horse-pond before he put me to such a place as this," cried Barrington,
passionately. "As to you, you sneaking little devil, it seems I can't
make you do what I wanted, fags being forbidden fruit here, but it
shan't serve you much. There's to begin with."
Hearn got a shake and a kick that sent him flying. Blair was back on the
instant.
"Are you a coward, Mr. Barrington?"
"A coward!" retorted Barrington, his eyes flashing. "You had better try
whether I am or not."
"It seems to me that you act like one, in attacking a lad so much
younger and weaker than yourself. Don't let me have to report you to Dr.
Frost the first day of your arrival. Another thing--I must request you
to be a little more careful in your language. You have come amidst
gentlemen here, not blackguards."
The matter ended here; but Barrington looked in a frightful rage. It
was unfortunate that it should have occurred the day he entered; but it
did so, word for word, as I have written it. It set some of us rather
against Barrington, and it set _him_ against Hearn. He didn't "lick him
into next week," but he gave him many a blow that the boy did nothing to
deserve.
Barrington won his way, though, as the time went on. He had a liberal
supply of money, and was open-handed with it; and he would often do a
generous turn for one and another. The worst of him was his roughness.
At play he was always rough; and, when put out, savage as well. His
strength and activity were something remarkable; he would not have
minded hard blows himself, and he showered them out on others with no
more care than if we had been made of pumice-stone.
It was Barrington who introduced the new system at football. We had
played it before in a rather mild way, speaking comparatively, but he
soon changed that. Dr. Frost got to know of it in time, and he appeared
amongst us one day when we were in the thick of it, and stopped the
game with a sweep of his hand. They play it at Rugby now very much as
Barrington made us play it then. The Doctor--standing with his face
unusually red, and his shirt and necktie unusually white, and his
knee-buckles gleaming--asked whether we were a pack of cannibals, that
we should kick at one another in that dangerous manner. If we ever
attempted it again, he said, football should be stopped.
So we went back to the old way. But we had tried the new, you see: and
the consequence was that a great deal of rough play would creep into it
now and again. Barrington led it on. No cannibal (as old Frost put it)
could have been more carelessly furious at it than he. To see him with
his sallow face in a heat, his keen black eyes flashing, his hat off,
and his straight hair flung back, was not the pleasantest sight to my
mind. Snepp said one day that he looked just like the devil at these
times. Wolfe Barrington overheard him, and kicked him right over the
hillock. I don't think he was ill-intentioned; but his strong frame
had been untamed; it required a vent for its superfluous strength: his
animal spirits led him away, and he had never been taught to put a curb
on himself or his inclinations. One thing was certain--that the name,
Wolfe, for such a nature as his, was singularly appropriate. Some of
us told him so. He laughed in answer; never saying that it was only
shortened from Wolfrey, his real name, as we learnt later. He could be
as good a fellow and comrade as any of them when he chose, and on the
whole we liked him a great deal better than we had thought we should at
first.
As to his animosity against little Hearn, it was wearing off. The lad
was too young to retaliate, and Barrington grew tired of knocking him
about: perhaps a little ashamed of it when there was no return. In a
twelvemonth's time it had quite subsided, and, to the surprise of many
of us, Barrington, coming back from a visit to old Taptal, his guardian,
brought Hearn a handsome knife with three blades as a present.
And so it would have gone on but for an unfortunate occurrence. I shall
always say and think so. But for that, it might have been peace between
them to the end. Barrington, who was defiantly independent, had betaken
himself to Evesham, one half-holiday, without leave. He walked straight
into some mischief there, and broke a street boy's head. Dr. Frost was
appealed to by the boy's father, and of course there was a row. The
Doctor forbade Barrington ever to stir beyond bounds again without first
obtaining permission; and Blair had orders that for a fortnight to come
Barrington was to be confined to the playground in after-hours.
Very good. A day or two after that--on the next Saturday afternoon--the
school went to a cricket-match; Doctor, masters, boys, and all;
Barrington only being left behind.
Was he one to stand this? No. He coolly walked away to the high-road,
saw a public conveyance passing, hailed it, mounted it, and was carried
to Evesham. There he disported himself for an hour or so, visited the
chief fruit and tart shops; and then chartered a gig to bring him back
to within half-a-mile of the school.
