Mr. Gall abroad.
And now, not to make a mystery of it to you, my boys, any longer, I
will tell you that it _was_ Raymond Trace who had fired the pistol. Mr.
Henry was not mistaken in his recognition of Trace; and what's more, he
knew that he was not; though at the time he did not know his name, or
who he was. Mr. Trace had silently quitted the college after prayers on
a little private expedition of his own; in his hurry he caught up Mr.
Long's cap, not noticing the mistake; and was rushing through the
plantation when the sound of hushed voices caused him to slacken his
footsteps and advance cautiously, lest he should be seen himself.
Peeping through the trees, he discerned Smart and Dick Loftus, each
flourishing a pistol about like two young madmen; and Trace, making a
movement in his surprise, betrayed his presence. You know what
followed: the boys flew off with one of the pistols; the other Trace
took up, and presently fired it off. He fired it heedlessly, without
thought of harm, never supposing it was loaded; with an idea perhaps of
further scaring the two decamping boys; neither had he heard the
approach of Talbot. When he found the pistol _was_ loaded, and that
some mischief had ensued, he was startled nearly out of his senses,
quite out of his presence of mind.
His straightforward course, as everybody knows, would have been to go
up and see who was wounded; but I'm afraid Trace's was not a very
straightforward nature; and there was also the instinctive desire to
conceal his having come abroad. Not a boy in the college was more
solicitous of appearing to keep the rules than Trace; and he had grown
to be looked upon as a model to the rest. Dropping the pistol, away he
stole, obeying instinct only, too terrified to be able to think calmly,
and came face to face with the new foreign master. Up went his hand to
his face to hide it, and away he backed amidst the trees; stealing on
noiselessly for some short distance, and then tearing back to school
helter-skelter. It was only when he came to hang up the cap that he
discovered the mistake he had made in taking out a master's. He glided
into the hall, sat down behind the nearest desk, and gradually let his
presence be noticed. When the news came presently in, Trace was talking
with Irby and Brown major, and rose up in the same consternation as the
rest.
You may therefore imagine what his sensations were when the Head Master
subsequently appealed to his honour; to his, in common with that of the
rest of the school. He could not declare himself; the time had gone by;
it was quite impossible that he, _having concealed it_, could come
forth with the avowal at that, the eleventh hour. Over and over again
he blamed his folly and his cowardice for having stolen away; he would
give all the money his pockets contained—and money was often a scarce
commodity with Mr. Trace—to have bravely gone up to the wounded boy and
declared the truth of the accident. He called himself a fool; he called
himself a coward; he called himself sundry other disparaging names: but
that it was not in his habit to do it, he might have sworn at himself.
Not for the mere act in itself, the having fired the pistol; that was
almost a pure accident; but for having concealed that it was he who did
it.
However, his course was entered upon, and all he could do now was to
hope and trust that he might never be discovered. While this hope was
filling every crevice of his heart, making itself heard hourly in his
brain, there came the startling question of the German master—"Was it
not you I met?" Trace could only be indignant and say it was not; but
the disagreeable doubt, whether he had been positively recognized or
not, caused him to fear and hate Mr. Henry with a bitter fear and
hatred. He thought it was but a suspicion, not a recognition, for Mr.
Henry's quiet and cautious manner deceived him, and he grew to believe
that his denial had borne its intended fruit. So the fear subsided, but
the hatred ripened; and it might perhaps bring trouble in the future.
A sunny day towards the close of September, and Miss Brabazon went
abroad with Rose. She was about to pay a visit to Mrs. Paradyne; not
only because it was her custom to call on the friends of the outdoor
boys, but to show, in this instance, all she could of consideration and
kindness. The Head Master and Miss Brabazon were in one respect the
very opposite to Trace. Trace thought inherited misfortune a legitimate
target for lances of contempt, if not of reproach; _they_ deemed such
people, so blameless and unhappy, should receive all of gentle
commiseration that the world can show.
Miss Rose went mincing along in her short petticoats, the tails to her
Leghorn hat flying behind, as she turned her little vain head from side
to side, looking if any chance college boy might be abroad to cast his
admiring eyes upon her. Not seeing one, she darted up to Mrs. Gall's
governess, who was walking about the grounds of Mr. Gall's residence
with some of the children, and then darted back to her sister.
"There's Jessie and Kate Gall, Emma. Can't you call on their mamma,
while I walk about with them? Mrs. Gall is at the window. I know her by
the yellow in her cap."
Emma Brabazon looked across the lawn at the handsome house, and saw a
yellow silk screen standing near one of the windows. She laughed.
