"IF I PERISH, I PERISH"
"Since we deserved the name of friends,
And thine effect so lives in me,
A part of mine may live in thee
And move thee on to noble ends."
The cheering at Bill upon the following Tuesday must be recorded,
inasmuch as it has, indirectly, bearing upon our story. It will be
guessed that the enthusiasm, the uproar, the tumultuous excitement were
even greater than on a similar occasion some fifteen years before.
But, to his amazement, Desmond, not Scaife, was made the particular
hero of the hour. Scaife's display of temper festered in the hearts of
boys who can forgive anything sooner than low breeding. The Hill had
seen the Etonian stop to speak his cheery word of congratulation to
Caesar, and not the Caterpillar alone, but urchins of thirteen had made
comparisons.
Scaife, however, could not complain of his reception upon that
memorable Tuesday afternoon; the cheering must have been heard a mile
away. But Desmond was acclaimed differently. The cheers were no
louder--that was impossible--but afterwards, when the excitement had
simmered down, Caesar became the object of a special demonstration by
the Monitors and Sixth Form. Nearly every boy of note in the Upper
School insisted upon shaking his hand or patting him on the back.
Scaife came up with the others, but he left the Yard almost immediately
and retired to his room. He had won the great match; Desmond had saved
it; and the School apprehended the subtle difference. More, Scaife
knew that John had gone up to Desmond with outstretched hands after the
match at Lord's. He could hear John's eager voice, see the flame of
admiration in his eyes, as he said, "Oh, Caesar, I am glad it was you
who made that catch!" And with those generous words, with that warm
clasp of the hand, Scaife had seen the barrier which he had built
between the friends dissolve like ice in the dog-days.
The attention of the Manor was now fixed upon the house-matches. It
seemed probable that with four members of the School Eleven in the
team, the ancient house must prove invincible. But to John's surprise,
as this delightful probability ripened into conviction, Warde betrayed
unwonted anxiety and even irritability. Miss Iris confided to Desmond,
who paid her much court, that she couldn't imagine what was the matter
with papa. And mamma, it transpired (from the same source), really
feared that the strain at Lord's had been too much, that her
indefatigable husband was about to break down. Finally, John made up
his mind to ask a question. He was second in command; he had a right
to ask the chief if anything were seriously amiss. Accordingly, he
waited upon Warde after prayers.
But when he put his question, and expressed, modestly enough, his
anxiety and desire to help if he could, Warde bit his lips. Then he
burst out violently--
"I am miserable, Verney."
John said nothing. His tutor rose and began to pace up and down the
study; then, halting, facing John, he spoke quickly, with restless
gestures indicating volcanic disturbance.
"I'm between the devil and the deep sea," he said, "as many a better
man has been before me. I thought I'd wiped out the grosser evils in
the Manor, but I haven't--I haven't. Do you know that a fellow in this
house, perhaps two of 'em, but one at any rate, is getting out at night
and going up to town? You needn't answer, Verney. If you do know it,
you are powerless to prevent it, or it wouldn't occur."
"Thank you, sir."
"I can only guess who it is. I am not certain. And to make certain, I
must play the spy, creep and crawl, do what I loathe to do--suspect the
innocent together with the guilty. It's almost breaking my heart."
"I can understand that, sir, after what you have done for us."
Warde smiled grimly. "I don't think you do quite understand," he said
slowly. "At this moment I am tempted, tempted as I never have been
tempted, to let things slide, to shut both eyes and ears, till this
term is over. Next term"--he laughed harshly--"I shan't stand in such
an awkward place. The deep sea will always be near me, but the
devil--the devil will be elsewhere."
John nodded. His serious face expressed neither approval nor
disapproval to the man keenly watching it. Afterwards Warde remembered
this impassivity.
"If I do not act"--Warde's voice trembled--"I am damned as a traitor in
my own eyes."
John had never doubted that his house-master would act. As for
creeping and crawling, can peaks be scaled without creeping and
crawling? Never----
"You are not to speak a word of warning," Warde continued vehemently.
"If you know what I don't know yet, still you cannot speak to me,
because the sinner in this case is a Sixth-Form boy. You cannot speak
to me; and you will not speak to him, on your honour?"