The cricket-match was not over when he got in, for it lasted up to the
twilight of the summer evening, and no one would have known of the
escapade but for one miserable misfortune--Archie Hearn happened to have
gone that afternoon to Evesham with his mother. They were passing along
the street, and he saw Barrington amidst the sweets.
"There's Wolfe Barrington!" said Archie, in the surprise of the moment,
and would have halted at the tart-shop; but Mrs. Hearn, who was in a
hurry, did not stop. On the Monday, she brought Archie back to school:
he had been at home, sick, for more than a week, and knew nothing of
Barrington's punishment. Archie came amongst us at once, but Mrs. Hearn
stayed to take tea with her sister and Dr. Frost. Without the slightest
intention of making mischief, quite unaware that she was doing
so, Mrs. Hearn mentioned incidentally that they had seen one of the
boys--Barrington--at Evesham on the Saturday. Dr. Frost pricked up his
ears at the news; not believing it, however: but Mrs. Hearn said yes,
for Archie had seen him eating tarts at the confectioner's. The Doctor
finished his tea, went to his study, and sent for Barrington. Barrington
denied it. He was not in the habit of telling lies, was too fearless of
consequences to do anything of the sort; but he denied it now to the
Doctor's face; perhaps he began to think he might have gone a little too
far. Dr. Frost rang the bell and ordered Archie Hearn in.
"Which shop was Barrington in when you saw him on Saturday?" questioned
the Doctor.
"The pastrycook's," said Archie, innocently.
"What was he doing?" blandly went on the Doctor.
"Oh! no harm, sir; only eating tarts," Archie hastened to say.
Well--it all came out then, and though Archie was quite innocent of
wilfully telling tales; would have cut out his tongue rather than have
said a word to injure Barrington, he received the credit of it now.
Barrington took his punishment without a word; the hardest caning old
Frost had given for many a long day, and heaps of work besides, and a
promise of certain expulsion if he ever again went off surreptitiously
in coaches and gigs. But Barrington thrashed Hearn worse when it was
over, and branded him with the name of Sneak.
"He will never believe otherwise," said Archie, the tears of pain and
mortification running down his cheeks, fresh and delicate as a girl's.
"But I'd give the world not to have gone that afternoon to Evesham."
A week or two later we went in for a turn at "Hare and Hounds."
Barrington's term of punishment was over then. Snepp was the hare; a
fleet, wiry fellow who could outrun most of us. But the hare this time
came to grief. After doubling and turning, as Snepp used to like to do,
thinking to throw us off the scent, he sprained his foot, trying to leap
a hedge and dry ditch beyond it. We were on his trail, whooping and
halloaing like mad; he kept quiet, and we passed on and never saw him.
But there was no more scent to be seen, and we found we had lost it, and
went back. Snepp showed up then, and the sport was over for the day.
Some went home one way, and some another; all of us were as hot as fire,
and thirsting for water.
"If you'll turn down here by the great oak-tree, we shall come to my
mother's house, and you can have as much water as you like," said little
Hearn, in his good-nature.
So we turned down. There were only six or seven of us, for Snepp and his
damaged foot made one, and most of them had gone on at a quicker pace.
Tod helped Snepp on one side, Barrington on the other, and he limped
along between them.
It was a narrow red-brick house, a parlour window on each side the
door, and three windows above; small altogether, but very pretty, with
jessamine and clematis climbing up the walls. Archie Hearn opened the
door, and we trooped in, without regard to ceremony. Mrs. Hearn--she
had the same delicate face as Archie, the same pink colour and bright
brown eyes--came out of the kitchen to stare at us. As well she might.
Her cotton sleeves were turned up to the elbows, her fingers were
stained red, and she had a coarse kitchen cloth pinned round her. She
was pressing black currants for jelly.
We had plenty of water, and Mrs. Hearn made Snepp sit down, and looked
at his foot, and put a wet bandage round it, kneeling before him to do
it. I thought I had never seen so nice a face as hers; very placid, with
a sort of sad look in it. Old Betty, that Hearn used to talk about,
appeared in a short blue petticoat and a kind of brown print jacket. I
have seen the homely servants in France, since, dressed very similarly.
Snepp thanked Mrs. Hearn for giving his foot relief, and we took off our
hats to her as we went away.
The same night, before Blair called us in for prayers, Archie Hearn
heard Barrington giving a sneering account of the visit to some of the
fellows in the playground.
"Just like a cook, you know. Might be taken for one. Some coarse bunting
tied round her waist, and hands steeped in red kitchen stuff."
