WHAT HENNING REMEMBERED
There was much in Roy Henning's disposition to make him a creature
of temperament. Had he not been so strong and muscular one would
sometimes be inclined to imagine that he was possessed of the
peculiarly feminine accomplishment, yclept "nerves." For the least
reason, and sometimes apparently for none, he was all exhilaration and
enthusiasm. On such occasions everything was the brightest of bright
rose-color, and the failure of a project in hand was not even to be
dreamed of.
Should anything go ever momentarily wrong in a pet scheme, he became
the veriest pessimist. All would go wrong; all the world was
conspiring against him. If it rained at such times, even nature
herself was in league against him.
While he was to a large extent a creature of temperament, it must not be
supposed that he had not a high appreciation of manly qualities. None,
perhaps, at St. Cuthbert's, certainly none of his day, had loftier
ideals. With these and with his splendid physique he represented as fair
a type of Catholic early manhood as could be found.
Henning had one peculiar trait, and to this may be traced much of the
trial and vexation to which he had already been subjected, and much of
which was to fall to him for the remainder of his time at St.
Cuthbert's. He remained too much self-centered. This was frequently an
occasion of trouble to him. An instance: it will be remembered that he
was told by his director not to tell any one save his parents of his
intention of entering the ecclesiastical state. He took this advice as
absolute, and on it molded his conduct, with what inconvenience to
himself we have already seen.
It is not to be wondered at, then, that he kept his thoughts and his
fears and troubles arising from the loss of the money to himself. All
that day, except that first burst of grief, he made no outward
manifestation of what he was feeling or suffering. Of course he was
thus depriving himself of the sympathy and help which his friends were
only too ready to offer. Actuated by the highest of supernatural
motives, he nevertheless deprived himself in his difficulties of the
guidance and assistance of a faithful friend. Roy had yet to learn
that troubles told into sympathizing ears are more than half healed.
Small wonder then, with this habit of reserve, if the circumstances in
which he found himself on this holiday night of Christmas week paved
the way for a very gloomy meditation.
He recalled his early school-days. Why had he been so unlike other boys
at school and at college? They were always full of self-assertiveness
and self-reliance; he had always been timid and retiring. Perhaps it was
the reflection of that timidity he had always felt in the presence of
his father. Had his college life been a happy one? Unfortunately, for
the most part, no. Not until last year--one year out of seven--when he
had the company and full sympathy of such noble characters as Howard
Hunter, Claude Winters, Harry Selby, Frank Stapleton, and others. With
such characters as those he could not help being happy. But all these
had gone; passed out of his life. Oh, if some of them were here now to
help and show him what to do!
Those dear boys! And oh, that visit to Rosecroft, and that nearly
fatal accident when he so narrowly escaped being struck by the chute
boat! There was this consolation, that if the clouds thickened around
him he would get Ambrose Bracebridge to take him over to Rosecroft
Manor. There was Mrs. Bracebridge there, who would understand him and
who could always help and direct and encourage him.
Thinking of her, Roy became more cheerful. I have said that he was a
creature of temperament. Here it served him in good turn. He began to
take a brighter view of the trials he knew awaited him on the morrow.
Was he not entirely innocent? Who would dare to impugn his character?
He would face all bravely, explain how he discovered the theft, and
blame himself publicly for his imprudence in keeping so much money
locked in a common table drawer. Then who would dare to say a word
against his integrity! All would pass over soon. He would write a full
account to his father, who would doubtless make good the loss.
"By the way," he suddenly thought, half aloud, "am I responsible? Must
I make restitution of the lost money?" This was a puzzling question
which he could not decide. He determined to consult his spiritual
director the first thing in the morning. But wouldn't he like to catch
the thief!
This last thought led him to a mental survey of all persons who might
possibly be guilty. To his credit, he spurned the idea that any one of
the college boys could be the culprit. No St. Cuthbert boy could do
such a thing, and if by chance it should happen to be a student, were
they not all Catholic boys? Would not the first confession the thief
made result in a full restitution of the ill-gotten goods? He had
little hope that any such thing would occur, but he had not the
slightest idea that any college student would prove to be the
delinquent.
He endeavored to imagine a way the theft could have been accomplished.
It must have been committed between seven o'clock on Wednesday night
and six on Thursday morning, when the boys rose. It could not have
been done later than a minute or two after six, because it was the
custom of a number of boys who were in training to use the playroom as
a kind of indoor running-track immediately upon rising and before they
took their shower bath.
He remembered that the door of the committee-room had been locked by
himself in the evening just before the play began. It is true that the
only window of this room was not fastened, but there were iron bars on
the outside. He remembered now that one of these bars--they were half
above ground and half in a window well which was covered by an iron
grating, that one of these bars was loose, for he now recalled the
fact that yesterday he had seen a boy move one of them with his foot
as he stood on the grating. Could the thief have gone through the
window?
Henning suddenly clutched his chair in the greatest excitement. There
had flashed into his memory an incident which he had witnessed the night
before, but which until this very moment had not come to his memory.
