Mildred Arkell Volume Iii Part 12

Now it happened that there was only one ba.s.s at service that afternoon, he on the decani side, Mr. Smith; the other had not come; and the moment the words were out of Arkell's mouth, "The Lord is very great.

Beckwith," Mr. Smith flew into a temper. He had a first-rate voice, was a good singer, and being inordinately vain, liked to give himself airs.

"I have a horrid cold on the chest," he remonstrated, "and I cannot do justice to the solo; I shan't attempt it. The organist knows I'm as hoa.r.s.e as a raven, and yet he goes and puts up that anthem for to-day!"

"What is to be done?" whispered Henry.

"I shall send and tell him I can't do it. Hardcast, go up to the organ-loft, and tell----Or I wish you would oblige me by going yourself, Arkell: the juniors are always making mistakes. My compliments to Paul, and the anthem must be done without the ba.s.s solo, or he must put up another."

Henry Arkell, ever ready to oblige, left his stall, proceeded to the organ-loft, and delivered the message. The organist was wroth: and but for those two little old gentlemen, whom he knew were present, he would have refused to change the anthem, which had been put up by the dean.

"Where's Cliff, this afternoon?" asked he, sharply, alluding to the other ba.s.s.

"I don't know," replied Henry. "He is not at service."

The organist took up one of the anthem books with a jerk, and turned over its leaves. He came to the anthem, "I know that my Redeemer liveth," from _the Messiah_.

"Are you prepared to do justice to this?" he demanded.

"Yes, I believe I am," replied Henry. "But----"

"But me no buts," interrupted the organist, who was always very short with the choristers. "'I know that my Redeemer liveth. Pitt.'"

As Henry Arkell descended the stairs, Mr. Wilberforce was concluding the first lesson. So instead of giving notice of the change of anthem to Mr.

Wilberforce and the singers on the cantori side, he left that until later, and made haste to his own stall, to be in time for the soli parts in the Cantate Domino, which was being sung that afternoon in place of the Magnificat. In pa.s.sing the bench of king's scholars, a foot was suddenly extended out before him, and he fell heavily over it, striking his head on the stone step that led to the stalls of the minor canons. A s.e.xton, a verger, and one or two of the senior boys, surrounded, lifted, and carried him out.

The service proceeded; but his voice was missed in the Cantate; Aultane's proved but a poor subst.i.tute.

"I wonder whether the anthem's changed?" debated the ba.s.s to the contre tenor.

"Um--no," decided the latter. "Arkell was coming straight to his place.

Had there been any change, he would have gone and told Wilberforce and the opposites. Paul is in a pet, and won't alter it."

"Then he'll play the solo without my accompaniment," retorted the ba.s.s, loftily.

Henry Arkell was only stunned by the fall, and before the conclusion of the second lesson, he appeared in the choir, to the surprise of many.

After giving the requisite notice of the change in the anthem to Mr.

Wilberforce and Aultane, he entered his stall; but his face was white as the whitest marble. He sang, as usual, in the Deus Misereatur. And when the time for the anthem came, Mr. Wilberforce rose from his knees to give it out.

"The anthem is taken from the burial service."

The symphony was played, and then Henry Arkell's voice rose soft and clear, filling the old cathedral with its harmony, and the words falling as distinctly on the ear as if they had been spoken. "I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh I shall see G.o.d: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another." The organist could not have told _why_ he put up that particular anthem, but it was a remarkable coincidence, noticed afterwards, that it should have been a funeral one.

But though Henry Arkell's voice never faltered or trembled, his changing face spoke of bodily disease or mental emotion: one moment it was bright as a damask rose, the next of a transparent whiteness. Every eye was on him, wondering at the beauty of his voice, at the marvellous beauty of his countenance: some sympathised with his emotion; some were wrapt in the solemn thoughts created by the words. When the solo was concluded, Henry, with an involuntary glance at the pew of Mrs. Beauclerc, fell against the back of his stall for support: he looked exhausted. Only for a moment, however, for the chorus commenced.

He joined in it; his voice rose above all the rest in its sweetness and power; but as the ending approached, and the voices ceased, and the last sound of the organ died upon the ear, his face bent forward, and rested without motion on the choristers' desk.

"Arkell, what are you up to?" whispered one of the lay-clerks from behind, as Mr. Wilberforce recommenced his chanting.

No response.

"Nudge him, Wilberforce; he's going to sleep. There's the dean casting his eyes this way."

Edwin Wilberforce did as he was desired, but Arkell never stirred.

So Mr. Tenor leaned over and grasped him by the arm, and pulled him up with a sudden jerk. But he did not hold him, and the poor head fell forward again upon the desk. Henry Arkell had fainted.

Some confusion ensued: for the four choristers below him had every one to come out of the stall before he could be got out. Mr. Wilberforce momentarily stopped chanting, and directed his angry spectacles towards the choristers, not understanding what caused the hubbub, and inwardly vowing to flog the whole five on the morrow. Mr. Smith, a strong man, came out of his stall, lifted the lifeless form in his arms, and carried it out to the side aisle, the head, like a dead weight, hanging down over his shoulder. All the eyes and all the gla.s.ses in the cathedral were bent on them; and the next to come out of his stall, by the prebendaries, and follow in the wake, was Mr. St. John, a flush of emotion on his pale face.

The dean's family, after service, met Mr. St. John in the cloisters. "Is he better?" asked Mrs. Beauclerc. "What was the matter with him the second time?"

"He fainted; but we soon brought him to in the vestry. Young Wilberforce ran and got some water. They are walking home with him now."

"What caused him to fall in the choir?" continued Mrs. Beauclerc.

"Giddiness?"

"It was not like giddiness," remarked Mr. St. John. "It was as if he fell over something."

"So I thought," interrupted Georgina. "Why did you leave your seat to follow him?" she continued, in a low tone to Mr. St. John, falling behind her mother.

"It was a sudden impulse, I suppose. I was unpleasantly struck with his appearance as I went into college. He was looking ghastly."

"The choristers had been quarrelling: Aultane's fault, I am sure. He lifted his hand to strike Arkell. Aultane reproached him with having"--Georgina Beauclerc hesitated, with an amused look--"disposed of his prize medal."

"Disposed of his prize medal?" echoed Mr. St. John.

"p.a.w.ned it."

St. John uttered an exclamation. He remembered the tricks of the college boys, but he could not have believed this of his favourite, Henry Arkell.

"And his watch also, Lewis junior added," continued Georgina. "They gave me the information in a spiteful glow of triumph. Henry did not deny it: he looked as if he could not. But I know he is the soul of honour, and if he has done anything of the sort, those beautiful companions of his have over-persuaded him: possibly to lend the money to them."

"I'll see into this," mentally spoke Mr. St. John.

CHAPTER VI.

PEACHING TO THE DEAN.

Mr. St. John went at once to Peter Arkell's. Henry was alone, lying on his bed.

"After such a fall as that, how could you be so imprudent as to come back and take the anthem?" was his unceremonious salutation.

"I felt equal to it," replied Henry. "The one, originally put up, could not be done."

"Then they should have put up a third, for me. The cathedral does not lack anthems, I hope. Show me where your head was struck."