"You can stay here, however, Rose," she said, nodding to the governess.
"I will call for you as I come back."
Glad that it had so happened, for Miss Rose had insisted on
accompanying her rather against her will, Emma Brabazon walked on to
Prospect Terrace, as the houses were named, perhaps because they faced
a brickfield, and inquired for Mrs. Paradyne. A rather faded lady,
sitting in a small upper room, styled by courtesy a drawing-room, rose
to receive her. She was tall and slender, with a fair thin face, and
bright dark eyes. Her cap was of real lace; her gown, a delicate silk,
looked faded, like herself; her manners were quiet and self-possessed.
At the first glance Miss Brabazon could not fail to perceive that she
was essentially a lady.
"It is very kind of you to come," she observed, when they had spoken a
little together, Miss Brabazon sitting on the chintz sofa, herself on
an opposite chair. "Living in the obscure way my circumstances compel
me to live, in these small lodgings, I had not expected of course that
any one would call upon me."
"But I am very pleased to do it," said Miss Brabazon, "not only because
your son is at the college; and I have brought papa's card," she added,
laying it on the table. "He has not time to pay visits himself; but he
bade me say he hoped you would come to see us, and that we should be
good friends."
"I visit nowhere," said Mrs. Paradyne, a certain fretfulness observable
in her tone. "People do not care to invite those who cannot return it
to them. Do not think me ungracious," she hastened to add; "I was not
speaking in answer to Dr. Brabazon's kind message, but rather thinking
of my past experience."
"I hope your son likes the school," observed Emma, rather at a loss
what to say.
"He likes the school; he does not like his companions," answered Mrs.
Paradyne.
"No!" exclaimed Emma, taken by surprise. "Why not?"
"They seem to shun him; they do shun him, there's no doubt of it. It is
making me miserable: I could not sleep all last night for thinking of
it. There's scarcely a boy will speak to him, or treat him as a
companion;—my dear son, who is so bright and good."
Amidst a mass of confused ideas, two in particular loomed out dimly in
Emma Brabazon's mind—that Mrs. Paradyne was rather absorbed in self,
and that her son was to her a very idol.
"Can those boys have betrayed him?" she involuntarily exclaimed.
"Betrayed what?" questioned Mrs. Paradyne.
And Emma Brabazon blushed to the very roots of her hair. She had been
prepared to offer every kind and considerate sympathy if Mrs. Paradyne
herself alluded to the past, but certainly had not intended
gratuitously to enter upon it. There was no help for it now; and she
spoke a few words of the discovery made by Trace—that he had recognised
George Paradyne to be the son of a gentleman who had injured his
father.
"Yes," said Mrs. Paradyne, folding her delicate hands in meek
resignation on her lap, "I was sure something disagreeable would ensue
as soon as George came home and told me that the sons of Loftus and
Trace—as the firm used to be—were at the college. It is most
unfortunate that he should happen to have come to the same."
"Yes, it is—for your son's sake," murmured Emma, who felt almost guilty
herself.
"I expected nothing less, I assure you, Miss Brabazon, than to find my
son come home with a note from the Head Master, dismissing him from the
college. I——"
"Oh, if you only knew papa, you would not think it," she interrupted,
gathering her scattered courage. "He would be all the more likely to
retain him in it. The only fear was about the others, the Loftus boys
and Trace. If their friends had raised any objection—but it has been
quite the contrary," she hastened to add, quitting the unpleasant
point; "and papa charged the boys on their honour not to breathe a word
of the past to the school."
"They have breathed something, or others have; for George is being
shunned most unjustifiably. Ah, well; it is but a natural consequence
of the miserable past; I said it would cling to us for life, an incubus
of disgrace. And so it will."
"Papa would like to tell you how greatly he sympathises with you," said
Emma, eagerly. "I hope you will accept our friendship, and let us
testify our respect in every way that we can. Unmerited misfortune is
so sad to bear."
"I thought it would have killed me," was the answer made by Mrs.
Paradyne, her tone one of discontented reproach—reproach for the
husband who had gone. "I asked myself what right he had to bring this
misery upon me; to entail on his children an inheritance of shame; I
asked what he could have done with all the money; and there was nothing
to answer me but the mocking word, What? When I look on my darling, I
can hardly forbear to cry out against his memory. Pardon me, Miss
Brabazon, I think this is the first time I have spoken of it to a
stranger, but your words of kindness opened my heart."
"Have you many children?" inquired Miss Brabazon.
