The Fall of Doctor Onslow

by Frances Vernon

  You may wonder, sir, why I did not tell you of the vile acts I witnessed at Charton while I was still there. The truth is that I feared you would not believe me, and that I could not have borne. It seemed to me that I had nothing to do but endure.

  Dear Father, I have suffered very much over this whole affair, and I now implore you not to seek to involve me yet more closely in it, or even to talk to me about it when I am back at home, whether or not you choose to do as Mr Mildmay advises – I find it too painful, as I hope you will understand.

  There is some possibility that our visit to Switzerland may be extended, in which case I shall not be back in England until the very end of August. Please write to me – not only about this, but with all your news, and Rose’s and Aunt Chatty’s too.

  I remain your affectionate son

  Christian

  I hope you will not think it necessary to make a public scandal – I ask this for my friend Bright’s sake, and the sake of all the others whom Dr Onslow may have corrupted.

  Including me, thought Christian as he read through his letter – and folded it, and sealed it, and walked the four miles down to Interlaken to post it.

  On his way back, Christian began to shiver in the mountain breeze, for in his eagerness to be rid of his letter he had gone out too thinly clad. His mind became full of images of his father’s turning round and telling him, in a voice full of disgust, that he had burnt the evidence against Onslow, and that no son of his ought under any circumstances to break a bond of silence and then seek to escape the consequences. By the time he reached the chalet, Christian was certain that this was what his father would do, and he went up to his bedroom and wept: for remorse, for resentment, and for Jemmy who was pure.

  *

  The letter from Christian arrived at Poplar House five days after it was posted, on July 14th, and was handed to Anstey-Ward by Rose. He was out in the garden at the time, delicately removing encrusted dirt from the indentations of a fossilised trilobite, and was not much pleased by the interruption.

  ‘A letter from Christian, Father. I thought you might like to have it immediately, and Mary Jane was afraid to disturb you.’

  ‘Very well, my dear, put it down there.’

  His imagination was busy with a picture of himself proving to the satisfaction of the Geological Society that the stratum of Welsh rock in which he found the trilobite had been assigned to the wrong period. Only when he acknowledged that he was unlikely ever to find conclusive evidence for something so improbable did he lay the fossil aside, resettle his spectacles on his nose and open the letter. He had been wanting to hear from Christian for some time, for he was anxious about the state of his lungs, and hoped that the Alpine air had done them good. Christian’s mother had died of consumption.

  Anstey-Ward read Christian’s letter through twice, slowly and steadily, and then examined the enclosed notes, the evidence. At last he laid the papers down and sat quite still. His mind was chiefly occupied not with Onslow, but with his son – who, he thought, having been exposed to abomination, would never make some girl a good husband one day. Anstey-Ward had begun to suspect this some time ago, but now he knew it with absolute certainty, and he blamed not only Onslow but himself.

  He had always known that Christian did not much like Charton, but till now he had never known why. He had never asked questions, and had therefore, he supposed, given his son the impression that his own father would not listen to him, still less believe him, if he told the truth. Christian had not trusted him. Aged fourteen, he had never thought to save himself by coming into his father’s library and explaining precisely why he hated school. They had been less close and less confident even than he thought – and they never would be close now. Christian made it very clear that closeness and confidence were not what he wanted in the future, that even his father’s advice would not be welcome.

  The boy had only ever asked to be taken away from school in a casual and tentative murmur. He had seemed to accept that it was right for him to go to Charton, where, so his father thought, he was protected from the rougher side of school life by the intellectual excellence which quickly raised him in the hierarchy. Boys at Charton did not sleep in dormitories but in rooms for two or three at most, and Anstey-Ward had supposed this guaranteed a certain level of civilised conduct. It was true that he had been at Charton himself for two half-years when he was sixteen, and had seen some bad things, but that had been in 1824. Dr Onslow was said to have put a stop to all the old abuses. Anstey-Ward’s chief concern when he sent Christian to the school had been the possibility that his son would learn to be too earnest in religion, and become a prig.

  As he remembered this, Anstey-Ward’s eyes fell on Christian’s mention of Onslow’s administering communion to his boys prior to debauching them, and he drew in a long, sharp breath.

  He had lost his own religious faith painlessly as a young man, thanks chiefly to philosophy, not geology, but he had never been strongly anti-religious – if only because such attitudes were for men of the lower classes who read Tom Paine. It was a decade or more since educated Christians had commonly believed in the literal truth of the first chapters of Genesis, and if that belief were abandoned Anstey-Ward had no serious quarrel with them. He disliked only those who objected noisily to men who were freethinkers, like himself.

  Anstey-Ward accepted without question the morality of charity, patience, forgiveness, continence, and called it Christian without a thought, for he tended to associate monstrous cruelties, abuses and hypocrisies only with the Catholic church, not with most forms of Protestantism, and certainly not with the reformed Church of England. He expected the clergy to conform to his high opinion of their morals at all times: he was therefore as shocked by his son’s revelation of Dr Onslow’s true character as the most naively devout of Christians would have been – and his feelings were unmixed with any sense of excitement, or of the dreadful grandeur of notable sin.

