A DISLIKE THAT WAS TO BEAR ITS FRUITS.
The information, hinted at by Miss Beauclerc to Henry Arkell, had proved
to be correct--the dean and chapter purposed to hold an examination of
the college school.
To describe the consternation this caused would be difficult. It fell,
not only upon the boys, but on the masters, like a clap of thunder:
indeed the former cared for it the least. That the school was not in a
state, in regard to its proficiency of study, to bear an examination,
was a fact known to nearly everybody; and the head master, had it been
possible, would have resisted the fiat of the dean.
In point of fact, the school had become notorious for its inefficiency.
The old days of confining the boys' studies exclusively to Latin and
Greek were over; but the additional branches inaugurated could scarcely
be said to have begun. The masters, wedded to the old system, did not
take to them kindly; the boys did not, of their own will, take to them
at all. They could not spell; they knew nothing of English grammar,
except what they could pick up of it through their acquaintance with the
Latin; they hardly knew a single event in English, French, or modern
history; and of geography they were intensively ignorant. What could be
expected? For years and years, for many hours a day, had these boys been
kept to work, always at the old routine work, Latin and Greek. Examine
them in these classics, and Mr. Wilberforce would have no reason to
complain of his pupils; but in all else a charity boy could beat them.
Had one of those college boys been required to write a letter in
English, every other word in it would have been spelled incorrectly. I
am giving you a true account of the state of the school at that period:
and I fear that you will scarcely believe it. A few of the boys, a very
few, only some three or four, had been generally well educated; but
these owed it to the care, the forethought, perhaps the _means_ of their
parents: home tutors were expensive.
As Miss Beauclerc had said, it was in consequence of a letter, written
by one of the senior boys, that this trouble had come about. It was a
disgraceful letter--speaking in reference to its spelling and
composition--neither more nor less. The letter had been brought under
the astonished eyes of one of the chapter, and he showed it to the
dean. They awoke from their supineness, and much indignation at the
young scholar was privately expressed. What _did_ they expect? Did they
think spelling came to the boys intuitively, as pecking at grain does to
birds? It may be said that the boys ought to have been able to spell
correctly before entering the school, and to have possessed some other
general learning; that the parents ought to have taken care of that. But
"ought" does not go for much in this world. Many of the boys were
indulged children who had never been brought on at all, except in
reading, and that was essential, or they could not be admitted; and, at
that time, they entered young--nine years old. As they went in, little
ignoramuses, so they remained, except in the classics. Many a boy has
gone from that school to the university not educated at all, save in the
dead languages.
Of course, when the innovation (as the masters regarded it) came in, a
little stir was caused. A pretence was made of teaching the school
foreign branches, such as spelling and geography; but whether it might
be owing to the innate prejudice of their masters, or to their own
stupidity, little, if any, progress was made. The boys remained
lamentably deficient; and they thought it no shame to be so. Rather the
contrary, in fact; for a feeling grew up in the school that these
common branches of learning were not essential to them as gentlemen;
that it was derogatory altogether to a foundation school to have them
introduced. The masters had winked at this state of things, and they
perhaps did not know how intensely ignorant some of their best classical
scholars were.
It may be imagined, therefore, what the consternation was when the
dean's announcement was received early in August. There was to be an
examination held; but not until November; so the boys and the masters
had three months to prepare. It's true you cannot convert ignorant boys
into finished scholars in three months, however humble may be the
attainments required; but you may do something towards it by means of
drilling. So the boys, to their intense disgust, were drilled late and
early--and that disgust did not render their apprehensions the quicker.
Amidst the very few who need not fear that, or any other examination,
was Henry Arkell. He was not yet a senior boy (speaking of the four
seniors), but he was by far the best scholar in the school. He owed this
chiefly to his father. Mr. Peter Arkell was so finished a scholar
himself, it had been strange indeed if he had not sought to render his
son one; and Henry's abilities were of a most superior order.
Indeed--but that a sort of prejudice exists against these clever lads,
I could say a great deal more of his abilities, his attainments, than I
mean to say--for this is no fictitious history. Intellectual, clever,
good, refined, sensitive, Henry Arkell seemed to be one of those
superior spirits not meant for this world. The event too often proves
that they were not meant for it.