"My mother could never be taken for anything but a lady," spoke up
Archie bravely. "A lady may make jelly. A great many ladies prefer to do
it themselves."
"Now you be off," cried Barrington, turning sharply on him. "Keep at a
distance from your betters."
"There's nobody in the world better than my mother," returned the boy,
standing his ground, and flushing painfully: for, in truth, the small
way they were obliged to live in, through Chancery retaining the
property, made a sore place in a corner of Archie's heart. "Ask Joseph
Todhetley what he thinks of her. Ask John Whitney. _They_ recognize her
for a lady."
"But then they are gentlemen themselves."
It was I who put that in. I couldn't help having a fling at Barrington.
A bit of applause followed, and stung him.
"If you shove in your oar, Johnny Ludlow, or presume to interfere with
me, I'll pummel you to powder. There."
Barrington kicked out on all sides, sending us backward. The bell rang
for prayers then, and we had to go in.
The game the next evening was football. We went out to it as soon as tea
was over, to the field by the river towards Vale Farm. I can't tell much
about its progress, except that the play seemed rougher and louder than
usual. Once there was a regular skirmish: scores of feet kicking out at
once; great struggling, pushing and shouting: and when the ball got off,
and the tail after it in full hue and cry, one was left behind lying on
the ground.
I don't know why I turned my head back; it was the merest chance that I
did so: and I saw Tod kneeling on the grass, raising the boy's head.
"Holloa!" said I, running back. "Anything wrong? Who is it?"
It was little Hearn. He had his eyes shut. Tod did not speak.
"What's the matter, Tod? Is he hurt?"
"Well, I think he's hurt a little," was Tod's answer. "He has had a kick
here."
Tod touched the left temple with his finger, drawing it down as far as
the back of the ear. It must have been a good wide kick, I thought.
"It has stunned him, poor little fellow. Can you get some water from the
river, Johnny?"
"I could if I had anything to bring it in. It would leak out of my straw
hat long before I got here."
But little Hearn made a move then, and opened his eyes. Presently he sat
up, putting his hands to his head. Tod was as tender with him as a
mother.
"How do you feel, Archie?"
"Oh, I'm all right, I think. A bit giddy."
Getting on to his feet, he looked from me to Tod in a bewildered manner.
I thought it odd. He said he wouldn't join the game again, but go in and
rest. Tod went with him, ordering me to keep with the players. Hearn
walked all right, and did not seem to be much the worse for it.
"What's the matter now?" asked Mrs. Hall, in her cranky way; for she
happened to be in the yard when they entered, Tod marshalling little
Hearn by the arm.
"He has had a blow at football," answered Tod. "Here"--indicating the
place he had shown me.
"A kick, I suppose you mean," said Mother Hall.
"Yes, if you like to call it so. It was a blow with a foot."
"Did you do it, Master Todhetley?"
"No, I did not," retorted Tod.
"I wonder the Doctor allows that football to be played!" she went on,
grumbling. "I wouldn't, if I kept a school; I know that. It is a
barbarous game, only fit for bears."
"I am all right," put in Hearn. "I needn't have come in, but for feeling
giddy."
But he was not quite right yet. For without the slightest warning,
before he had time to stir from where he stood, he became frightfully
sick. Hall ran for a basin and some warm water. Tod held his head.
"This is through having gobbled down your tea in such a mortal hurry,
to be off to that precious football," decided Hall, resentfully. "The
wonder is, that the whole crew of you are not sick, swallowing your food
at the rate you do."
"I think I'll lie on the bed for a bit," said Archie, when the sickness
had passed. "I shall be up again by supper-time."
They went with him to his room. Neither of them had the slightest notion
that he was seriously hurt, or that there could be any danger. Archie
took off his jacket, and lay down in his clothes. Mrs. Hall offered to
bring him up a cup of tea; but he said it might make him sick again, and
he'd rather be quiet. She went down, and Tod sat on the edge of the bed.
Archie shut his eyes, and kept still. Tod thought he was dropping off to
sleep, and began to creep out of the room. The eyes opened then, and
Archie called to him.
"Todhetley?"
"I am here, old fellow. What is it?"
"You'll tell him I forgive him," said Archie, speaking in an earnest
whisper. "Tell him I know he didn't think to hurt me."
"Oh, I'll tell him," answered Tod, lightly.
"And be sure give my dear love to mamma."
"So I will."
