Mildred Arkell Volume Iii Part 26

"I suspected something of the sort," was Mr. St. John's quiet answer; and the dean strode on his way, and Mr. St. John stood looking after him, in painful thought. When the dean came out of Mr. Peter Arkell's again, he was too late for service that afternoon. Although he was in residence!

Just in the unprepared and sudden manner that the news of Henry Arkell's approaching death must have fallen upon my readers, so did it fall upon the town. People could not believe it: his friends could not believe it: the doctors scarcely believed it. The day wore on; and whether there may have lingered any hope in the morning, the evening closed it, for it brought additional agony to his injured head, and the most sanguine saw that he was dying.

All things were prepared for the service, about to take place, and Henry lay flushed, feverish, and restless, lest he should become delirious ere the hour should arrive: he had become so rapidly worse since the forepart of the day. Precisely as the cathedral clock struck seven, the house door was thrown open, and the dean placed his foot on the threshold:

"PEACE BE UNTO THIS HOUSE, AND TO ALL THAT DWELL WITHIN IT!"

The dean was attended to the chamber, and there he commenced the office for the Visitation of the Sick, omitting part of the exhortation, but reading the prayer for a soul on the point of departure. Then he proceeded with the Communion.

When the service was over, all, save Mrs. Arkell and the dean, quitted the room. Henry's mind was tranquil now.

"I will not forget your request," whispered the dean.

"Near to the college door, as we enter," was Henry's response.

"It shall be done as you wish, my dear."

"And, sir, you have _promised_ to forgive them."

"For your sake. You are suffering much just now," added the dean, as he watched his countenance.

"It gets more intense with every hour. I cannot bear it much longer. Oh, I hope I shall not suffer beyond my strength!" he panted; "I hope I shall be able to bear the agony!"

"Do not fear it. You know where to look for help!" whispered the dean; "you cannot look in vain. Henry, my dear boy, I leave you in peace, do I not?"

"Oh yes, sir, in perfect peace. Thank you greatly for all."

CHAPTER X.

THE GRAVESTONE IN THE CLOISTERS.

It was the brightest day, though March was not yet out, the first warm, lovely day of spring. Men pa.s.sed each other in the streets, with a congratulation that the winter weather had gone, and the college boys, penned up in their large schoolroom, gazed aloft through the high windows at the blue sky and the suns.h.i.+ne, and thought what a shame it was that they should be held prisoners on such a days instead of galloping over the country at "Hare and Hounds."

"Third Latin cla.s.s walk up," cried Mr. Wilberforce.

The third Latin cla.s.s walked up, and ranged itself in front of the master's desk. "Who's top of this cla.s.s?" asked he.

"Me, sir," replied the gentleman who owned that distinction.

"Who's 'me' sir?"

"Me, sir."

"Who _is_ 'me,' sir?" angrily repeated the master, his spectacles bearing full on his wondering pupil.

"Charles Van Brummel, sir," returned that renowned scholar.

"Then go down to the bottom for saying 'me.'"

Mr. Van Brummel went down, considerably chopfallen, and the master was proceeding to work, when the cathedral bell tolled out heavily, for a soul recently departed.

"What's that?" abruptly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the master.

"It's the college death-bell, sir," called out the up cla.s.s, simultaneously, Van Brummel excepted, who had not yet recovered his equanimity.

"I hear what it is as well as you," were all the thanks they got. "But what can it be tolling for? n.o.body was ill."

"n.o.body," echoed the boys.

"Can it be a member of the Royal Family?" wondered the master--the bishop and the dean he knew were well. "If not, it must be one of the canons."

Of course it must! for the college bell never condescended to toll for any of the profane vulgar. The Royal Family, the bishop, dean, and prebendaries, were the only defunct lights, honoured by the notice of the pa.s.sing-bell of Westerbury Cathedral.

"Lewis junior," said the master, "go into college, and ask the bedesmen who it is that is dead."

Lewis junior clattered out. When he came back he walked very softly, and looked as white as a sheet.

"Well?" cried Mr. Wilberforce--for Lewis did not speak.

"It's tolling for Henry Arkell, sir."

"Henry Arkell!" uttered the master. "Is he really dead? Are you ill, Lewis junior? What's the matter?"

"Nothing, sir."

"But it is an entirely unprecedented proceeding for the cathedral bell to toll for a college boy," repeated Mr. Wilberforce, revolving the news. "The old bedesmen must be making some mistake. Half of them are deaf, and the other half are stupid. I shall send to inquire: we must have no irregularity about these things. Lewis junior."

"Yes, sir."

"Lewis junior, you are ill, sir," repeated the master, sharply. "Don't say you are not. Sit down, sir."

Lewis junior humbly sat down. He appeared to have the ague.

"Van Brummel, you'll do," continued Mr. Wilberforce. "Go and inquire of the bedesmen whether they have received orders; and, if so, from whom: and whether it is really Arkell that the bell is tolling for."

Van Brummel opened the door and clattered down the stairs, as Lewis junior had done; and _he_ clattered back again.

"The men say, sir, that the dean sent them the orders by his servant.

And they think Arkell is to be buried in the cathedral."

"In--deed!" was the master's comment, in a tone of doubt. "Poor fellow!"

he added, after a pause, "his has been a sudden and melancholy ending.

Boys, if you want to do well, you should imitate Henry Arkell. I can tell you that the best boy who ever trod these boards, as a foundation scholar, has now gone from among us."

"Please, sir, I'm senior of the choir now," interposed Aultane junior, as if fearing the master might not sufficiently remember that important fact.