He was not a favourite in the school, except with a few. By the majority
he was intensely disliked. The dislike arose from envy, and his own
gifts excited it. His unusual beauty, his sensitive temperament, his
refinement of manner, his ever-pervading sense of religion, his
honourable nature, as seen in even the smallest action,--all and each of
them were objectionable to the rough schoolboys. Most of these qualities
he had inherited from his mother, and for any one of them, the school,
as a whole, would have ridiculed and despised him. They would have been
quite enough without his superior advancement; which put _them_ to the
shame, and called forth now and again some stinging comparison from the
lips of the head master. When he first entered the school, he had
unintentionally excited the ill-will of the two sons of Mrs. Lewis, and
of their chosen companions, the two Aultanes. These boys longed above
everything to thrash him every day of their lives; but he had been
taken under the protection of Mr. St. John and Travice Arkell, and they
dared not, and it did not increase their love for him.
But there was to arise a worse cause of enmity than any of these, as
Henry grew older, and _that_ was the favour shown him by the dean's
daughter. To see him under the especial favour of the dean was
aggravation enough; but that was as nothing compared to the intimacy
accorded him by the dean's daughter. You know what these things are with
schoolboys. Half the school believed themselves in love with this
attractive girl, who condescended to freedom with them; the other half
_were_ in love with her. After their fashion, you know. It was not that
serious love that makes or mars the heart for all time, though the boys
might think it so. Lewis senior--his name was Roland, and he was one of
the four senior boys--was especially envious of this favour of Miss
Beauclerc's. He was very fond of her, and would have given all he
possessed in the world for it to be accorded to him. _He_ could only
love and admire her at a distance; while Arkell might tell it to her
face if he pleased--and Lewis felt sure he _did_. He hated Henry with a
passionate hatred. He saw, with that intuition natural to these things,
that Henry loved Georgina Beauclerc, and with no passing school-boy's
love. He wished that the earth contained only their three selves, that
he might set upon the fragile boy and kill him, and keep the young lady
to himself ever afterwards--Adam and Eve in a second Paradise. Indeed,
Mr. Lewis had got into a habit of indulging this train of thought rather
more than was wholesome for him, and would have shot Henry Arkell in a
duel with all the non-compunction in the world.
Not being able to do this--for the human race could not be exterminated
so easily, and duels are not in fashion--he made up for the
disappointment by rendering Henry Arkell's life as miserable as it is
well possible for one boy to render another's. He excited the school
against him; he openly derided the position and known poverty of his
father, Peter Arkell; and he positively affected to rebel--he would have
rebelled had he dared--when Henry came to reside temporarily in the head
master's house. The scholars in that house had hitherto been gentlemen,
he said, loudly. Indeed, but for one fortunate circumstance, Henry's
life at the master's might have been rendered nearly unbearable; and
this was, that he was in favour with the senior boy--an idle,
gentlemanly fellow of the name of Jocelyn. So long as Jocelyn remained
in the school, there could be no very undue open oppression put upon
Henry Arkell. It was not that the head boy held Henry in any especial
favour; but he was of too just a nature, too much the gentleman in ideas
and habits, to permit cruelty or unfairness of any sort. But you have
now heard enough to gather that Henry Arkell was not in favour with the
majority of the college boys, his fellows; and you hear its causes.
The cramming that the boys were now subjected to, did not improve their
temper. Unfortunately, the dean had not specified--perhaps
purposely--what would be the branches chosen for examination. Mr.
Wilberforce and the under masters presumed that it would chiefly lie in
the classics, and, so far, were tolerably easy; but the result of this
was, that the Latin and Greek lessons were increased, leaving less time
for what they were pleased to consider inferior studies.
"Suppose," suggested the second master, one day, "it should be in those
other studies that the dean purposes to examine them?"
Mr. Wilberforce turned purple.
"In _those_!--to the exclusion of the higher! Nonsense! It is not
likely. The boys will cut a pretty figure if he should."
"The fact is, they are such a dull lot."
"Most of them: yes. I think, Mr. Roberts, you had better hold some
dictation classes; and we'll get in a few conspicuous maps."
But all the studies that came in addition, whether dictation classes or
the staring at maps, the boys resented wofully; and though they were
obliged to submit, it did not, I say, improve their temper. One
afternoon in October, when everything seemed to have gone wrong, and the
school rather wished, on the whole, that they had never been born, or
that books had not been invented, or that they were private pupils of
the head master's (for _they_ were not to be included in the
examination, only the forty foundation boys, the king's scholars), the
school was waiting impatiently to hear half-past four strike, for then
only another half-hour must elapse before they would be released from
school. The choristers had come in at four o'clock from service with the
head master, whose week it was for chanting, and had settled down to
their respective desks. Henry Arkell, who was at the first desk now, but
nothing like its head, for promotion in the school was not attained by
proficiency, but by priority of entrance, had come in with the rest; he
was senior chorister now, and was seated bending over a book, his head
half buried between his raised hands, and his elbows on the desk.
