One word remains to be added. If this were an ordinary tale, it would be natural that the mystery of the stolen paper should be solved. It will not be solved here. Life is full of unsolved mysteries, fiction is not. This is one of the ways in which fiction differs from life. No new fact to prove or disprove Gerald’s innocence ever came to Mr. Brandiston’s ears. But in after-days, if allusion was made to the mystery of the stolen examination paper, the butler used to say with bated breath that he knew nothing—he did not—but that, if he must say what he thought, he had reason to think that Mr. Brandiston, being disturbed in the moment of placing the examination papers in his drawer, might have let one paper drop on to the floor; that the housemaid, who came in as soon as he had left the study, might have gathered it up with the papers and letters which were strewn about in or near the waste-paper basket, and that it might have been used a day or two afterwards to light a fire.
Who knows? Who will ever know?
CHAPTER VIII
DRIFTING APART
The year following Harry Venniker’s illness was a year remarkable in the life of each of the two friends whose history forms the subject of this narrative. Both, though in different ways, attained the summit of their ambition. Both for a moment shone pre-eminently in the eyes of their schoolfellows. It need not be said that such distinction appeared more natural to Harry Venniker than to Gerald Eversley; but to both it was exquisitely delightful.
Harry Venniker was the first to enjoy it. He did not return to school after his illness until the beginning of the summer term. It was thought, on medical grounds, to be desirable that he should not expose himself to the piercing winds of February or March at St. Anselm’s. By the beginning of the next term he was restored to perfect health, and his reappearance was heartily welcomed by the generous enthusiasm of his schoolfellows.
There was a special interest attaching to his return; for he was a left-handed bowler, as has been already said, and the school eleven was thought to be weak this year in bowling. It was believed, therefore, that he would have a good chance of obtaining a place in it. But in the early matches of the year he failed to ‘come off’; it was supposed that his illness had told upon his strength, and though he was tried in most of the matches, the vacant places in the eleven were all filled up in the course of the term, except two, and he had not yet been told to ‘get his flannels.’
Life at St. Anselm’s presents no more attractive scene than the ‘giving of the flannels’ on the Saturday before the great match of the year. The players, who are regarded as candidates for the last remaining places, are tested in the presence of a large company. Every wicket bowled, every run scored by any one of them is hailed by his supporters, who are usually the members of his own house, as a point in his favour. On this occasion Harry Venniker took three wickets in the first innings; he also scored eight runs, being ‘not out.’ In the second innings (which was not finished) he bowled only one wicket, but a ‘chance’ was missed off his bowling. Another boy—also a bowler—took two wickets in each innings. A boy who was being tried as a bat got twenty-one runs. Another bat got only one run; he was generally considered to be ‘out of it.’
It is the annual practice that at the conclusion of this last match the players return to the pavilion, the spectators cluster around it—none but the players being allowed to enter its sacred precincts—then the captain of the eleven, in the interior of the pavilion, takes his cap—the cap distinctive of the eleven—and places it successively on the heads of the boys who are put into the eleven, and these boys, being thus decorated, emerge from the pavilion and show themselves to the admiring crowd outside. Sometimes a long interval elapses, or seems to elapse, before the last boy makes his appearance with the cap on his head, and the expectation then becomes intense.
A crowd of two or three hundred boys was gathered outside the pavilion railings. The door opened, and the boy who had distinguished himself in batting came out, wearing the coveted cap. He was loudly cheered. Then he retired. The crowd still waited. The buzz of conversation was loud. The long level shadows of the setting sun stole over the ground. Once or twice the door opened, and boys appeared, but they were old members of the eleven. It seemed a quarter of an hour, but I suppose it was only two or three minutes, before the door opened again, and the last elected member of the eleven came full into view—Harry Venniker. What a cheering arose! What a waving of hats in the air! What enthusiasm of delight! When the excitement was dying away, there was still one voice giving a last cheer, one hat still waving in the air. It was Gerald Eversley’s.
He was sauntering up the hill when he heard a quick step behind him, and Harry Venniker seized his arm, saying, ‘Bless you, old man; I heard your old voice last of all.’