ASSIZE SUNDAY.
The next day was Assize Sunday. A dense crowd collected early round the
doors of the cathedral, and, as soon as they were opened, rushed in, and
took possession of the edifice, leaving vacant only the pulpit, the
bishop's throne, and the locked-up seats. It was the custom for the
bishop (if in Westerbury), the dean and chapter, and the forty king's
scholars, to assemble just inside the front entrance and receive the
judges, who were attended in state to the cathedral, just as they had
been attended into Westerbury the previous afternoon, the escort being
now augmented by the mayor and corporation, and an overflowing shoal of
barristers.
The ten choristers were the first to take up their standing at the front
entrance. They were soon followed by the rest of the king's scholars,
the surplices of the whole forty being primly starched for the occasion.
They had laid in their customary supply of pins, for it was the boys'
pleasure, during the service on Assize Sunday, to stick pins into
people's backs, and pin women's clothes together; the density of the mob
permitting full scope to the delightful amusement, and preventing
detection.
The thirty king's scholars bustled in from the cloisters two by two,
crossed the body of the cathedral to the grand entrance, and placed
themselves at the head of the choristers. Which was wrong: they ought to
have gone below them. Henry Arkell, as senior chorister, took precedence
of all when in the cathedral; but not when out of it, and that was a
somewhat curious rule. Out of the cathedral, Arkell was under
Prattleton; the latter, as senior boy, being head of all. He told
Prattleton to move down.
Prattleton declined. "Then we must move up," observed Henry.
"Choristers."
He was understood: and the choristers moved above the king's scholars.
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Prattleton. "How dare you disobey
me, Mr. Arkell?"
"How dare you disobey me?" was Henry Arkell's retort, but he spoke
civilly. "I am senior here, and you know it, Prattleton." It must be
understood that this sort of clashing could only occur on occasions like
the present: on ordinary Sundays and on saints' days the choristers and
king's scholars did not come in contact in the cathedral.
"I'll let you know who's senior," said Prattleton. "Choristers, move
down; you juniors, do you hear me? Move down, or I'll have you hoisted
to-morrow."
"If Mr. Arkell tells us, please, sir," responded a timid junior, who
fancied Mr. Prattleton looked particularly at him.
The choristers did not stir, and Prattleton was savage. "King's
scholars, move up, and shove."
Some of the king's scholars hesitated, especially those of the lower
school. It was no light matter to disobey the senior chorister in the
cathedral. Others moved up, and proceeded to "shove." Henry Arkell
calmly turned to one of his own juniors.
"Hardcast, go into the vestry, and ask Mr. Wilberforce to step here.
Should he have gone into college, fetch him out of the chanting-desk."
"Remain where you are, Hardcast," foamed Prattleton. "I dare you to
stir."
Hardcast, a little chap of ten, was already off, but he turned round at
the word. "I am not under your orders, Mr. Prattleton, when the senior
chorister's present."
A few minutes, and then the Reverend Mr. Wilberforce, in his surplice
and hood, was seen advancing. Hardcast had fetched him out of the
chanting-desk.
"What's all this? what hubbub are you boys making? I'll flog you all
to-morrow. Arkell, Prattleton, what's the matter?"
"I thought it better to send for you, sir, than to have a disturbance
here," said Arkell.
"A disturbance here! You had better not attempt it."
"Don't the king's scholars take precedence of the choristers, sir?"
demanded Prattleton.
"No, they don't," returned the master. "If you have not been years
enough in the college to know the rules, Mr. Prattleton, you had better
return to the bottom of school, and learn them. Arkell, in this place,
you have the command. King's scholars move down, and be quick over it:
and I'll flog you all round," concluded Mr. Wilberforce, "if you strike
up a dispute in college again."
The master turned tail, and strode back as fast as his short legs would
carry him: for the dean and chapter, marshalled by a verger and the
bedesmen, were crossing the cathedral; and a flourish of trumpets,
outside, told of the approach of the judges. The Reverend Mr.
Wilberforce was going to take the chanting for an old minor canon whose
voice was cracked, and he would hardly recover breath to begin.
The choristers all grinned at the master's decision, save Arkell and
Aultane, junior: the latter, though second chorister, took part with
Prattleton, because he hated Arkell; and as the judges passed in their
flowing scarlet robes with the trains held up behind, and their imposing
wigs, so terrible to look at, the bows of the choristers were much more
gracious than those of the king's scholars. The additional mob, teeming
in after the judges' procession, was unlimited; and a rare field had the
boys and their pins that day.
