think what it means to—me. You've heaps of friends, and I never was first, I know that. You can do without me, but I can't do without you."
"Dear old Jonathan." Caesar held out his hand, smiling.
"I'm a jealous ass, Caesar. And, as for calling me a parson," he laughed scornfully, "why, I'd sooner walk with you, even if you were the worst sinner in the world, than with any saint that ever lived."
The feeling in John's voice drove Caesar's gay smile from his face. Did he realize, possibly, for the first time, that if John and he remained friends, he might drag John down? Suddenly his face brightened.
"Jonathan," he said gravely, "to please you, I'll not touch a card again this term, and we'll have such good times this last three weeks that you'll forget the rest of it."
'And what delights can equal those
That stir the spirit's inner deeps,
When one that loves but knows not reaps
A truth from one that loves and knows?
The Manor played in the cock-house match at cricket, being but barely defeated by Damer's. Everybody admitted that this glorious state of affairs was due to Warde's coaching of the weaker members of the Eleven. Scaife fielded brilliantly, and John, watching him, said to himself that at such times the Demon was irresistible, Warde invited the Eleven to dinner, and spoke of nothing but football, much to every one's amusement.
"He's right," said the Caterpillar; "we're not cock-house at cricket this year, but we may be at footer."
John spent his holidays abroad with his mother, and when the School reassembled, he found himself in the First Fifth alone. With satisfaction he reflected that this was Lovell's last term, and Beaumont-Greene's too. Warde said a few words at first lock-up.
"We are going to be cock-house at footer, I hope," he began, "and next term Scaife will show the School what he can do at racquets; but I want more. I'm a glutton. How about work, eh? Lot o' slacking last term. Is it honest? You fellows cost your people a deal of money. And it's well spent, if, if you tackle everything in school life as you tackled Mr. Damer's last July. That's all."
"He's giving you what he gave me," said John.
"Good fellow, Warde," observed the Caterpillar; "in his room every night after prayers to mug up his form work."
"What?" Murmurs of incredulity.
"Fact, 'pon my word. And he never refuses a 'con' to a fellow who wants it."
"He's paid for it," sneered Scaife.
The other boys nodded; enthusiasm was chilled. Yes, of course Warde was paid for it. John caught Scaife's eye.
"You don't believe that he's in love with his job, as he told us?"
"Skittles—that!"
John looked solemn. He had a bomb to throw.
"Skittles, is it?" he echoed. The other boys turned to listen. "Do you think he'd take a better-paid billet?"
Scaife laughed derisively. "Of course he would, like a shot. But he's not likely to get the chance."
"He has just been offered the Head Mastership of Wellborough. It's worth about four thousand a year."
"Pooh! who told you that?"
"Caesar's father."
"It's true," said Caesar.
"And he refused it," said John, triumphantly.
"Then he's a fool," said Scaife, angrily. He marched out of the room, slamming the door. But the Manor, as a corporate body, when it heard of Warde's refusal to accept promotion, was profoundly impressed. Thus the term began with good resolutions upon the part of the better sort.
Very soon, however, with the shortening days, bridge began again. John made no protest, afraid of losing his pal. He called himself coward, and considered the expediency of learning bridge, so as to be in the same boat with Caesar. Caesar told him that he had not asked his brother Hugo for the thirteen pounds. Hugo, it seemed, had come back from Teheran with a decoration and the air of an ambassador. He spoke of his "services."
"I knew that Hugo would make me swear not to play again," said Caesar to John, "and, naturally, I want to get some of the plunder back. I am getting it back. I raked thirty bob out of Beaumont-Greene last night."
John said nothing.
Presently it came to his ears that Caesar was getting more plunder back. The Caterpillar, an agreeable gossip, because he condemned nothing except dirt and low-breeding, told John that Beaumont-Greene was losing many shekels. And about the middle of October Caesar said to John—
"What do you think, old Jonathan? I've jolly nearly paid on the Demon.
And you wanted me to chuck the thing. Nice sort of counsellor."
"Beaumont-Greene must have lost a pot?"
"You bet," said Caesar; "but that doesn't keep me awake at night. He has got the Imperishable Seamless Whaleskin Boot behind him."