There was interrogation in the last sentence. John replied almost
inaudibly--
"I shall not speak--on my honour!"
"It is hard, hard indeed, that I should have to foul my own nest, but
it must be so. Good night."
John went back to his room, calm without, terribly agitated within.
What ruthless spirit had driven him to Warde's study? Yes; at last,
inexorably, discovery, disgrace, the ineffaceable brand of expulsion,
impended over the head of his enemy, to whom he was pledged to utter no
word of warning. Like Warde, he did not know absolutely, but he
guessed that Scaife had spent another riotous night to town since the
match. He had read it in the eyes glittering with excitement, in the
derisive smile of conscious power, in the magnetic audacity of Scaife's
glance. And then he remembered Lawrence's parting words--
"It will be a fight to a finish, and, mark me, Warde will win!"
Two wretched days and nights passed. More than once John spurred
himself to the point of going to Warde and saying, "Think what you like
of me, I am going to warn the boy I loathe that you are at his heels."
Still, always at the last moment he did not go. Some power seemed to
restrain him. But when he tried to analyse his feelings, he confessed
himself muddled. He had obtained, nay, invited, Warde's confidence;
and he dared not abuse it. It was a time of anguish. He was unable to
concentrate his mind upon work or play, deprived of sleep, haunted by
the conviction that if Desmond knew all, he would turn from him for
ever. Then, at the most difficult moment of his life, the way of
escape was opened.
Since the match, John and Caesar had resumed the former unrestrained
and continual intimacy and intercourse. John was in and out of
Desmond's room, Desmond was in and out of John's room, at all hours.
They "found" together, of course, but it is not, fortunately, at meals
that boys or men discuss the things nearest to their hearts. But at
night, just before lights were turned out, or just after, when an
Olympian is privileged to work a little longer by the light of the
useful "tolly," Caesar and Jonathan would talk freely of past, present,
and future. It was during these much-valued minutes, or on Sunday
afternoons, that John would read to his friend the essays or verses
which always fired Desmond's admiration and enthusiasm. To John's
intellectual activities Caesar played, so to speak, gallery; even as
John upon many an afternoon had sat stewing in the covered
racquet-court, applauding Desmond's service into the corner, or his hot
returns just above the line. At home, in the holidays, the boys had
always met upon the same plane. Of the two, John was the better rider
and shot. Both were members of the Philathletic Club[1] of Harrow, and
the fact that Desmond was incomparably his superior as an athlete was
counterbalanced by John's fine intellectual attainments. If John, at
times, wished that he could cut behind the wicket in Caesar's faultless
style, Desmond, on the other hand, spoke enviously of the Medal, or the
Essay, or some other of John's successes. John spoke often and well in
the Debating Society, getting up his subjects with intelligence and
care. So it was give-and-take between them, and this adjusted the
balance of their friendship, and without this no friendship can be
pronounced perfect.
None the less, free and delightful as this resumption of the old
intimacy had been, John knew Caesar too well not to perceive that
between them lay an unmentionable five weeks, during which something
had occurred. From signs only too well interpreted before, John
guessed that Caesar was once more in debt to the Demon. And finally,
Caesar confessed that he had been betting, that he had won, following
Scaife's advice, and then had lost. The loss was greater than the
gain, and the difference, some five and twenty pounds, had been sent to
Scaife's bookmaker by Scaife. As before, Scaife ridiculed the
possibility of such a debt causing his pal any uneasiness, but it
chafed Desmond consumedly.
Upon the Saturday of the semi-final house match, in which the Manor had
won a great victory by an innings and twenty-three runs, John went to
Desmond's room after prayers. He noticed at once that his friend was
unusually excited. John, however, attributed this to Caesar's big
score. Success always inflamed Caesar, just as it seemed to
tranquillize John. John began to talk, but he noticed that Caesar was
abstracted, answered in monosyllables, and twice looked at his watch.
"Have you an appointment, Caesar?"
"No. What were you saying, Jonathan?"
"You look rather queer to-night."
"Do I?" He laughed nervously.
"You're not bothering over that debt?"
This time Caesar laughed naturally.
"Rather not. Why, that debt----" He stopped.
"Is it paid?" said John.
"It will be. Don't worry!"