"Two sons,—George and an elder one. I have George only with me; the
other is out, working for his living. And I have a daughter."
"Is she with you?"
"She is a teacher in a school in Derbyshire. I seem to be quite
isolated from friends and family," continued Mrs. Paradyne, in a
fretful tone. "It is but another natural result of the wretched past. I
suppose my boy in this new college will be equally friendless."
"Your son has one firm friend in our new German master, Mr. Henry," was
the reply of Miss Brabazon.
It was intended to be a reassuring one; but Mrs. Paradyne seemed to
take it up in quite an opposite light. Her faded brow contracted; her
eyes assumed a hard expression.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Brabazon; I would rather not speak of Mr.
Henry. When I remember that it is through him we came up to this
college, where my boy is being subjected to these slights and insults,
I cannot think of him with patience."
"Was it through Mr. Henry you came to Orville?"
"It was. He wrote to us from Heidelberg, saying he had made an
engagement with a first-class college in England, and suggested that
George should be placed at it. He could give him so much of his time,
he said. And this is the result!—that we find Raymond Trace here and
the Loftus boys."
"But surely Mr. Henry did it for the best?"
"He intended it for the best, no doubt, but it has not turned out so
for George. What I think is this—that Mr. Henry, knowing past
circumstances and the cloud they cast upon us, might have made some
inquiries as to who the scholars were at Orville College, before he
brought George to it, and put me to the expense and trouble and pain of
coming here."
The exceeding injustice of the reasoning—nay, the ingratitude—brought
to Emma Brabazon a deeper conviction of the innate selfishness of Mrs.
Paradyne. She supposed that her great misfortunes had hardened her; and
the saying, so keen and true, arose to her mind,—"Adversity hardens the
heart, or it opens it to Paradise."
"You knew Mr. Henry well in Germany, I believe? He was professor in the
college where your son was a scholar?"
"Yes, he was," replied Mrs. Paradyne.
Miss Brabazon took her leave, and went away, a dim idea resting on her
that she had seen Mrs. Paradyne before; or some one resembling her.
Ever and anon, during the interview, an expression had dawned over her
countenance that seemed strangely familiar. "But it was only when her
face looked pleasant that the idea arose," thought Emma Brabazon, as
she turned into the avenue and crossed the lawn leading to Mrs. Gall's.
Miss Rose was making herself at home, and had her things off. "I'm
going to stay tea, Emma," was her salutation to her sister. "You can go
home without me."
It was her way. She did not say, "May I stay?" but took will and
decision into her own hands. In great things Emma quietly corrected
her; in trifles Rose was yielded to. Emma looked at Mrs. Gall, a
slight, thin, kind little woman, with a sharp red nose.
"Do let her stay, Miss Brabazon. William is coming home to go out to
dinner with his papa, and the children and governess are to have a
pleasant hour with me. See how anxious Jessie is that you should say
yes."
Emma laughed and acquiesced. Upon which Rose waltzed into the
governess's room with the news, and watched her sister away. It was
scarcely tea-time yet, and Miss Brabazon found she had leisure to go
round to Mrs. Butter's, whom she had occasion to see about some
mushroom-ketchup. Mr. Henry was standing at his low sitting-room window
as she passed, dreamily watching the boys in the playground, for school
was over. They were whooping, halloaing, running, as it is in the
nature of schoolboys to do; and a little army of them had gathered at
the palings, looking this way. The master's face wore the sad look that
had previously so struck Miss Brabazon, and she turned aside to speak
to him.
"I have been to see Mrs. Paradyne," she said, thinking the information
might give him pleasure, as she stood at the open window.
"Have you!" he answered, his countenance and his luminous eyes lighting
up. "How very kind of you, Miss Brabazon!"
"Poor thing! What terrible trouble she must have seen! She carries it
in her face, in the tones of her voice, in her manner; all tell of it.
She says she shall never overcome the blow."
"But did she speak of it to you, Miss Brabazon?" he inquired in some
surprise.
"Yes, but it was my fault; I inadvertently alluded to it," replied Miss
Brabazon, dropping her voice. "I was so vexed with myself. Mrs.
Paradyne tells me there is another son who is out somewhere."
"Ah, yes," returned Mr. Henry; and his dreamy eyes went far away again,
as if he could see the other son in the distance.
"But she seems quite rapt up in this, her second; it struck me somehow
that she does not care for the elder," continued Miss Brabazon, in a
pleasant tone of confidence. "She tells me it was you who recommended
the college to her."