Next time John met Beaumont-Greene he eyed him sharply. The big fellow was pulpier than ever; his complexion the colour of skilly. Yes; he looked much worried. Perhaps the "Imperishable Boot" lasted too long. And, nowadays, so many fellows wore shoes. Thus John to himself.
Beaumont-Greene, indeed, not only looked worried, he was worried, hideously worried, and with excellent reason. He had an absurdly, wickedly, large allowance, but not more than a sovereign of it was left. More, he owed Scaife twenty pounds, and Lovell another ten. Both these young gentlemen had hinted plainly that they wanted to see their money.
"I must have the stuff now," said Lovell, when Beaumont-Greene asked for time. "I'm going to shoot a lot this Christmas, and the governor makes me pay for my cartridges."
"So does mine," said Scaife, grinning. He was quite indifferent to the money, but he liked to see Beaumont-Greene squirm. He continued suavely, "You ought to settle before you leave. Ain't your people in Rome? Yes. And you're going to join 'em. Why, hang it, some Dago may stick a knife into you, and where should we be then—hey? Your governor wouldn't settle a gambling debt, would he?"
This was too true. Scaife grinned diabolically. He knew that Beaumont-Greene's father was endeavouring to establish a credit-account with the Recording Angel. Originally a Nonconformist, he had joined the Church of England after he had made his fortune (cf. Shavings from the Workshops of our Merchant Princes, which appeared in the pages of "Prattle"). Then, the famous inventor of the Imperishable Boot had taken to endowing churches; and he published pamphlets denouncing drink and gambling, pamphlets sent to his son at Harrow, who (with an eye to backsheesh) had praised his sire's prose somewhat indiscreetly.
"You shall have your confounded money," said Beaumont-Greene, violently.
"Thanks," said Scaife, sweetly. "When we asked you to join us" (slight emphasis on the "us"), "we knew that we could rely on you to settle promptly."
The Demon grinned for the third time, knowing that he had touched a weak spot; not a difficult thing to do, if you touched the big fellow at all. A young man of spirit would have told his creditors to go to Jericho. Beaumont-Greene might have said, "You have skinned me a bit. I don't whine about that; I mean to pay up; but you'll have to wait till I have the money. I'm stoney now." Scaife and Lovell must have accepted this as an ultimatum. But Beaumont-Greene's wretched pride interfered. He had posed as a sort of Golden Youth. To confess himself pinchbeck seemed an unspeakable humiliation.
Men have been known to take to drink under the impending sword of dishonour. Beaumont-Greene swallowed instead large quantities of food at the Creameries; and then wrote to his father, saying that he would like to have a cheque for thirty pounds by return of post. He was leaving Harrow, he pointed out, and he wished to give his friends some handsome presents. Young Desmond, for instance, the great minister's son, had been kind to him (Beaumont-Greene prided himself upon this touch), and Scaife, too, he was under obligations to Scaife, who would be a power by-and-by, and so forth. . . . To confess frankly that he owed thirty pounds gambled away at cards required more cheek than our stout youth possessed. His father refused to play bridge on principle, because he could never remember how many trumps were out.
The father answered by return of post, but enclosed no cheque. He pointed out to his dear Thomas that giving handsome presents with another's money was an objectionable habit. Thomas received a large, possibly too large an allowance. He must exercise self-denial, if he wished to make presents. His quarterly allowance would be paid as usual next Christmas, and not a minute before. There would be time then to reconsider the propriety of giving young Desmond a suitable gift. . . .
Common sense told Beaumont-Greene to show this letter to Scaife and
Lovell. But he saw the Demon's derisive grin, and recoiled from it.
At this moment temptation seized him relentlessly. Beaumont-Greene never resisted temptation. For fun, so he put it, he would write the sort of letter which his father ought to have written, and which would have put him at his ease. It ran thus—
"MY DEAR THOMAS,
"No doubt you will want to give some leaving presents, and a spread or two. I should like my son to do the thing handsomely. You know better than I how much this will cost, but I am prepared to send you, say twenty-five or thirty pounds for such a purpose. Or, you can have the bills sent to me.
"With love,
"Your affectionate father,
"GEORGE BEAUMONT-GREENE."
Beaumont-Greene, like the immortal Mr. Toots, rather fancied himself as a letter-writer. The longer he looked at his effusion, the more he liked it. His handwriting was not unlike his father's—modelled, indeed, upon it. With a little careful manipulation of a few letters——!