He remembered now that after the play last night he stood at the
Philosophy classroom window, and across the yard he had seen a boy
crouching down at these very bars. He had paid little attention at the
time, as his mind was full of the _Richelieu_ he had just played. The
electric light in the yard was so located that it put the boy, the
window, and one-third of the sidewalk in deep shade. The other part of
the sidewalk was very bright. He now remembered that when he first saw
the boy he was in a crouching position. He had not paid much attention,
and other things occupying his mind, he soon forgot all about it. What
was that other thought? Ah! now he remembered. It was that wretched
attempt to spoil the second scene of the play. He now recalled that for
some time he forgot all about the boy at the grating but when he did
think of him again he remembered seeing the boy as if he were just
rising from his knees, which, as he stood, he brushed with his hand. At
the time the boy received very little attention from Roy, who now
remembered having vaguely wondered why any one was out in the yard when
all, except the players, were in the chapel at evening prayers. Chapel
bell had sounded immediately after the play, so the actors could not
divest themselves of paint and disguises in time to attend.
Who could that boy have been? Last night Henning was not interested
enough to find out. To-night he would give a great deal to know. He
remembered now that the person, whoever he was, wore a black soft felt
hat, which was pulled down well over his eyes and hid a great portion
of his face. A soft felt hat would not identify any one. There were
dozens of them in the yard. Oh, if he could only remember how the boy
was dressed!
"Great heavens!" he ejaculated aloud in sudden, intense excitement.
He arose and clutched the blanket around him and folded his hands
across his breast. His face was very white. He trembled. He began to
pace the floor, muttering as one demented, or at least as one under
the strongest stress of excitement. Great beads of perspiration stood
out on his forehead. At one time he thought he was going to faint. He
had made a discovery, and the discovery sickened him.
The boy he saw at the window grating had worn a blue sweater!
"No, no, no, no!" said Roy to himself many times. "I can't--I won't
believe it. I must be mistaken. It can not be he! No, no! Yet no one
else has a sweater of that color!"
By this time he had left his room and was excitedly pacing up and down
the lengthy corridor. Luckily he was barefooted, or he would have
disturbed everybody. The more he thought over his discovery the more
he became convinced of the identity of the burglar. His conviction and
wretchedness grew in proportion.
"It can not be! It can not be! Impossible! Impossible!" he muttered,
as he strode up and down. "Andrew is mean in many things, but not a
common felon! It can not, can not be true!" and he was hoping against
hope for his family's sake.
Henning was never so excited in his life. For a long time he walked up
and down on the cocoa-matting. His blanket trailing behind him, often
caught the leaden binding of one of the strips of matting. This would
be raised about a foot and fall with a bang; his excitement prevented
him from noticing the noise he was making.
Not so the old infirmarian, whose room was at the end of the corridor.
Peering out, he at first thought he saw a ghost. But ghosts do not
trip on cocoa-matting. He followed the disturber of his repose.
Henning, still under pressure of strong excitement, walked the whole
length of the corridor. He turned suddenly to encounter the angry
infirmarian.
"Oh, it's Henning! What are you doing at this unearthly hour of the
night, disturbing my sleep?" said the old man in an unusually sharp
tone for him, for he was generally mild and kindly. The official at
first thought it was an ordinary case of somnambulism, but he soon
found Henning to be very wide-awake.
"I've found it--the secret. I've got it," exclaimed Roy in excitement.
"I guess you have--bad," said the old man with grim humor. "Well, if
you boys will fill yourselves up with rich plum-pudding and cake in
the daytime, you must expect to suffer at night. There now, get back
into bed, and don't disturb the whole house with your nonsense."
"Oh, if I were only sure, I would settle the whole thing to-morrow,"
muttered Roy. It is doubtful if, in his excited condition, he had seen
the infirmarian at all.
"I'll settle you in the morning if you don't get back to bed at once.
Get now."
But Roy did not move. He had lapsed into a thoughtful mood. He stood,
with his chin on his hand, motionless.
"Do you hear me, boy? It's time to stop this Indian ghost-dance
business. There's no sense in breaking an old man's rest. Get to bed."
The infirmarian was fully persuaded that the whole affair was only a
practical joke, such as even sick boys, or those, at least, who
sometimes get passed into the infirmary on the plea of sickness, are
not always above playing. Seeing that Henning did not move or pay any
attention to his words, the infirmarian took hold of his shoulders and
gave him a vigorous shaking. This operation had the effect of bringing
the distracted boy down to the knowledge of mundane things at once.
"Eh! oh, ah!" he said in a bewildered, sheepish way. "I've made--a
horrible--discovery!"
"You'll make another very unpleasant one in the morning if you don't
get into bed at once. Don't cause any more disturbance."
Without another word Henning went back to his room, and softly closed
the door. He did not get into bed, but continued his ruminations.
"Andrew! Andrew!" he moaned, "I did not think it would come to this!"
He dropped his head on the window-sill and thought for a long, long
time. It was in some degree a contest between self-interest and family
pride. It was a long struggle, and the result of these cogitations he
announced to himself as he threw the blanket from his shoulders across
the bed. They were comprised in two short sentences:
"I must keep silence! I _will_ keep silence!"
The decision may have been fanciful, or it may have been heroic. We
shall see later. It led him into complications, the nature of which he
little dreamed.