He looked for a minute at Miss Brabazon before he answered: it almost
seemed to her as if he divined Mrs. Paradyne's reproachful words. She
waited for an answer.
"After I had made the agreement with Dr. Brabazon to come here, I wrote
to Mrs. Paradyne. She wanted, as I knew, to place her son at a
first-class school, and I thought I might give him some little extra
attention."
"Just so. It was very kind of you. Mrs. Paradyne has an idea that the
boys are shunning him," added Miss Brabazon.
"I believe they are. But why, I cannot find out, for I don't think they
have any clue to the past. I tell George Paradyne he will live it
down."
"To be sure he will. There is a daughter also, I find—a teacher in a
school."
For one moment Mr. Henry turned and looked sharply, questioningly, at
Miss Brabazon; as if he would ask how much more Mrs. Paradyne had told
her. But it was evident that he shunned the subject; and he made no
comment whatever on this additional item of news. An idea flashed over
Miss Brabazon that Mr. Henry was attached to this young lady; but why
it did so she could not have told.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Henry."
He bowed his adieu, and Miss Brabazon went round to the house-door, and
thence to the kitchen. Mrs. Butter was standing there in a fury,
surrounded by coils of string and a heap of paper.
"Look here, Miss Emma," was her salutation; and she was familiar with
Miss Brabazon from having formerly lived servant in the college. "If
those boys don't have something done to them, it's a shocking shame.
There comes a railway porter to the door five minutes ago—'A parcel for
you, ma'am,' he says to me, 'fourpence to pay!' Well, I was expecting a
parcel from my brother, and I paid the fourpence and took it in. 'What
on earth has made Bill tie it up with all this string for, and wrap it
round with all this paper?' says I as I undid it. First string, and
then paper; then string, and then paper; and curious round holes bored
in all of it, as if done with a big iron skewer. But it never struck
me—no, Miss Emma, it never struck me; and I went on and on till I came
to the last wrap, and was bending over that to see whatever it could
be, done up so careful, when a live mouse jumped out in my face. I
shrieked out so, that it brought the German gentleman in—he thought I
was afire. Between us we caught the mouse, and there he is, in a pail
o' water, which is where them boys ought to be. The depth of 'em!
boring them holes to keep the animal alive, and getting a railway
porter to come with it, as bold as brass!"
Emma Brabazon, staid lady of thirty though she was, stood coughing
behind her handkerchief. "But how do you know it was the boys?" she
asked.
"Know!" wrathfully retorted Mrs. Butter. "There's fifty faces turned on
to the house now from the playground, if there's one; and all of 'em as
meek as lambs! Just look at 'em!"
Thinking she would leave the ketchup for a more auspicious occasion,
Miss Brabazon went away, leaving Mrs. Butter fuming and grumbling.
Sundry faces certainly were still scanning the house; but Miss Brabazon
appeared to see nothing, and went on her way. In turning round by the
chapel, she encountered the senior boy.
"Did you send that present to Mrs. Butter just now, Gall?"
"A present, Miss Brabazon?"
"A live mouse done up in a parcel."
Gall stared, and then laughed. He knew nothing of it. The seniors were
above those practical tricks. "It was the second desk, no doubt," he
said. "Am I to inquire into it, Miss Brabazon?"
"No, not from me. But they should not tease the old woman beyond
bearing."
"She is of a cranky temper," said Gall.
"And the boys make it worse. Gall," added Miss Brabazon, her tone
changing, and the senior boy thought it bore a touch of fear, "you have
not discovered yet who fired the pistol?"
"Not at all. We begin to think now, Miss Brabazon, that it was not one
of us."
"Ah," she said, turning her face away. "What is the cause of this
feeling against the new boy, George Paradyne?" she continued, and the
question seemed to come abruptly after the pause.
"I don't know," replied Gall, excessively surprised that it should be
asked him. "I perceive there is some feeling against Paradyne; I
suppose because he is an outsider."
"Gall, you have more sense, more thought, than some of your companions,
and I can speak to you confidentially, as one friend would speak to
another," resumed Miss Brabazon. "Ascertain, if you can, the cause of
this feeling, without making a fuss, you know; and tell me what it is.
Soothe it down if possible; make the boy's way easy amidst you. I am
sure he does not deserve to be shunned."
Gall touched his cap, much flattered, and went on his way. Not into
school: he had been invited out to dinner with his father, as Mrs. Gall
had said, and had leave from Dr. Brabazon until eleven o'clock. This
gave a golden opportunity to the seniors, of which they were not slow
to avail themselves. In recording the doings of a large school, where
truth is adhered to, the bad has to be told with the good.