The day was cold, but Beaumont-Greene suddenly found himself in a perspiration. None the less, it seemed easier to forge a letter than to avow himself penniless. Detection? Impossible! Two or three tradesmen in Harrow would advance the money if he showed them this letter. Next Christmas they would be paid. Within a quarter of an hour he made up his mind to cross the Rubicon, and crossed it with undue haste. He forged the letter, placed it in an envelope which had come from Rome, and went to his tailor's.
Under pretext of looking at patterns, he led the man aside.
"You can do me a favour," he began, in his usual heavy, hesitating manner.
"With pleasure," said the tradesman, smiling. Then, seeing an opportunity, he added, "You are leaving Harrow, Mr. Beaumont-Greene, but I trust, sir, you will not take your custom with you. We have always tried to please you."
Beaumont-Greene, in his turn, saw opportunity.
"Yes, yes," he answered. Then he produced the letter, envelope and all. "I have here a letter from my father, who is in Rome. I'll read it to you. No; you can read it yourself."
The tailor read the letter.
"Very handsome," he replied; "very handsome indeed, sir. Your father is a true gentleman."
"It happens," said Beaumont-Greene, more easily, for the thing seemed to be simpler than he had anticipated—"it happens that I do want to make some presents, but I'm not going to buy them here. I shall send to the Stores, you know. I have their catalogue."
"Just so, sir. Excellent place the Stores for nearly everything; except, perhaps, my line."
"I should not think of buying clothes there. But at the Stores one must pay cash. I've not got the cash, and my father is in Rome. I should like to have the money to-day, if possible. Will you oblige me?"
The tradesman hesitated. In the past there have been grave scandals connected with lending money to boys. And Harrow tradesmen are at the mercy of the Head Master. If a school-tailor be put out of bounds, he can put up his shutters at once. Still——
"I'll let you have the money," said the man, eying Beaumont-Greene keenly.
"Thanks."
The tailor observed a slight flush and a sudden intake of breath—signs which stirred suspicion.
"Will you take it in notes, sir?"
Here Beaumont-Greene made his first blunder. He had an ill-defined idea that paper was dangerous stuff.
"In gold, please."
He forgot that gold is not easily sent in a letter. The tailor hesitated, but he had gone too far to back out.
"Very well, sir. I have not twenty-five pounds——"
"Thirty, if you please. I shall want thirty."
"I have not quite that amount here, but I can get it."
When the man came back with a small canvas bag in his hand, Beaumont-Greene had pocketed the letter. He received the money, counted it, thanked the tailor, and turned to go.
"If you please, sir——"
"Yes?"
"I should like to keep your father's letter, sir. As a form of receipt, sir. When you settle I'll return it. If—if anything should happen to—to you, sir, where would I be?"
Beaumont-Greene's temper showed itself.
"You all talk as if I was on my death-bed," he said.
The tailor stared. Others, then, had suggested to this large, unwholesome youth the possibility of premature decease.
"Not at all, sir, but we do live in the valley of shadders. My wife's step-father, as fine and hearty a specimen as you'd wish to see, sir, was taken only last month; at breakfast, too, as he was chipping his third egg."
Beaumont-Greene said loftily, "Blow your wife's step-father and his third egg. Here's the letter."
He flung down the letter and marched out of the shop. The tradesman looked at him, shaking his head. "He'll never come back," he muttered. "I know his sort too well." Then, business happening to be slack, he re-read the letter before putting it away. Then he whistled softly and read it for the third time, frowning and biting his lips. The "Beaumont-Greene" in the signature and on the envelope did not look to be written by the same hand.
"There's something fishy here," muttered the tradesman. "I must show this to Amelia."
It was his habit to consult his wife in emergencies. The chief cutter and two assistants said that Amelia was the power behind the throne. Amelia read the letter, listened to what her husband had to say, stared hard at the envelope, and delivered herself—
"The hand that wrote the envelope never wrote the letter, that's plain—to me. Now, William, you've got me and the children to think of. This may mean the loss of our business, and worse too. You put on your hat and go straight to the Manor. Mr. Warde's a gentleman, and I don't think he'll let me and the children suffer for your foolishness. Don't you wait another minute."
Nor did he.