But John looked worried. He perceived that Caesar's finely-formed
hands were trembling, whenever they were still.
"Harry," said he--he never called Desmond Harry except when they were
at home--"Harry, what's wrong?"
"Why, nothing--nothing, that is, which amounts to anything."
"Harry, you are the worst liar in England. Something is wrong. Can't
you tell me? You must. I'm hanged if I leave you till you do tell me."
He looked steadily at Desmond. In his clear grey eyes were tiny
dancing flecks of golden brown, which Desmond had seen once or twice
before,--which came whenever John was profoundly moved. The dancing
flecks transformed themselves in Desmond's fancy into sprites, the airy
creatures of John's will, imposing John's wishes and commands.
"Scaife said I might tell you, if I liked."
"Scaife?" John drew in his breath. "Then Scaife wanted you to tell
me; I am sure of that." He felt his way by the dim light of
smouldering suspicion. If Scaife wanted John to know anything, it was
because such knowledge must prove pain, not pleasure. John did not say
this. Then, very abruptly, Desmond continued, "You swear that what I'm
about to tell you will be regarded as sacred?"
"Yes."
"It is a matter which concerns Scaife and me, not you. You won't
interfere?"
"No."
"I'm going to London."
"_What_?"
"Don't look at me like that, you silly old ass! It's not--not what you
think," he laughed nervously. "I have bet Scaife twenty-five pounds,
the amount of my debt in fact, that the bill-of-fare of to-night's
supper at the Carlton Hotel will be handed to him after Chapel
to-morrow morning. I bike up to town, and bike back. If I don't go
this Saturday, I have one more chance before the term is over. That's
all."
"That's all," repeated John, stupefied.
"If you can show me an easier way to make a 'pony,' I'll be obliged to
you."
"Scaife egged you on to this piece of folly?"
"No, he didn't."
"You may as well make a clean breast of it."
Bit by bit John extracted the facts. Behind them, of course, stood
Scaife, loving evil for evil's sake, planting evil, gleaning evil,
deliberately setting about the devil's work. Desmond, it appeared, had
persuaded Scaife not to go to town till the Lord's match was over.
Since the match Scaife had spent two nights in London, whetting an
inordinate appetite for forbidden fruit; exciting in Desmond also, not
an appetite for the fruit itself, but for the mad excitement of a
perilous adventure. Then, when the thoughtless "I'd like a lark of
that sort" had been spoken, came the derisive answer, "You haven't the
nerve for it." And then again the subtle leading of an ardent and
self-willed nature into the morass, Scaife pretending to dissuade a
friend, entreating him to consider the risk, urging him to go to bed,
as if he were a headstrong child. And finally Desmond's challenge,
"Bet you I have the nerve," and its acceptance, protestingly, by the
other, and permission given that John should be told.
"And it's to-night?"
"I mean to have that bill-of-fare. Do you think I'd back out now?"
In his mind's eye, our poor John was gazing down a long lane with no
turning at the end of it. Could he make his friend believe that Scaife
had brought this thing to pass from no other motive than wishing to
hurt mortally an enemy by the hand of a friend? No, never would such
an ingenuous youth as Caesar accept, or even listen to, such an
abominable explanation.
"Good night," said John.
"I see you're rather sick with me, Jonathan. Remember, you made me
speak. To-morrow morning we'll have a good laugh over it. We'll walk
to the Haunted House, and I'll tell my tale. I shall be on my way in
less than an hour."
John went back to his room. The necessity for silence and thought had
become imperative. What could he do? It was certain that Warde was
waiting and watching. He had inexhaustible patience. Desmond, not the
Demon, would be caught and expelled. John returned to Desmond's room.
"You've told me so much," he said; "tell me a little more. How are you
going to do it?"
"To do what?"
"Get out of the house? Get a bike--and all that?"
"Easy. Lovell went out that way, and others. You jump from the sill
of the first landing window into the horse-chestnut. One must be able
to jump, of course; but I can jump. Then you shin down the tree, nip
through the shrubbery, and over the locked wicket-gate."
"Yes," John said slowly, "over the gate."
"I borrowed a bike from one of the Cycle Corps, and have ridden
[Transcriber's note: hidden?] it in the garden, in a bush to the right
of the gate."
