"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 f.a.gs 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 pa.s.sed. 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 ent.i.tled 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 a.s.sociated 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 circ.u.mstance 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 compet.i.tions; 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 st.u.r.dy, 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 p.r.o.nounced sanitary within and without.

When the summer term came, Desmond joined John in the Sixth Form. They were ent.i.tled to single rooms, but they asked and obtained permission to remain in No. 7. Desmond was invested with the right to f.a.g, 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 f.a.gging 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.

CHAPTER XI

_Self-questioning_

"Friend, of my infinite dreams Little enough endures; Little howe'er it seems, It is yours, all yours.

Fame hath a fleeting breath, Hope may be frail or fond; But Love shall be Love till death, And perhaps beyond."

Until the Metropolitan Railway joined Harrow to Baker Street, the Hill stood in the midst of genuine and unspoilt country, separated by five miles of gra.s.s from the nearest point of the metropolis, and encompa.s.sed by isolated dwellings, ranging in rank and scale from villas to country houses.[34] Most of the latter have fallen victims to the speculative builder, and have been cut up into alleys of brick and stucco. But one or two still remain among their hayfields and rhododendrons.

John Verney had an eager curiosity, not common in schoolboys, to know something about the countryside in which he dwelt. As a Lower Boy, whenever released from "Compulsory" and House-games, he used to wander with alert eyes and ears up and down the green lanes of Roxeth and Harrow Weald, enjoying fresh glimpses of the far-seen Spire, making friends with cottagers, picking up traditions of an older and more lawless[35] epoch, and, with these, an ever-increasing love and loyalty to Harrow. So Byron had wandered a hundred years before.

These solitary rambles, however, were regarded with disfavour by schoolfellows who lacked John's imaginative temperament. The Caterpillar, for instance, protested, "Did I see you hobn.o.bbing with a chaw the other day? I thought so; and you looked like a confounded bughunter." The Duffer's notions of topography were bounded by the cricket-ground on the one side of the Hill, and the footer-fields on the other; and his traditions held nothing much more romantic than A. J.