"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 pronounced 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 God's will to take me, I know it must be for my good."