After prayers that night, Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to come to his study. Beaumont-Greene obeyed, smiling blandly. Within three weeks he was leaving; doubtless Warde wanted to say something civil. The big fellow was feeling quite himself. He had paid Scaife and Lovell, not without a little pardonable braggadocio.
"You fellows have put me to some inconvenience," he said. "I make it a rule not to run things fine, but after all thirty quid is no great sum. Here you are."
"We don't want to drive you into the workhouse," said Scaife. "Thanks. Give you your revenge any time. I dare say between now and the end of the term you'll have most of it back."
Warde asked Beaumont-Greene to sit down in a particular chair, which faced the light from a large lamp. Then he took up an envelope. Suddenly cold chills trickled down Beaumont-Greene's spine. He recognized the envelope. That scoundrel had betrayed him. Not for a moment, however, did he suppose that the forgery had been detected.
"On the strength of this letter," said Warde, gravely, "you borrowed thirty pounds from a tradesman?"
Denial being fatuous, Beaumont-Greene said—
"Yes, sir."
"You know, I suppose, that Harrow tradesmen are expressly forbidden to lend boys money?"
"I am hardly a boy, sir. And—er—under the circumstances——"
Warde smiled very grimly.
"Ah—under the circumstances. Have you any objection to telling me the exact circumstances?"
"Not at all, sir. I wished to make some presents to my friends. I am going to give a large leaving-breakfast."
"Oh! Still, thirty pounds is a large sum——"
"Not to my father, sir. I—er—thought of coming to you, sir, with that letter."
"Did you?"
Warde took the letter from the envelope, and glanced at it with faint interest, so Beaumont-Greene thought. Then he picked up a magnifying glass and played with it. It was a trick of his to pick up objects on his desk, and turn them in his thin nervous fingers. Beaumont-Greene was not seriously alarmed. He had great faith in a weapon which had served him faithfully, his lying tongue.
"Yes, sir. I thought you would be willing to advance the money for a few days, and then——"
"And then?"
"And then I thought I wouldn't bother you. It never occurred to me that I was getting a tradesman into trouble. I hope you won't be hard on him, sir."
"I shall not be hard on him," said Warde, "because"—for a moment his eyes flashed—"because he came to me and confessed his fault; but I won't deny that I gave him a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour. He sat in your chair."
Beaumont-Greene shuffled uneasily.
"Have you this thirty pounds in your pocket?" asked Warde, casually.
Beaumont-Greene began to regret his haste in settling.
"No, sir."
"Some of it?"
"None of it."
"You sent it to London? To buy these handsome presents?"
"Ye-es, sir."
"You hadn't much time. Lock-up's early, and you received the money in gold. Did you buy Orders?"
Beaumont-Greene's head began to buzz. He found himself wondering why Warde was speaking in this smooth, quiet voice, so different from his usual curt, incisive tones.
"Yes, sir."
"At the Harrow post-office?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah."
Again the house-master picked up the letter, but this time he didn't lay down the lens. Instead he used it, very deliberately. Beaumont-Greene shivered; with difficulty he clenched his teeth, so as to prevent them clicking like castanets. Then Warde held up the sheet of paper to the light of the lamp. Obviously he wished to examine the watermark. The paper was thin notepaper, the kind that is sold everywhere for foreign correspondence. Beaumont-Greene, economical in such matters, had bought a couple of quires when his people went abroad. The paper he had bought did not quite match the Roman envelope. Warde opened a drawer, from which he took some thin paper. This also he held up to the light.
"It's an odd coincidence," he said, tranquilly; "your father in Rome uses the same notepaper that I buy here. But the envelope is Italian?"
He spoke interrogatively, but the wretch opposite had lost the power of speech. He collapsed. Warde rose, throwing aside his quiet manner as if it were a drab-coloured cloak. Now he was himself, alert, on edge, sanguine.
"You fool!" he exclaimed; "you clumsy fool! Why, a child could find you out. And you—you have dared to play with such an edged tool as forgery. Now, do the one thing which is left to you: make a clean breast of it to me—at once."
In imposing this command, a command which he knew would be obeyed, inasmuch as he perceived that he dominated the weak grovelling creature in front of him, Warde overlooked the possibility that this boy's confession might implicate other boys. Already he had formed in his mind a working hypothesis to account for this forged letter. The fellow, no doubt, was in debt to some Harrow townsman.