John nodded.
"It's moonlight after ten; I shall enjoy the ride immensely."
"You will try to get back into the house at night?"
"Too dangerous. Lovell did it; but the Demon marches in boldly just
before Chapel. He may have slipped out on half a dozen errands as soon
as the door is opened in the morning. I shall sleep under a stack.
It's a lovely night. Now, old Jonathan, I hope you're satisfied that
I'm not either the fool or the sinner you took me to be."
"Look here, Harry. If I appeal to you in the name of our friendship;
if I ask you for my sake and for my mother's sake not to do this
thing----"
"Jonathan, I must go. Don't make it harder than it is."
"Then it is hard?"
"I won't whine about that. I courted this adventure, and, by Jove!
I'm going to see it through. The odds are a hundred to one against my
being nailed."
"All right; I'll say no more. Good night."
"Good night, old Jonathan."
John went back to his room, waited three minutes, and then, in despair,
made up his mind to seek Scaife. He felt certain that the Demon's
extraordinary luck was about to stand between him and expulsion.
Desmond would be caught red-handed, but not he. John ground his teeth
with rage at the thought. He found Scaife alone--at work on cricketing
accounts.
"Hullo, Verney!"
"Caesar tells me that he is going up to London to-night."
"Oh, he told you that, did he?"
"Yes; you wished him to tell me?"
"Perhaps." Scaife laughed louder.
"You want to prove to me," said John, slowly, "that you are the
stronger?"
"Perhaps." Scaife laughed.
"Well, if I surrender, if I admit that you are the stronger, that you
have defeated me, won't that be enough?"
"Eh? I don't quite take you."
"You are the stronger." John's voice was very miserable. "I have
tried to dissuade him, as you knew I should try, and I have failed.
Isn't that enough? You have your triumph. But now be generous. Turn
round and use your strength the other way. Make him give up this
folly. You don't want to see your own pal--sacked?"
"Precious little chance of that!"
"There is the chance."
Scaife hesitated. Did some worthier impulse stir within him? Who can
tell? His keen eye softened, and then hardened again.
"No," he said quickly. "If I agree to what you propose, it is, after
all, you who triumph, not I. And I doubt if I could stop him now, even
if I tried." He laughed again, for the third time, savagely. "You are
hoist with your own petard, Verney. You wanted to see me sacked; and
now that there is a chance in a thousand that Caesar will be sacked,
you squirm. I swore to get my knife into you, and, by God, I've done
it."
John went out, very pale. He passed through into the private side, and
tapped at Warde's study door. Mrs. Warde's voice bade him enter. She
looked at John's face. Afterwards she testified that he looked
singularly cool and self-possessed.
"I wish to see Mr. Warde," he said.
"He's dining at the Head Master's."
"Will he be in soon?"
"I--er--don't know. Perhaps not. I wouldn't wait for him, Verney, if
I were you."
"Thank you," said John. "Good night."
He went back to his room. In Mrs. Warde's eyes had read--what?
Excitement? Apprehension? Suddenly, conviction came to him that this
dinner at the Head Master's was a blind. Why, during that very
afternoon, Warde had mentioned casually to Scaife that he was dining
out. He had deliberately informed the Demon that the Coast was dear.
And at this moment, probably, Warde lay concealed near the chestnut
tree, waiting, watching, about to pounce upon the--wrong man!
The temptation to cry "_Cave_!" tore at his vitals. Till this moment
the tyranny of honour had never oppressed John. Having resolved to
tell Warde that he meant to break his word, it may seem inexplicable
that he shouldn't go a step further and break his word without warning
the house-master. Upon such nice points of conscience hang issues of
world-wide importance. To John, at any rate, the difference between
the two paths out of a tangled wood was greater than it might appear to
some of us. Warde had trusted him implicitly: could he bring himself
to violate Warde's confidence without giving the man notice?
However, what he might have done under pressure must remain a matter of
surmise. At this moment a third path became visible. And down it John
rushed, without consideration as to where it might lead. The one thing
plain at this crisis was the certainty that he had discovered a plan of
action which would save two things he valued supremely--his friendship
for Caesar and his word of honour.