The hubbub and the bustle of the morning passed, and the cathedral bell
was again tolling out for afternoon service. Save the dust, and there
was plenty of that, no trace remained of the morning's scene. The king's
scholars were already in their seats in the choir, and the ten
choristers stood at the choir entrance, for they always waited there to
go in with the dean and chapter. One of them, and it was Mr.
Wilberforce's own son, had made a mistake in the morning in fastening
his own surplice to a countrywoman's purple stuff gown, instead of two
gowns together; and, when they came to part company, the surplice proved
the weakest. The consequence was an enormous rent, and it had just taken
the nine other choristers and three lay-clerks five minutes and
seventeen pins, fished out of different pockets, to do it up in any way
decent. Young Wilberforce, during the process, rehearsing a tale over in
his mind, for home, about that horrid rusty nail that would stick out of
the vestry door.
The choristers stood facing each other, five on a side, and the dean and
canons would pass between them when they came in. They stood at an
equidistance, one from the other, and it was high treason against the
college rules for them to move an inch from their places. Arkell headed
one line, Aultane the other, the two being face to face. Suddenly a
college boy, who was late, came flying from the cloisters and dashed
into the choir, to crave the keys of the schoolroom from the senior boy,
that he might procure his surplice. It was Lewis junior; so, against the
rules, Prattleton condescended to give him the keys; almost any other
boy he would have told to whistle for them, and marked him up for
punishment as "absent." Prattleton chose to patronise him, on account of
his friendship with Lewis senior. Lewis came out again, full pelt,
swinging the keys in his hand, rather vain of showing to the choristers
that he had succeeded in obtaining them, just as two little old
gentlemen were advancing from the front entrance.
"Hi, Lewis! stop a moment," called out Aultane, in a loud whisper, as he
crossed over and went behind Arkell.
"Return to your place, Aultane," said Arkell.
Mr. Aultane chose to be deaf.
"Aultane, to your place," repeated Henry Arkell, his tone one of hasty
authority. "Do you see who are approaching?"
Aultane looked round in a fluster. But not a soul could he see, save a
straggler or two making their way to the side aisles; and two
insignificant little old men, arm-in-arm, close at hand, in rusty black
clothes and brown wigs. Nobody to affect _him_.
"I shall return when I please," said he, commencing a whispered parley
with Lewis.
"Return this instant, Aultane. I _order_ you."
"You be----"
The word was not a blessing, but you are at liberty to substitute one.
The little old men, to whom each chorister had bowed profoundly as they
passed him, turned, and bent their severe yellow faces upon Aultane.
Lewis junior crept away petrified; and Aultane, with the red flush of
shame on his brow, slunk back to his place. They were the learned
judges.
They positively were. But no wonder Aultane had failed to recognise
them, for they bore no more resemblance to the fierce and fiery visions
of the morning, than do two old-fashioned black crows to stately
peacocks.
"What may your name be, sir?" inquired the yellower of the two. Aultane
hung his head in an agony: he was wondering whether they could order him
before them on the morrow and transport him. Wilberforce was in another
agony, lest those four keen eyes should wander to his damaged surplice
and the pins. Somebody else answered: "Aultane, my lord."
The judges passed on. Arkell would not look towards Aultane: he was too
noble to add, even by a glance, to the confusion of a fallen enemy: but
the other choristers were not so considerate, and Aultane burst into a
flow of bad language.
"Be silent," authoritatively interrupted Henry Arkell. "More of this,
and I will report you to the dean."
"I shan't be silent," cried Aultane, in his passionate rage. "There! not
for you." Beside himself with anger, he crossed over, and raised his
hand to strike Arkell. But one of the sextons, happening to come out of
the choir, arrested Aultane, and whirled him back.
"Do you know where you are, sir?"
In another moment they were surrounded. The dean's wife and daughter had
come up; and, following them, sneaked Lewis junior, who was settling
himself into his surplice. Mrs. Beauclerc passed on, but Georgina
stopped. Even as she went into college, she would sometimes stop and
chatter to the boys.
"You were quarrelling, young gentlemen! What is the grievance?"
"That beggar threatened to report me to the dean," cried Aultane, too
angry to care what he said, or to whom he spoke.
"Then I know you deserved it; as you often do," rejoined Miss
Beauclerc; "but I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, if I were you,
Aultane. I only wonder he has not reported you before. You should have
me for your senior."
"If he does go in and report me, please tell the dean to ask him where
his gold medal is," foamed Aultane. "And to make him answer it."
"What do you mean?" she questioned.