  14

  On July 17th, Dr and Mrs Onslow were entertaining five boys to breakfast between first and second school. They did this once a week in term-time, and thus saw every boy at Charton informally at least once a year. The boys invited were of mixed ages, for though Louisa had at first suggested that the younger ones would be less painfully shy without their seniors, this had been discovered not to be the case. Nothing could induce eleven or twelve-year-olds to make conversation with the headmaster, though some of them felt able to talk to his wife, and if no older boys had been present breakfast would have been almost entirely silent. As it was, the young ones ate as much of the food provided by Louisa as they could manage, while their elders answered Dr Onslow’s questions, and in their turn asked him gravely about current events, or complimented his wife on the elegance of the breakfast-room.

  ‘So now I hear you are in the Eleven, Browning,’ said Onslow to a fifth-former. ‘You must be very pleased.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Wishing to rouse him, Onslow went on: ‘I cannot be surprised at it. And yet I sometimes think too much is made of games at this school. Is it really necessary to put on white trousers before kicking a ball in a muddy field? Last time I happened to pass the football field I saw that quite half the players were wearing striped jerseys in addition – I suppose they were introduced by the last captain of football, what was his name?’

  ‘Tillotson, sir.’

  ‘Tillotson, so it was, as in the Sermons which are no longer read … Yes, he seemed to think football a sacred cause rather than a recreation, I remember him well.’

  ‘Would you like it best, sir, if we played no games at all?’ said another boy boldly.

  ‘Let me express it this way, Johnson: I approve of physical exercise, and I had rather cricket and football were played than hare-and-hounds.’ Hare-and-hounds was the preferred game of many boys during the Easter term: Onslow had tried to abolish it because it led to trouble with local farmers, but he had not been entirely successful.

  ‘Oh, quite so, sir!’
>
  Onslow smiled at him; he had an unusually charming smile when he was neither mocking nor being sarcastic.

  ‘At my brother’s school football is forbidden entirely,’ said Browning, swallowing a piece of muffin. ‘The headmaster thinks it is not a gentleman’s game. But he allows cricket.’

  ‘Football has been played here for so long that if I were to dare say I agreed with him, which I do not altogether, the Sixth would demand my resignation,’ said Onslow. ‘Is that not so, Caldecott?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, certainly we would!’ said the sixth-former, who had been talking to Louisa about the summer exhibition at the Royal Academy.

  ‘Winthrop, won’t you have a little more coffee? And another devilled kidney?’ said Louisa to one of the younger boys. ‘And you too, Talbot, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes please, Mrs Onslow ma’am!’

  Talbot and Winthrop were twelve years old. When Louisa first came to Charton, the youngest boys in the school were eight and nine, but now Onslow discouraged parents from sending him children under eleven. He thought very young boys were best off as private pupils, and Louisa was sorry for it, for she liked children, though she knew that Onslow was probably right. The little ones had been more prone than others to die when they were ill, not only of cholera and typhoid and scarlatina but of measles and putrid sore throat, to which the older boys seemed more immune.

  Onslow glanced swiftly at the clock on the mantelpiece, and saw that second school would begin in ten minutes. As soon as one of the boys made a movement which could be interpreted as preparatory to leaving, he said:

  ‘Must you go? Can’t you stay?’ He always dismissed those who came to breakfast with these words; it was a school legend that occasionally he muddled the formula, and said: ‘Must you stay? Can’t you go?’

  Everyone except Louisa rose from the table as soon as the words were spoken. Thanks were said, compliments exchanged; then the headmaster and his wife were left alone together.

  ‘It is a whole week till you will be obliged to endure it again, my dear,’ said Louisa.

  ‘Very true. Please hand me those letters I see on the sideboard, and the Morning Post– how glad I am to have a respite from boys’ company, however brief! And yet I would not say that I dislike them.’

  Onslow had no lessons till third school, for the Sixth would be occupied with mathematics for the next two hours. Dr Anstey-Ward had favoured Charton over other schools partly because Onslow insisted that mathematics be taught with something like seriousness. Three hours a week were devoted to it by every form, and to advertise the importance of his subject, the mathematics master had the right to wear a gown like the classical masters.

  Two maids came in to clear away the remains of the boys’ breakfast, leaving the Onslows with tea and toast. Onslow began to slit open his letters. When he was in a good humour, he would briefly describe any particularly interesting or foolish letter to his wife; when not, he would go straight to his study with them when he had finished eating.

  ‘From Mrs Matlock – someone, unnamed for a wonder, has told her that it is now essential for prospective army officers to take a very difficult examination, she does not know what dear Lord Raglan and the dear Duke of Wellington would have said and is her Willie being properly prepared for it? This is the fourth letter I have had from her since April. The more I know of widows as parents, the more I find myself reconsidering my objections as to suttee – how am I to tell her politely that her Willie is quite safe since we have not yet abolished purchase, and until that is done I have no intention of wasting school time in preparing for the army those who are too stupid for any other profession.’