Here we are at liberty to speculate what John would have done had he
considered dispassionately the consequences of an action to be
accomplished at once or not at all. But he had not time to consider
anything except the fact that action would put to rout some very
tormenting thoughts.
He crumpled his bed, disarranged his room, and put on a cap and a thin
overcoat, as all lights in the boys' side of the Mandi were
extinguished. Then he stole out of his room, and crept to the window
at the end of the passage. A moment later, he had squeezed through it,
and was standing upon the sill outside, gazing fearfully at the void
beneath, and the distance between the sill and the branch in front of
him. Afterwards, he confessed that this moment was the most difficult.
He was an active boy, but he had never jumped such a chasm. If he
missed the bough----
To hesitate meant shameful retreat. John felt the sweat break upon
him; craven fear clutched his heart-strings, and set them a-jangling.
He jumped.
The ease with which he caught the branch was such a physical relief
that he almost forgot his errand. He slid quietly down the tree,
pausing as he reached the bottom of it. The moon was just rising above
the horizon, but under the trees the darkness was Stygian. John pushed
quietly through the shrubberies, treading as lightly as possible.
Every moment he expected to see the flash of a lantern, to hear Warde's
voice, to feel an arresting hand upon the shoulder. It was quite
impossible to guess with any reasonable accuracy what part of the
garden Warde had selected for a hiding-place. Very soon he reached the
edge of the shrubbery, and gazed keenly into the moonlit, park-like
meadow below him. Peer as he might, he could see no trace of Warde. A
dozen trees might conceal him. Perhaps with the omniscience of the
house-master, he had divined that the wicket-gate was the ultimate
place of egress. Perhaps the wicket had been used for a similar
purpose when Warde himself was a boy at the Manor. It was vital to
John's plan that Warde should see him without recognizing him, and give
chase. The chase would end in capture at some point as reasonably far
from the Manor as possible. Warde might ask for explanations, but none
would be forthcoming till the morrow. Meantime, the coast would be
clear for Desmond. John, in fine, was playing the part of a
pilot-engine.
But where was Warde?
The question answered itself within a minute, and after a fashion
absolutely unforeseen. As John was crossing from the shrubbery to the
wicket he looked back. To his horror, he saw lights in the boys' side,
light in the window of Scaife's room. Instantly John divined what had
come to pass, and cursed himself for a fool. Warde, from some coign of
vantage, had seen a boy leave his house. Why should he try to arrest
the boy? why should he risk the humiliation of running after him, and,
perhaps, failing to capture him? No, no; men forty were not likely to
work in that boyish fashion. Warde had adopted an infinitely better
plan. Assured that a boy had left the house, he had nothing to do but
walk round the rooms and find out which one was absent. He had begun
with Scaife. Next to Scaife was the room belonging to the Head of the
House; then came John's room, and then Caesar's. Long before Warde
reached Caesar's room, Caesar would have heard him. Caesar, at any
rate, was saved. John crept back under cover of the shrubberies. He
saw the light flicker out of Scaife's window, and shine more steadily
in the next room. The window of this room was open, and John could
hear the voice of Warde and the Head of the House. John waited. And
then the light shone in Desmond's room. John crouched against the
wall, trembling. If Caesar had not heard the voices, if he were fully
dressed, if---- Suddenly he caught Warde's reassuring words: "Ah,
Desmond, sorry to disturb you. Good night."
John waited. Very soon Scaife would come to Desmond's room. Ah! Just
so. The night was so still that he could hear quite plainly the boys'
muffled voices.
"What's up?"
"Warde is going his rounds. Perhaps he smells a rat."
And then whispers! John strained his ears. Only a word or two more
reached him. "Verney---- D--d interfering sneak! Let's see!" It was
Scaife who was speaking.
John heard his own door opened and shut. Scaife, then, had discovered
his absence, and naturally leaped to the conclusion that he had warned
Warde. Let him think so! The boys were still whispering together.
"Not to-night," Scaife said decisively. "No, no," Desmond replied.
John wondered what remained to be done. Warde, of course, would
satisfy himself that no boy in his house was missing except John,
before he pronounced him the absentee. Poor Warde! This would be a
hard knock for him. John's thoughts were jostling each other freely,
when he recalled Desmond's words: "I have one more chance before the
term is over." He had wished to clear the way for his friend, not to
block it. Then he remembered the terms of the bet, and laughed.
