_"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 in 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[38] 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 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 he 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 clear.
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 to 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 Manor 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 biking back from town."
"Anyway, you saved me from being sacked, and as long as I live I----"
"Come on to breakfast," said John.
FOOTNOTES:
[38] 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.