"_He_ knows. If the dean offered him a thousand half-crowns for his
medal, he could not produce it."
"What does he mean?" repeated Miss Beauclerc, looking at Henry Arkell.
He could not answer: he literally could not. Could he have dropped down
without life at Georgina's feet, it had been welcome, rather than that
she should hear of an act, which, to his peculiarly refined temperament,
bore an aspect of shame so utter. His face flushed a vivid red, and then
grew white as his surplice.
"He can't tell you," said Aultane; "that is, he won't. He has put it
into pawn."
"And his watch too," squeaked Lewis, from behind, who had heard of the
affair from Aultane.
Henry Arkell raised his eyes for one deprecating moment to Miss
Beauclerc's face; she was struck with their look of patient anguish. She
cast an annihilating frown at Lewis, and, raising her finger haughtily
motioned Aultane to his place. "I believe nothing ill of _you_," she
whispered to Henry, as she passed on to the choir.
The next to come in was Mr. St. John. "What's the matter?" he hurriedly
said to Henry, who had not a vestige of colour in his cheeks or lips.
"Nothing, thank you, Mr. St. John."
Mr. St. John went on, and Lewis skulked to his seat, in his wake.
Lewis's place was midway on the bench on the decani side, seven boys
being above him and seven below him. The choristers were on raised seats
in front of the lay-clerks, five on one side the choir, five opposite on
the other; Arkell, as senior, heading the five on the decani side.
The dean and canons came in, and the service began. While the afternoon
psalms were being sung, Mr. Wilberforce pricked the roll, a parchment
containing the names of the members of the cathedral, from the dean
downwards, marking those who were present. Aultane left his place and
took the roll to the dean, continuing his way to the organ-loft, to
inquire what anthem had been put up. He brought word back to Arkell,
'The Lord is very great and terrible. Beckwith.' Aultane would as soon
have exchanged words with the yellow-faced little man sitting in the
stall next the dean, as with Arkell, just then, but his duty was
obligatory. He spoke sullenly, and crossed to his seat on the opposite
side, and Arkell rose and reported the anthem to the lay-clerks behind
him. Mr. Wilberforce was then reading the first lesson.
Now it happened that there was only one bass at service that afternoon,
he on the decani side, Mr. Smith; the other had not come; and the moment
the words were out of Arkell's mouth, "The Lord is very great.
Beckwith," Mr. Smith flew into a temper. He had a first-rate voice, was
a good singer, and being inordinately vain, liked to give himself airs.
"I have a horrid cold on the chest," he remonstrated, "and I cannot do
justice to the solo; I shan't attempt it. The organist knows I'm as
hoarse as a raven, and yet he goes and puts up that anthem for to-day!"
"What is to be done?" whispered Henry.
"I shall send and tell him I can't do it. Hardcast, go up to the
organ-loft, and tell----Or I wish you would oblige me by going yourself,
Arkell: the juniors are always making mistakes. My compliments to Paul,
and the anthem must be done without the bass solo, or he must put up
another."
Henry Arkell, ever ready to oblige, left his stall, proceeded to the
organ-loft, and delivered the message. The organist was wroth: and but
for those two little old gentlemen, whom he knew were present, he would
have refused to change the anthem, which had been put up by the dean.
"Where's Cliff, this afternoon?" asked he, sharply, alluding to the
other bass.
"I don't know," replied Henry. "He is not at service."
The organist took up one of the anthem books with a jerk, and turned
over its leaves. He came to the anthem, "I know that my Redeemer
liveth," from _the Messiah_.
"Are you prepared to do justice to this?" he demanded.
"Yes, I believe I am," replied Henry. "But----"
"But me no buts," interrupted the organist, who was always very short
with the choristers. "'I know that my Redeemer liveth. Pitt.'"
As Henry Arkell descended the stairs, Mr. Wilberforce was concluding the
first lesson. So instead of giving notice of the change of anthem to Mr.
Wilberforce and the singers on the cantori side, he left that until
later, and made haste to his own stall, to be in time for the soli parts
in the Cantate Domino, which was being sung that afternoon in place of
the Magnificat. In passing the bench of king's scholars, a foot was
suddenly extended out before him, and he fell heavily over it, striking
his head on the stone step that led to the stalls of the minor canons. A
sexton, a verger, and one or two of the senior boys, surrounded, lifted,
and carried him out.
The service proceeded; but his voice was missed in the Cantate;
Aultane's proved but a poor substitute.
"I wonder whether the anthem's changed?" debated the bass to the contre
tenor.