Smoking was especially forbidden: nothing was so certainly followed by
punishment as the transgression of the rule. Not only was it sternly
interdicted, but Dr. Brabazon talked kindly and earnestly to the boys
in private. The habit when acquired early was most pernicious, he
reiterated to them; frequently inducing paralysis by middle age. He
gave Gall special instructions to be watchful; and this was well; the
senior boy was faithful to the trust reposed in him, and, though the
vigilance of the masters could be eluded, it was not so easy to escape
his. But on occasions like this, when Gall's back was turned, certain
of the seniors who liked a cigar, or pipe, or screw—anything—when they
could get it, seized on the opportunity, in defiance of rules and the
Head Master.
They set about the recreation this evening in the privacy of their
chamber. There were seven beds in it, occupied by Gall, Loftus, Trace,
Irby, Fullarton, Savage, and Brown major. Taking off their jackets and
putting out the candle, they drew the window up to its height slowly
and gingerly, and lighted their cigars. Not Trace: he had never been
seen with anything of the sort in his mouth; and it always made Brown
major sick, fit to die; but he considered it manly to persevere. There
they stood at the window, puffing away, laughing and talking in an
undertone. News of Mrs. Butter's present had run the round of the
school, and the seniors, though loftily superior to such things in
public, did not disdain to enjoy that and other interesting events in
private. That lady's domicile was in full view; her large dog lay in
the garden. It was the fourth dog she had tried, and those wicked
reptiles (one of Mrs. Butter's laudatory names for them) had made
friends with each animal in succession, and so bribed him to their
interests.
"I say, what is it that's up against Paradyne?" suddenly asked Brown
major, glad of any opportunity to get that miserable cigar out of his
mouth.
Nobody answered: the boys were too lazy, or the cigars too exacting.
That Brown major had a trick of bringing up unpleasant topics. He asked
again.
"He had no business to be put in our class," said Savage at length.
"Jove, no! But that wasn't his fault."
"An outsider and all," continued Savage. "It's the second desk, though,
that are making the set at him."
"What has he done to them?"
"Bother!" said Savage, who was in some difficulty about his cigar.
Brown major was not to be put down; talking was more convenient than
smoking just now. "Do you know, Trace?"
"It's no affair of mine," replied Trace coldly, and Irby exchanged a
meaning glance with him in the starlight.
"This beastly cigar won't draw at all," exclaimed Savage.
"No, they won't," assented Fullarton, in much wrath; "and I paid
threepence apiece for them." For the treat this evening was his. "It's
a regular swindle."
"The best cigars—"
"Hist! Who's that?"
The warning came from Trace. Not being occupied as the rest were, his
attention was awake, and a sound like a cough had caught his ear from
underneath the window. Out went the heads and the cigars, which was a
great want of caution. On the gravel walk below, pacing about before
the Head Master's study, whose large bay window abutted outwards, was
Mr. Henry.
"Take care, you fellows," murmured Trace; "it's that German spy."
In came the cigars. The boys, snatching them from their lips, held them
behind, back-handed, and put out their heads again.
"What makes you call him a spy, Trace?" whispered Loftus.
"Because I know he is one. Mind! he saw the cigars: I watched him look
up. I wonder what he is doing there."
The idea of a spy in the school—and he one of the masters—was not at
all an agreeable prospect, and the smokers felt a sort of chill. "How
do you know he is one, Trace?" asked Brown major.
"That's my business. I tell you that he _is_, and that's enough. I'd
give half a crown to know what he is walking there for! He can't have
any business there."
For the walk was a solitary walk, not leading to any particular spot;
of course open to the inmates of the college, but nobody ever thought
of going there at night. Hence the wonder. Perhaps its solitude may
have made its attraction for Mr. Henry: quiet and still it lay,
underneath the stars, but a minute or two's distance from his lodgings.
The boys, peeping out still with hushed breath, saw him presently
stroll away in the direction of his home, making no sign that he had
observed them.
"Mark you," said Fullarton, much put out, "the fellow has stationed
himself in those low-lived rooms of Mother Butter's to be a spy upon
us. Trace is right."
But not one of them had known that during this little episode Brown
minor came into the room on some mission to his brother, and had seen
the red ends of the five cigars, just then held backwards. Divining
that it might not be deemed a convenient moment for intrusion, young
Mr. Brown withdrew quietly, leaving his errand unfulfilled; went back
to his own room, and there whispered the news confidentially that the
seniors were smoking.