Mildred Arkell Volume Iii Part 24

"She ought not to have told you--she ought not to have told you!" was the continued burden of Mr. St. John's song. "You may get well yet."

"Then there is no harm done. But, with death near, would you have had me, the only one it concerns, left in ignorance to meet it, not knowing it was there? Mamma has not waited herself for death--as she has done, you know, for years--without learning a better creed than that."

Mr. St. John made no reply, and Henry went on: "I have had such a pleasant night with mamma. She read to me parts of the Revelation; and in talking of the glories which I may soon see, will you believe that I almost forgot my pain? She says how thankful she is now, that she has been enabled to train me up more carefully than many boys are trained--to think more of G.o.d."

"You are a strange boy," interrupted Sir. St. John.

"In what way am I strange?"

"To antic.i.p.ate death in that tone of cool ease. Have you no regrets to leave behind you?"

"Many regrets; but they seemed to fade into insignificance last night, while mamma was talking with me. It is best that they should."

"Henry, it strikes me that you have had your griefs and troubles, inexperienced as you are," resumed Mr. St. John.

"Oh yes, I have," he answered, betrayed into an earnestness, incompatible with cautious reserve. "Some of the college boys have not suffered me to lead a pleasant life with them," he continued, more calmly; "and then there has been my father's gradually straitening income."

"I think there must have been some other grief than these," was Mr. St.

John's remark.

"What other grief could there have been?"

"I know but of one. And you are over young for that."

"Of course I am; too young," was the eager answer.

"That is enough," quietly returned Mr. St. John; "I did not _tell_ you to betray yourself. Nay, Henry, don't shrink from me; let me hear it: it will be better and happier for you that I should."

"There is nothing--I don't know what you mean--what are you talking of, Mr. St. John?" was the incoherent answer.

"Harry, my poor boy, I know almost as much as you," he whispered. "I know what it is, and who it is. Georgie Beauclerc. There; you cannot tell me much, you see."

Henry Arkell laid his hand across his face and aching eyes; his chest was heaving with emotion. Mr. St. John leaned over him, not less tenderly than a mother.

"You should not have wasted your love upon _her_: she is a heartless girl. I expect she drew you on, and then turned round and said she did not mean it."

"Oh yes, she did draw me on," he replied, in a tone full of anguish; "otherwise, I never----But it was my fault also. I ought to have remembered the many barriers that divided us; the----"

"You ought to have remembered that she is an incorrigible flirt, that is what you ought to have remembered," interrupted Mr. St. John.

"Well, well," sighed Henry, "I cannot speak of these things to you: less to you than to any one."

"Is that an enigma? I should think you could best speak of them to me, because I have guessed your secret, and the ice is broken."

Again Henry Arkell sighed. "Speaking of them at all will do no good; and I would now rather think of the future than of the past. My future lies there," he added, pointing to the blue sky, which, as seen from his window, formed a canopy over the cathedral tower. "She has, in all probability, many years before her here: Mr. St. John, if she and you spend those years together, will you sometimes talk of me? I should not like to be quite forgotten by you--or by her."

"Spend them together!" he echoed. "Another enigma. What should bring me spending my years with Georgina Beauclerc?"

Henry withdrew his hands from his eyes, and turned them on Mr. St. John.

"Do you think she will never be your wife?"

"She! Georgina Beauclerc! No, thank you."

Henry Arkell's face wore an expression that Mr. St. John understood not.

"It was for your sake she treated me so ill. She loves you, Mr. St.

John. And I think you know it."

"She is a little simpleton. I would not marry Georgie Beauclerc if there were not another English girl extant. And as to loving her----Harry, I only wish, if we are to lose you, that I loved you but one tenth part as little."

"Sorrow in store for her! sorrow in store for her!" he murmured, as he turned his face to the pillow. "I must send her a message before I die: you will deliver it for me?"

"I won't have you talk about dying," retorted Mr. St. John. "You may get well yet, I tell you."

Henry opened his eyes again to reply, and the calm peace had returned to them. "It maybe _very_ soon; and it is better to talk of death than to shrink from it." And Mr. St. John grumbled an ungracious acquiescence.

"And there is another thing I wish you would do for me: get Lewis junior here to-day. If I send to him, I know he will not come; but I must see him. Tell him, please, that it is only to shake hands and make friends; that I will not say a word to grieve him. He will understand."

"It's more than I do," said Mr. St. John. "He shall come."

"I should like to see Aultane--but I don't think my head will stand it all. Tell him from me, not to be harsh with the choristers now he is senior----"

"He is not senior yet," interposed Mr. St. John in a husky tone.

"It will not be long first. Give him my love, and tell him, when I sent it, I meant it fully; and that I have no angry feeling towards him."

"Your love?"

"Yes. It is not an ordinary message from one college boy to another,"

panted the lad, "but I am dying."

After Mr. St. John left the house, he encountered the dean. "Dr.

Beauclerc, Henry Arkell is dying."

The dean stared at Mr. St. John. "Dying! Henry Arkell!"

"The inward injury to the head is now p.r.o.nounced by the doctors to be a fatal one. They told the family last night there was little, if any, more hope. The boy knows it, and seems quite reconciled."

The dean, without another word or question, turned immediately off to Mr. Arkell's, and Westerbury as immediately turned its aristocratic nose up. "The idea of his condescending to enter the house of those poor Arkells! had it been the other branch of the Arkell family, it would not have been quite so lowering. But Dr. Beauclerc never did display the dignity properly pertaining to a dean."

Dr. Beauclerc, forgetful as usual of a dean's dignity, was shown into Mrs. Arkell's parlour, and from thence into Henry Arkell's chamber. The boy's ever lovely face flushed crimson, from its white pillow, when he saw the dean. "Oh, sir! you to come here! how kind!"

"I am sorry for this, my poor lad," said the dean, as he sat down. "I hear you are not so well: I have just met Mr. St. John."

"I shall never be well again, sir. But do not be sorry. I shall be better off; far, far happier than I could be here."

"Do you feel this, genuinely, heartily?" questioned the dean.

"Oh yes, how can I do otherwise than feel it? If it is G.o.d's will to take me, I know it must be for my good."