"And now I'll go to sleep, or I shan't be down to supper. You will come
and call me if I am not, won't you?"
"All right," said Tod, tucking the counterpane about him. "Are you
comfortable, Archie?"
"Quite. Thank you."
Tod came on to the field again, and joined the game. It was a little
less rough, and there were no more mishaps. We got home later than
usual, and supper stood on the table.
The suppers at Worcester House were always the same--bread and cheese.
And not too much of it. Half a round off the loaf, with a piece of
cheese, for each fellow; and a drop of beer or water. Our other meals
were good and abundant; but the Doctor waged war with heavy suppers. If
old Hall had had her way, we should have had none at all. Little Hearn
did not appear; and Tod went up to look after him. I followed.
Opening the door without noise, we stood listening and looking. Not that
there was much good in looking, for the room was in darkness.
"Archie," whispered Tod.
No answer. No sound.
"Are you asleep, old fellow?"
Not a word still. The dead might be there; for all the sound there was.
"He's asleep, for certain," said Tod, groping his way towards the bed.
"So much the better, poor little chap. I won't wake him."
It was a small room, two beds in it; Archie's was the one at the end by
the wall. Tod groped his way to it: and, in thinking of it afterwards, I
wondered that Tod did go up to him. The most natural thing would have
been to come away, and shut the door. Instinct must have guided him--as
it guides us all. Tod bent over him, touching his face, I think. I stood
close behind. Now that our eyes were accustomed to the darkness, it
seemed a bit lighter.
Something like a cry from Tod made me start. In the dark, and holding
the breath, one is easily startled.
"Get a light, Johnny. A light!-quick! for the love of Heaven."
I believe I leaped the stairs at a bound. I believe I knocked over
Mother Hall at the foot. I know I snatched the candle that was in her
hand, and she screamed after me as if I had murdered her.
"Here it is, Tod."
He was at the door waiting for it, every atom of colour gone clean out
of his face. Carrying it to the bed, he let its light fall full on
Archie Hearn. The face was white and cold; the mouth covered with froth.
"Oh, Tod! What is it that's the matter with him?"
"Hush', Johnny! I fear he's dying. Good Lord! to think we should have
been such ignorant fools as to leave him by himself!--as not have sent
for Featherstone!"
We were down again in a moment. Hall stood scolding still, demanding her
candle. Tod said a word that silenced her. She backed against the wall.
"Don't play your tricks on me, Mr. Todhetley."
"Go and see," said Tod.
She took the light from his hand quietly, and went up. Just then, the
Doctor and Mrs. Frost, who had been walking all the way home from Sir
John Whitney's, where they had spent the evening, came in, and learnt
what had happened.
Featherstone was there in no time, so to say, and shut himself into the
bedroom with the Doctor and Mrs. Frost and Hall, and I don't know how
many more. Nothing could be done for Archibald Hearn: he was not quite
dead, but close upon it. He was dead before any one thought of sending
to Mrs. Hearn. It came to the same. Could she have come upon telegraph
wires, she would still have come too late.
When I look back upon that evening--and a good many years have gone by
since then--nothing arises in my mind but a picture of confusion, tinged
with a feeling of terrible sorrow; ay, and of horror. If a death happens
in a school, it is generally kept from the pupils, as far as possible;
at any rate they are not allowed to see any of its attendant stir and
details. But this was different. Upon masters and boys, upon mistress
and household, it came with the same startling shock. Dr. Frost said
feebly that the boys ought to go up to bed, and then Blair told us to
go; but the boys stayed on where they were. Hanging about the passages,
stealing upstairs and peeping into the room, questioning Featherstone
(when we could get the chance of coming upon him), as to whether Hearn
would get well or not. No one checked us.
I went in once. Mrs. Frost was alone, kneeling by the bed; I thought she
must have been saying a prayer. Just then she lifted her head to look at
him. As I backed away again, she began to speak aloud--and oh! what a
sad tone she said it in!
"The only son of his mother, and she was a widow!"
There had to be an inquest. It did not come to much. The most that could
be said was that he died from a kick at football. "A most unfortunate
but an accidental kick," quoth the coroner. Tod had said that he saw the
kick given: that is, had seen some foot come flat down with a bang on
the side of little Hearn's head; and when Tod was asked if he recognized
the foot, he replied No: boots looked very much alike, and a great many
were thrust out in the skirmish, all kicking together.