"What are you conning there so attentively, Mr. Arkell?"
The authoritative words came from Lewis. He was monitor that week, and
therefore head of all the school, under the senior boy: his present
position on the rolls was that of fourth senior.
"I'm reading Greek," replied Henry, without removing his hands or
looking up. "I've done my lessons."
"Take your hands and elbows down. I should like to see."
Down went the hands and elbows, but he did not look up.
"I thought it might be an English comedy instead of a Greek tragedy,"
observed Lewis, satirically; "but it _is_ Greek, I see. Boys, he's
reading Greek! He's thinking to take the shine out of us at the
examination. Preparing! Oh!"
"Not at all," said Henry, quietly. "I should have been as well prepared
for the examination at a day's notice, as I am after nearly three
months'. So might you have been if you'd chosen."
"You insolent young beggar! Do you mean to say I am not prepared?"
"I said nothing of the sort, Lewis."
"You implied it, though. _You_ needn't think to get the prize--if it's
true that the dean gives one."
"I don't think to get it. I wish you'd let me go on with my book."
"Oh yes, you do. You think to creep up the dean's sleeve, at second
hand, through somebody that's a friend of yours; or that you are
presumptuous enough to fancy is."
He understood the allusion, and suddenly raised his hands again, for the
delicate hue of his transparent cheek changed to crimson. Lewis noted
the movement.
"Now, by Jove, I'll put you up for punishment. I order your elbows off
the desk, and you fling them on again in defiance. Wilberforce has
flogged for less."
"Be quiet, Lewis," interposed Jocelyn. "Arkell's doing nothing that you
need trouble him for. Just turn your attention to that second desk, and
see what's going on there. They'll get Mr. Wilberforce's eyes upon them
directly."
Lewis could have found in his heart to hang the senior boy. He was
always interfering with him in this manner whenever he was monitor, to
the detriment of his dignity as such. Lewis immediately struck up a
wordy war, until the master's attention was excited and he commanded
silence.
Oh, if this dislike of Henry Arkell had but died out at first! half this
history would not then have been written. It might have done so under
different circumstances; it might, perhaps, have done so but for the
dean's daughter. From the very first hour that she knew him, Georgina
Beauclerc made no secret of her liking. When she met the college boys,
child though she was then, she would single him out from the rest, and
stop talking to him. Her governess used to look defiance, but that made
not the least impression on Miss Beauclerc. She invited him to the
deanery; _they_ never were allowed to put their noses inside it, except
at those odd moments when they went to solicit the dean to allow them
holiday from the cathedral; she would pass them sometimes without the
slightest notice in the world, but she never so passed _him_.
If he had but been a dull, stupid, clumsy boy! Strange though it may
seem, the rest hated him because he did his lessons. _Their_ tasks were
hurried over, imperfectly learnt at the best, if at all, and were
generally concluded with a caning. His were always perfectly and
efficiently done. They called him hard names for this; prig, snob,
sneak; but, in point of fact, the boy was never allowed the opportunity
of _not_ doing them, for his father on that score was a martinet, and
drilled him at home just as much as Mr. Wilberforce did at school. And,
greatest of all advantages, his early education had been so
comprehensive and sound. The horribly hard lessons, that were as death
to the rest, seemed but play to him; and the natural consequence was,
that the envy boiled over. Circumstances, in this point of view, were
not favourable to him.
The long afternoon came to an end, five o'clock struck, and the boys
clattered down the broad schoolroom steps, making the grounds and the
old cloisters echo with their noise. There had been little time for play
latterly; since the announcement of the forthcoming examination, the
head and other masters had been awfully exacting on the subject of
lessons, not to be trifled with. Henry Arkell, from the state of
preparation in which he always was, had nearly as much time on his hands
as usual, and had not ceased to take his lessons on the organ, or to
practise on it twice a week, as was his custom. He learnt of the
cathedral organist, Mr. Paul; for Mrs. Peter Arkell had deemed it well
that Henry's great taste for music should continue to be cultivated.