"Um--no," decided the latter. "Arkell was coming straight to his place.
Had there been any change, he would have gone and told Wilberforce and
the opposites. Paul is in a pet, and won't alter it."
"Then he'll play the solo without my accompaniment," retorted the bass,
loftily.
Henry Arkell was only stunned by the fall, and before the conclusion of
the second lesson, he appeared in the choir, to the surprise of many.
After giving the requisite notice of the change in the anthem to Mr.
Wilberforce and Aultane, he entered his stall; but his face was white as
the whitest marble. He sang, as usual, in the Deus Misereatur. And when
the time for the anthem came, Mr. Wilberforce rose from his knees to
give it out.
"The anthem is taken from the burial service."
The symphony was played, and then Henry Arkell's voice rose soft and
clear, filling the old cathedral with its harmony, and the words falling
as distinctly on the ear as if they had been spoken. "I know that my
Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the
earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh
I shall see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall
behold, and not another." The organist could not have told _why_ he put
up that particular anthem, but it was a remarkable coincidence, noticed
afterwards, that it should have been a funeral one.
But though Henry Arkell's voice never faltered or trembled, his changing
face spoke of bodily disease or mental emotion: one moment it was bright
as a damask rose, the next of a transparent whiteness. Every eye was on
him, wondering at the beauty of his voice, at the marvellous beauty of
his countenance: some sympathised with his emotion; some were wrapt in
the solemn thoughts created by the words. When the solo was concluded,
Henry, with an involuntary glance at the pew of Mrs. Beauclerc, fell
against the back of his stall for support: he looked exhausted. Only for
a moment, however, for the chorus commenced.
He joined in it; his voice rose above all the rest in its sweetness and
power; but as the ending approached, and the voices ceased, and the last
sound of the organ died upon the ear, his face bent forward, and rested
without motion on the choristers' desk.
"Arkell, what are you up to?" whispered one of the lay-clerks from
behind, as Mr. Wilberforce recommenced his chanting.
No response.
"Nudge him, Wilberforce; he's going to sleep. There's the dean casting
his eyes this way."
Edwin Wilberforce did as he was desired, but Arkell never stirred.
So Mr. Tenor leaned over and grasped him by the arm, and pulled him up
with a sudden jerk. But he did not hold him, and the poor head fell
forward again upon the desk. Henry Arkell had fainted.
Some confusion ensued: for the four choristers below him had every one
to come out of the stall before he could be got out. Mr. Wilberforce
momentarily stopped chanting, and directed his angry spectacles towards
the choristers, not understanding what caused the hubbub, and inwardly
vowing to flog the whole five on the morrow. Mr. Smith, a strong man,
came out of his stall, lifted the lifeless form in his arms, and carried
it out to the side aisle, the head, like a dead weight, hanging down
over his shoulder. All the eyes and all the glasses in the cathedral
were bent on them; and the next to come out of his stall, by the
prebendaries, and follow in the wake, was Mr. St. John, a flush of
emotion on his pale face.
The dean's family, after service, met Mr. St. John in the cloisters. "Is
he better?" asked Mrs. Beauclerc. "What was the matter with him the
second time?"
"He fainted; but we soon brought him to in the vestry. Young Wilberforce
ran and got some water. They are walking home with him now."
"What caused him to fall in the choir?" continued Mrs. Beauclerc.
"Giddiness?"
"It was not like giddiness," remarked Mr. St. John. "It was as if he
fell over something."
"So I thought," interrupted Georgina. "Why did you leave your seat to
follow him?" she continued, in a low tone to Mr. St. John, falling
behind her mother.
"It was a sudden impulse, I suppose. I was unpleasantly struck with his
appearance as I went into college. He was looking ghastly."
"The choristers had been quarrelling: Aultane's fault, I am sure. He
lifted his hand to strike Arkell. Aultane reproached him with
having"--Georgina Beauclerc hesitated, with an amused look--"disposed of
his prize medal."
"Disposed of his prize medal?" echoed Mr. St. John.
"Pawned it."
St. John uttered an exclamation. He remembered the tricks of the college
boys, but he could not have believed this of his favourite, Henry
Arkell.
"And his watch also, Lewis junior added," continued Georgina. "They gave
me the information in a spiteful glow of triumph. Henry did not deny it:
he looked as if he could not. But I know he is the soul of honour, and
if he has done anything of the sort, those beautiful companions of his
have over-persuaded him: possibly to lend the money to them."
"I'll see into this," mentally spoke Mr. St. John.