_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 schoolfellows, 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
sick-room, 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,[31] 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[32] 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,[33] 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[31] The place of execution.
[32] "Finding" is the privilege, accorded to the Sixth Form, of having
breakfast and tea served in their own rooms instead of in Hall.
[33] The black-and-white straw hat only worn by members of the School
Cricket Eleven.