Another of the boys, named Robbins, a private pupil of the head
master's, also learnt. The organist would not allow them to touch the
noted cathedral instrument, save in his presence; and they were
permitted by Mr. Wilberforce to practise in the church of St. James the
Less, of which, as you may remember, he was the incumbent. One of the
minor canons invariably held this living, for it was in the gift of the
Dean and Chapter.
Henry was going there to practise this evening. He was at the house of
the head master yet; his friends being still absent from Westerbury, for
the family who had taken their house wished to remain in it until
Christmas. The sea-side was doing Mrs. Peter Arkell a vast deal of good;
her husband had obtained some teaching there, and Mr. Wilberforce had
kindly intimated that Henry was welcome to remain with him a
twelvemonth, if it suited their plans that he should; but the boy was
beginning to long for them back with an intense longing.
He walked across the grounds to the master's house; put down his books,
got his music, and went on towards the church of St. James the Less. It
was a large, ancient church, with thick walls and little windows, and it
stood all solitary by itself, in the midst of its churchyard, beyond the
town on that side, but not many minutes' walk from the cathedral. The
only house near it was the clerk's, and that not close to it: a poor,
low, damp, aguish building, surrounded by grass as long as that in the
neighbouring graveyard. The clerk was a bent, withered old man, always
complaining of rheumatism; he had been clerk of that church now for many
years.
Once beyond the grounds, Henry Arkell set off at his utmost speed. The
evenings were growing dusk early, and Mr. Wilberforce allowed no light
in the church, so he had to make the most of the daylight. He was flying
past the palmery, when in making a dexterous spring to avoid a truck of
apples standing there, he let his roll of music fly out of his hand; and
it was in turning to pick up this that his eyes caught sight of a tall
form at the palmery door; a distinguished, noble-looking young man,
whose deep blue eyes were gazing at him in doubt. One moment's
hesitation, on Henry's part, and he made but a step towards him.
"Oh, Mr. St. John! I did not know you were back."
"I thought it was certainly you, Harry, but your height puzzled me. How
you have grown!"
Henry laughed. "They say I bid fair to be as tall as my cousin Travice.
I hope I shan't be as tall as papa! When did you come home, Mr. St.
John?"
"Now: an hour ago. I am going to look in at the deanery. Will you come
with me, lest I should have forgotten the way?"
It was not often that Henry Arkell put aside duty for pleasure; he had
been too well trained for that; but this temptation was irresistible.
What would he not have put aside for the sake of seeing Georgina
Beauclerc; and, it may be, that that wild suspicion of where Georgina's
love was given, made him wish to witness the meeting.
A couple of minutes brought them to the deanery. St. John's joke of not
finding the way might have some point in it, for he had been absent at
least two years. In the room where you first saw her, gliding softly
over the carpet with a waltzing step, was Georgina Beauclerc; and close
to the window, listlessly looking out, sat a young lady of delicate
beauty, one of the fairest girls it was ever Mr. St. John's lot to look
upon. But this was not the first time he had seen her. It was the dean's
niece, Sarah Beauclerc.
Henry was in the room first; St. John pushed him on, and followed him;
he was in time therefore to see the momentary suspense, the start of
surprise, the deep glow of crimson, of love, that rushed over the face
of Georgina. Was it at himself, or at _him_? But never yet, so far as
Henry saw, had that crimson hue dyed her face at his own approach.
One moment, and she had recovered herself. She went up to Mr. St. John
with an outstretched hand, bantering words on her tongue.
"So you really are alive! We thought you had been buried in the Red
Sea."
He made some laughing answer, and passed on to Sarah Beauclerc. He
clasped both her hands in his; he bent over her with only a word or two
of greeting, his low voice subdued to tenderness. What did it mean?
Georgina's lips turned white as ashes, but she could not see her
cousin's face.
"How is Mrs. Beauclerc?" asked St. John, turning, and beginning to talk
generally; "Harry tells me that the dean is well, to the consternation
of the college school, which has to prepare itself for an examination."
"Oh, that examination!" laughed Georgina; "it is turning some of their
senses upside down. But now," she added, standing in front of Mr. St.
John, "what am I to call you? Frederick?--Or am I to be formal, and say
'Mr. St. John?'"
"You used to call me Fred."
"But I was not a grown-up young lady then," making him a mock curtsey;
"after all, I suppose I must call you Fred still, for I should be sure
to lapse into it. Where have you been all this while? We have heard of
you everywhere; in Paris, in Madrid, in Vienna, in Rome, in Antwerp,
in----oh, all over the world."