"For whom did you steal this money? To whom did you pay it to-day?
Answer!"
And he was answered.
"I owed the money to Scaife and Lovell."
Then he told the story of the card-playing. At the last word he fell on his knees, blubbering.
"Get up," said Warde, sharply. "Pull yourself together if you can."
The master began to walk up and down the room, frowning and biting his lips. From time to time he glanced at Beaumont-Greene. Seeing his utter collapse, he rang the bell, answered by the ever-discreet Dumbleton.
"Dumbleton, take Mr. Beaumont-Greene to the sick-room. There is no one in it, I believe?"
"No, sir."
"You will fetch what he may require for the night; quietly, you understand."
"Very good, sir."
"Follow Dumbleton," Warde addressed Beaumont-Greene. "You will consider yourself under arrest. Your meals will be brought to you. You will hold no communication with anybody except Dumbleton and me; you will send no messages; you will write no notes. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then go."
Dumbleton opened the door. Young man and servant passed out and into the passage beyond. Warde waited one moment, then he followed them into the passage; but instead of going upstairs, he paused for an instant with his fingers upon the handle of the door which led from the private side to the boys' quarters. He sighed as he passed through.
At this moment Lovell was sitting in his room alone with Scaife. They had no suspicion of what had taken place in the study. In the afternoon there had been a match with an Old Harrovian team, and both Scaife and Lovell had played for the School. But as yet neither had got his Flannels. As Warde passed through the private side door, Scaife was saying angrily—
"I believe Challoner" (Challoner was captain of the football Eleven and a monitor) "has a grudge against us. If we had a chance—and we had—of getting our Flannels last year, why isn't it a cert. this, eh?"
Lovell shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a cert.," he answered; "and you're right. Challoner doesn't like us, and it amuses him to keep us out of our just rights. The monitors know I detest 'em, and they don't think you're called the Demon for nothing. Challoner is more of a monitor than a footer-player. How about a rubber? There's just time."
"I don't mind."
Lovell went to the door and opened it.
"Bo-o-o-o-o-o-y!"
The familiar cry—that imperious call which makes an Harrovian feel himself master of more or less willing slaves—echoed through the house. Immediately the night-fag came running; it was not considered healthy to keep Lovell waiting.
"Ask Beaumont-Greene to come up here and——"
He paused. Warde had just turned the corner, and was approaching. Lovell hesitated. Then he repeated what he had just said, with a slight variation for Warde's benefit. "Tell him I want to ask him a question about the house-subscriptions."
"Right," said the fag, bustling off.
Lovell waited to receive his house-master. He had very good manners.
"Can I do anything for you, sir?" he asked.
"Yes," said Warde, deliberately. He entered Lovell's room and looked at Scaife, who rose at once.
"I wish to speak with you alone, Lovell."
"Certainly, sir. Won't you sit down?"
Warde waited till Scaife had closed the door, then he said quietly—
"Lovell, does Beaumont-Greene owe you money?"
[1] The Anglo-Saxon form of Harrow.
[2] The terminal examination.
[3] "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."
CHAPTER X
DECAPITATION
"Ferdinand Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee, thou liar of the first magnitude!"
Lovell betrayed his 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 school-fellows, 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."
"Have you lent 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; under ordinary 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 sickroom, 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 in human 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 much younger. 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,[1] 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, and that 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 Caesar 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 met no 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, Caesar. 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[2] 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 told John 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 Caesar 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. Caesar 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 Caesar 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 Caesar, "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's account, 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."
To run such risks seemed to John madness; to Desmond it indicated genius.
"There never was such a fellow," said Caesar to John.
When Caesar spoke in that tone John knew that Scaife had but to hold up a finger, and that Caesar would come to him even as a bird drops into the jaws of a snake. Caesar 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, and with charming manners. The School roared its satisfaction. John stood a little back, by the cloisters. Caesar 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 Caesar 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, Caesar arm-in-arm with Scaife and the Captain of the Eleven, Caesar in his new straw,[3] looking happier than John had ever seen him, Caesar, 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 Caesar was unpopular and obscure.
[1] The place of execution.
[2] "Finding" is the privilege, accorded to the Sixth Form, of having breakfast and tea served in their own rooms instead of in Hall.
[3] The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the School Cricket Eleven.