He ran back to the wicket, found the bicycle, lit the lamp, and hoisted
the machine over the gate. Then he laughed again. After all, this
escaping from bondage, this midnight adventure beneath the impending
sword of expulsion, thrilled him to the marrow.
When John returned on Sunday to the Manor, shortly after the doors were
unlocked in the morning, he found Dumbleton awaiting him. Dumber's
face expressed such amazement and consternation that John nearly
laughed in spite of himself.
"It's all hup, sir," said the butler. Only in moments of intense
excitement did Dumber misplace or leave out the aspirate. "You're to
come with me at once to Mr. Warde's study."
John followed the butler into the familiar room. Warde was not down
yet, but evidently Dumber had instructions not to leave the prisoner.
John stared at the writing-desk. Then he turned to Dumbleton, and said
carelessly--
"This means the sack, eh, Dumber?"
"Yes, sir. 'Ow could you do it, sir? Such a well-be'aved gentleman
too!"
"Thank you, Dumber." John took an envelope from the desk, and wrote
Scaife's name upon it.
"Dumber, please give Mr. Scaife this--with my compliments. It is, as
you see, a bill of fare."
"Very good, sir."
John placed the card into the envelope and handed both to Dumbleton.
"With my compliments!"
"Certainly, sir."
"And _after_ Chapel."
"Yes, sir."
A moment later Warde came in. Dumbleton went out immediately with a
sorrowful, backward glance at John. The good fellow looked terribly
bewildered. For John's face, John's deportment, had amazed him. John
was quite unaware of it, but he looked astonishingly well. Excitement
had flushed his cheek and lent a sparkle to his grey eyes. He had
enjoyed his ride to town and back; he had slept soundly under the lee
of a haystack; and he had washed his face and hands in the horse-trough
at the foot of Sudbury Hill. And the certainty that Desmond was safe,
that in the end he, John, had triumphed over Scaife, filled his soul
with joy. Warde, on the other hand, looked wretched; he had passed a
sleepless night; he was pale, haggard, gaunt.
"What have you to say, Verney?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Nothing." Warde clenched his hands, and burst into speech, letting
all that he had suffered and suppressed escape in tumultuous words and
gestures. "Nothing. You dare to stand there and say--nothing. That
you should have done this thing? Why, it's incredible! And I who
trusted you. And you listened to me with a face like brass, laughing
in your sleeve, no doubt, at the fool who betrayed himself. And you
came here, so my wife tells me, to see if I was out of the way, if the
coast was clear. And you were cool as a cucumber. Oh, you hypocrite,
you damnable hypocrite! I have to see you now, but never again will I
look willingly upon your face, never! Well, this wretched business
must be ended. You got out of my house last night. You heard I was
dining with the Head Master. I returned early, and I saw you jump from
the passage window. You don't deny that you went up to London, I
suppose?"
"No, sir; I don't deny it."
At the moment John, quite unconsciously, looked as if he were glorying
in what he had done. Warde could have struck his clean, clear face,
unblushingly meeting his furious glance. In disgust, he turned his
back and walked to the window. John felt rather than saw that his
tutor was profoundly moved. When he turned, two tears were trickling
down his cheeks. The sight of them nearly undid John. When Warde
spoke again, his voice was choked by his emotion.
"Verney," he said, "I spoke just now in an unrestrained manner, because
you--you"--his voice trembled--"have shaken my faith in all I hold most
dear. I say to you--I say to you that I believed in you as I believe
in my wife. Even now I feel that somehow there is a mistake--that you
are not what you confess yourself to be--a brazen-faced humbug. You
have worked as I have worked for this House, and in one moment you undo
that work. Have you paused to think, what effect this will have upon
the others?"
"Not yet, sir."
John looked respectfully sympathetic. Poor Warde! This was rough
indeed upon him.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and Desmond burst into the room, with
a complete disregard of the customary proprieties, and rushed up to
Warde.
"Sir," he said vehemently, "Verney did this to save--_me_!"