  ‘Tell her simply that he is so clever he will have no difficulty,’ suggested Louisa.

  ‘My dear, that would be a lie so big that even Mrs Matlock would know it for what it was, and I could not reconcile it with my conscience. I had best advise her to take him away.’ He opened a second letter and glanced first at the signature, as he always did when he did not recognise the handwriting. ‘H. A. Anstey-Ward – there was a boy called Anstey-Ward who left last year, I seem to remember.’

  ‘It cannot be from him, Dr Onslow, his name was Christian,’ said Louisa.

  ‘Your memory is remarkable, my dear.’

  Onslow proceeded to read the letter, which was very short.

  Sir, it said, certain documents have come into my possession, which inform me that, a year ago, you formed an illicit connection with one of your pupils, now no longer at Charton. I will not elaborate upon the documents’ nature, but think it right to tell you that they show, conclusively, that you are a man entirely unfit for the position you now hold.

  I therefore demand that you resign the headmastership of Charton forthwith. If you refuse to do so, I shall have no hesitation in making a public example of you. I insist, also, that you refuse any high preferment which may be offered you upon your resignation. If you are unfit to have charge of young boys, you are likewise unfit to be a bishop or dean of the Church of England.

  I remain, sir, your obedt. servt., H. A. Anstey-Ward.

  Onslow sat completely motionless, holding the letter before him – then he forced himself to read it a second time. It was as though a great wave had crashed down upon his head. He felt much as he had done at the end of the great railway speculation of 1846, when he learnt that all the money he had inherited from his father had vanished in the crash, and he was liable for a part of the railway company’s debts.

  ‘Dr Onslow, what is wrong?’

  Slowly he looked up at Louisa. His lips tried to move, but no sound came out.

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Nothing is wrong.’

  ‘It’s that letter you are holding. Please show it to me! You look as though you have seen a ghost.’

  ‘No,’ said Onslow again. The sight of Louisa’s face and the sound of her voice dragged him back into the real world. Pushing his chair back, he went on almost normally: ‘I promise you, my dear, there is no need for you to concern yourself. It is a – a comparatively trifling matter, merely something of a shock to me. But I need to go – to London immediately.’ The idea of going to London, and thence to Salisbury, came into Onslow’s head only as he spoke these words.

  ‘George,’ said Louisa, who called him that only on the most solemn occasions, ‘please tell me what it is.’

  The idea of doing this was so appalling that Onslow spoke sharply to her.

  ‘I have told you that that is quite unnecessary. Please do not seek to make matters more difficult than they need be.’

  ‘Very well!’ said Louisa, setting down her tea-cup with unnecessary force.

  ‘I am going to consult Bradshaw. I hope to be back by tonight, but I may be obliged to spend the night in town.’

  ‘Is it money? Will you please only tell me that?’

  ‘Yes – yes, it is money.’ Onslow was not a skilful liar: Dr Arnold’s training made it impossible for him to tell a direct falsehood without suffering greatly in his conscience.

  ‘But it cannot be!’ said Louisa, suddenly remembering who the letter was from.

  ‘Louisa, leave me in peace!’ Onslow went quickly out of the room. The exchange with his wife had the effect of fully awakening his numb mind, and in his study, as he leafed through Bradshaw’s railway guide, he found himself able to think.

  He thrust emotion away. His concern was not to let himself dwell on the position in which he found himself, but simply to escape from it. He could do that, he thought, only by confronting Anstey-Ward and demanding to see the ‘documents’ – which he hoped would prove to be simply letters from Christian Anstey-Ward alleging that he had been the lover of a boy. The whole tone of the father’s letter made it possible that they would turn out to be no more, and allegations of that kind would not constitute proof. Without proof, Anstey-Ward could not force him to resign. He would have no power to make a scandal – Onslow refused to think about the amount of damage mere rumour
could do. He reminded himself that prejudice would be on the side of the Headmaster of Charton. Sober people would refuse to think ill of him, even though there might be degrading tittle-tattle in the clubs and drawing-rooms of London. It was a comforting picture.

  Onslow acted with the utmost efficiency. First he found a suitable train. Next he rang the bell and told the servant who answered it to see that a small portmanteau was packed and the carriage was brought round; then he sat down at his desk and wrote a note to Mr Grey, the second master, to say that he was called away on urgent business, and to ask him to make provision for the Sixth.

  While he was in the middle of doing this, the door opened. It was his wife, and glancing at her in profound irritation, he thought she was looking almost old.

  ‘George,’ said Louisa, closing the door, ‘is it blackmail?’

  He turned round in his chair, and stared at her.

  ‘Blackmail? What in the world are you talking about, Louisa?’

  ‘I know you have received extremely bad news.’

  Onslow laid down his pen and said, having only just realised that blackmail might indeed have been a real possibility:

  ‘I will no longer conceal that from you, since you seem to be so unnaturally percipient. But I assure you it is not blackmail. What a lurid imagination you have; this is what comes of reading novels from the circulating library. Pray, about what could I be blackmailed? Have you decided of what crime I am guilty?’ His face was flushed.