Not one would own to having given it. For the matter of that, the fellow
might not have been conscious of what he did. No end of thoughts glanced
towards Barrington: both because he was so ferocious at the game, and
that he had a spite against Hearn.
"I never touched him," said Barrington, when this leaked out; and his
face and voice were boldly defiant. "It wasn't me. I never so much as
saw that Hearn was down."
And as there were others quite as brutal at football as Barrington, he
was believed.
We could not get over it any way. It seemed so dreadful that he should
have been left alone to die. Hall was chiefly to blame for that; and it
cowed her.
"Look here," said Tod to us, "I have a message for one of you. Whichever
the cap fits may take it to himself. When Hearn was dying he told me to
say that he forgave the fellow who kicked him."
This was the evening of the inquest-day. We had all gathered in the
porch by the stone bench, and Tod took the opportunity to relate what
he had not related before. He repeated every word that Hearn had said.
"Did Hearn know who it was, then?" asked John Whitney.
"I think so."
"Then why didn't you ask him to name him!"
"Why didn't I ask him to name him," repeated Tod, in a fume. "Do you
suppose I thought he was going to die, Whitney?--or that the kick was to
turn out a serious one? Hearn was growing big enough to fight his own
battles: and I never thought but he would be up again at supper-time."
John Whitney pushed his hair back, in his quiet, thoughtful way, and
said no more. He was to die, himself, the following year--but that has
nothing to do with the present matter.
I was standing away at the gate after this, looking at the sunset, when
Tod came up and put his arms on the top bar.
"What are you gazing at, Johnny?"
"At the sunset. How red it is! I was thinking that if Hearn's up there
now he is better off. It is very beautiful."
"I should not like to have been the one to send him there, though," was
Tod's answer. "Johnny, I am certain Hearn knew who it was," he went on
in a low tone. "I am certain he thought the fellow, himself, knew, and
that it had been done for the purpose. I think I know also."
"Tell us," I said. And Tod glanced over his shoulders, to make sure no
one was within hearing before he replied.
"Wolfe Barrington."
"Why don't you accuse him, Tod?"
"It wouldn't do. And I am not absolutely sure. What I saw, was this. In
the rush, one of them fell: I saw his head lying on the ground. Before I
could shout out to the fellows to take care, a boot with a grey trouser
over it came stamping down (not kicking) on the side of the head. If
ever anything was done deliberately, that stamp seemed to be; it could
hardly have been chance. I know no more than that: it all passed in a
moment. I didn't _see_ that it was Barrington. But--what other fellow is
there among us who would have wilfully harmed little Hearn? It is that
thought that brings conviction to me."
I looked round to where a lot of them stood at a distance. "Wolfe has
got on grey trousers, too."
"That does not tell much," returned Tod. "Half of us wear the same.
Yours are grey; mine are grey. It's just this: While I am convinced in
my own mind that it was Barrington, there's no sort of proof that it was
so, and he denies it. So it must rest, and die away. Keep counsel,
Johnny."
The funeral took place from the school. All of us went to it. In the
evening, Mrs. Hearn, who had been staying at the house, surprised us by
coming into the tea-room. She looked very small in her black gown. Her
thin cheeks were more flushed than usual, and her eyes had a great
sadness in them.
"I wished to say good-bye to you; and to shake hands with you before I
go home," she began, in a kind tone, and we all got up from the table to
face her.
"I thought you would like me to tell you that I feel sure it must have
been an accident; that no harm was intended. My dear little son said
this to Joseph Todhetley when he was dying--and I fancy that some
prevision of death must have lain then upon his spirit and caused him to
say it, though he himself might not have been quite conscious of it. He
died in love and peace with all; and, if he had anything to forgive--he
forgave freely. I wish to let you know that I do the same. Only try to
be a little less rough at play--and God bless you all. Will you shake
hands with me?"
John Whitney, a true gentleman always, went up to her first, meeting her
offered hand.
"If it had been anything but an accident, Mrs. Hearn," he began in
tones of deep feeling: "if any one of us had done it wilfully, I think,
standing to hear you now, we should shrink to the earth in our shame and
contrition. You cannot regret Archibald much more than we do."
"In the midst of my grief, I know one thing: that God has taken him from
a world of care to peace and happiness; I try to _rest_ in that. Thank
you all. Good-bye."
Catching her breath, she shook hands with us one by one, giving each a
smile; but did not say more.