Warde saw the slow smile break upon John's face. And, seeing it, he
came as near hysterical laughter as a man of his character and
temperament can come. He perceived that John, for some amazing reason,
had played the scape-goat; that, in fact, he was innocent--not a
humbug, not a hypocrite, not a brazen-faced sinner. And the relief was
so stupendous that the tutor flung himself back into a chair, gasping.
Desmond spoke quietly.
"I was going to town, sir. For the first time, I swear. And only to
win a bet, and for the excitement of jumping out of a window. John
tried to dissuade me. When he exhausted every argument, he went
himself."
"The Lord be praised!" said Warde. He had divined everything; but he
let Desmond tell the story in detail. Scaife's name was left out of
the narrative.
Then Warde said slowly, "I shall not refer this business to the Head
Master; I shall deal with it myself. For your own sake, Desmond, for
the sake of your father, and, above all else, for the sake of this
House, I shall do no more than ask you to promise that, for the rest of
your time at Harrow, you will endeavour to atone for what has been."
All boys worth their salt are creatures of reserves; let us respect
them. It is easy to surmise what passed between the friends--the
gratitude, the self-reproach, the humiliation on one side; the
sympathy, the encouragement and shy, restrained affection on the other.
A bitter-sweet moment for John this, revealing, without disguise, the
weakness of Desmond's character, but illuminating the triumph over
Scaife, the all-powerful. John had been inhuman if this knowledge had
not been as spikenard to him.
Chapel over, the boys came pouring back into the house. In a minute
the fags would be hurrying up with the tea and the jam-pots, asking for
orders; in a minute Scaife would rush in with questions hot upon his
lips. John chuckled to himself as he heard Scaife's step.
"Hullo, Caesar! Why did you cut Chapel? And----"
John saw that the Carlton supper-card was in his hand. He chuckled
again.
"Dumber has just given me--_this_. Did you go, after all?" he asked
Caesar. They had not met since Warde's visit of the night before.
"I didn't go," said Caesar.
"Dumber gave it to me, with Verney's compliments."
"You've lost your bet," said John.
"But how?"
"Jonathan went to town instead of me," said Desmond. "We thought he
was with Warde--he wasn't. This morning, early, I found out that he
hadn't slept in his bed. I saw him come back, and I saw Dumber waiting
for him. When Dumber came out of Warde's room, he told me that
Jonathan had been up to town, and was going to be--sacked."
He blurted out the rest of the story, to which Scaife listened
attentively. When Desmond finished, there was a pause.
"You're devilish clever," said Scaife to John.
"I shall pay up the pony," said Desmond.
"No, you won't," said Scaife. "As for the money, I never cared a hang
about that. I'm glad--and you ought to know it--that you've won the
bet. All the same, Verney isn't entitled to all the glory that you
give him."
"He is, he is--and more, too."
Scaife laughed. John felt rather uncomfortable. Always Scaife
exhibited his amazing resource at unexpected moments.
"Never mind," Scaife continued, "I won't burst the pretty bubble. And
I admit, remember, Verney's cleverness."
He was turning to go, but Desmond clutched his sleeve. When he spoke
his fair face was scarlet.
"You sneer at the wrong man and at the wrong time," he said angrily,
"and you talk as though I was a fool. Well, I am a fool, perhaps, and
I blow bubbles. Prick this one, if you can. I challenge you to do it."
Scaife shrugged his shoulders. "It's so obvious," he said coolly,
"that your kind friend ran no risks other than a sprained ankle or a
cold."
"What do you mean?"
"He was certain that you would come forward. He forced your hand.
There was never the smallest chance of his being sacked, and he knew
it."
"Yes," said John, calmly, "I knew it."
"Just so," said Scaife. He went out whistling.
Desmond had time to whisper to John before the fags called them to
breakfast in John's room--
"I say, Jonathan, I'm glad you knew that I wouldn't fail you. As the
Demon says, you are clever; you are a sight cleverer than he is."
John shook his head. "I'm slow," he said. "As a matter of fact, the
thought that you would come to the rescue never occurred to me till I
was hiking back from town."
"Anyway, you saved me from being sacked, and as long as I live I----"
"Come on to breakfast," said John.
[1] The Philathletic Club deals primarily with all matters which
concern Harrow games; it is also a social club. Distinguished
athletes, monitors, and so forth, are eligible for membership. The
Head of the School is _ex-officio_ President.