"I think I have been nearly all over Europe," said Mr. St. John.
"Which of us has the most changed?" she abruptly asked, a curl of the
finger indicating that she meant to speak of her cousin.
"Sarah has not changed," he answered, turning to Sarah Beauclerc, and an
involuntary tenderness was again perceptible in his tone. "You have not
changed either, Georgie, in manner," he added, with a laugh.
Georgina pouted. "You are not to call me 'Georgie' any longer, Mr. St.
John."
"Very well, Miss Beauclerc, our careless times have gone for ever, I
suppose; old age is creeping upon us."
"Don't be stupid," said Georgina. "Have you seen Lady Anne since your
return?"
"Yes."
"You _have_!" she exclaimed, not expecting the answer.
"I saw her in London, as I came through it."
"Ah--yes--of course, I might have guessed that," was Georgina's
rejoinder, spoken mysteriously. "Shall we have a battle royal?"
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. St. John.
"Between Lady Anne and another; you can't cut yourself in two, you know.
Sarah, what's the matter with your face?"
It was a very conscious face just then, and a very haughty one. St. John
knitted his brows, as if he divined Georgina's meaning, and was angered
at it; and he began speaking hastily.
"Mine has been one of the pleasantest of tours. The galleries of
paintings alone would have been worth----"
"Now, Fred, if you begin upon that everlasting painting theme, you'll
never leave off," unceremoniously interrupted Georgiana. "Mrs. St. John
says paintings will be your ruin."
"Does she?"
"Your purse has a hole at both ends, she says, where pictures are
concerned, and she wishes you had only a tithe of the prudence of Mr.
Isaac St. John."
Another slight knit of the brows. Sarah Beauclerc went to a side table
and opened a book of views, taken in Spain, artistic sketches,
exquisitely done. She turned her fair face to Mr. St. John.
"Will you kindly tell me if these are correct, Mr. St. John? That is, if
you are personally acquainted with the spots."
He needed no second invitation. He did know the spots, and they bent
over the views together, St. John growing eloquent. Henry Arkell,
tolerably at home at the deanery, had drawn away from the group and was
touching the keys of the piano; some sweet, extemporized melody, played
so softly that it could scarcely be heard. Suddenly he found Georgina at
his side.
"What did I tell you?" she abruptly said.
"What did you tell me?" he replied. "I'm sure I don't know what you
mean, Miss Beauclerc."
"Go on with your playing; why do you stop? I don't care to be heard by
the chairs and tables. Did I not tell you that he was in love either
with her or with her beauty? You see, and hear."
"Are you sure he is not in love with somebody else?" asked Henry, his
heart beating with that wild tumult that it mostly did when in the
presence of Miss Beauclerc.
She understood his meaning, however it might please her to affect not to
do so. He did not raise his eyes to look at her; and he continued the
soft sweet playing, as she desired.
"Somebody else! Do you mean Lady Anne?"
"Oh, Miss Beauclerc! I was not thinking of Lady Anne."
"Perhaps you mean me, you stupid boy; perhaps you would like to
insinuate that I am in love with him. You _are_ stupid, Henry. Play a
little louder. How I wish I played with half your taste. I should not
get so much of old Paul's frownings and mamma's reproachings. Do you
think I'd have Fred St. John? No, not though he were worth his weight in
gold. We should never get along together; you might as well try to mix
oil and water."
Oh, false words! But how many such are uttered daily, in the natural
reticence of the shy heart, loving for the first time! Henry Arkell
believed her at the moment, and his heart bounded on in its wild love,
in spite of that ever present conviction that had taken up an abode
within it. The strain changed to a popular love melody; but the playing
was soft and sweet as before. Few have the charmed gift of playing as
he played.
"I have been making something for you. I can't give it you now with
those two pairs of eyes in the room. Lovers though they may be, I dare
say they are watching; and Sarah's blue ones are very sharp. She might
get telling mamma that I flirt with the college boys. And I won't give
it you at all if you are stupid. What's Fred St. John to me, do you
suppose? It's nothing really worth having, you know; but your vanity
likes to be humoured, and----"
"Henry! how exquisitely you play!"
Mr. St. John was coming towards them with the remark, and the spell was
broken. Henry rose from the piano, laughing carelessly in answer; and
Frederick St. John wondered at the bright light in his eye, the flush of
emotion on his cheek. But he did not read the signs correctly.