Christmas Day.
Some weeks elapsed. Things had blown over, and the Christmas holidays
were coming on. Wonders and calamities; and, in some degree,
suspicions; yield to the soothing hand of time. Talbot's accident was
almost forgotten; the lost pencil (never found) was not thought of so
much as it had been, and the gossip respecting it had ceased.
The bitterness had not lessened against George Paradyne. Gall could not
fathom its source. There was no cause for it, as far as he knew, except
that the boy had been placed at once at the first desk, and had entered
his name for the Orville prize; both of which facts were highly
presumptuous in a new scholar, and an outsider. It was also known that
he was in the habit of flying to Mrs. Butter's house for help in his
studies: the boys supposed that the German (as they derisively called
Mr. Henry) was paid for giving it: and many an ill-natured sneer was
levelled at them both.
"Are you going to coach Paradyne through the holidays?" asked Trace of
Mr. Henry, condescending to address him for once in a way: and be it
remarked that when Trace so far unbended, he did not forget his usual
civility. But Mr. Henry always detected the inward feeling.
"Trace," he said, every tone betraying earnest kindness, "you spend the
holidays at Sir Simon's, therefore I shall be within reach. Come to me,
and let me read with you: I know you are anxious to get the Orville.
Come every day; I will do my very best to push you on."
"You are a finished scholar?" observed Trace, cynically.
"As finished as any master in the college. When a young man knows (as I
did) that he has nothing else to trust to, he is wise to make use of
his opportunities. I believe also that I have a peculiar aptitude for
teaching. Come and try me."
"What would be your terms?"
"Nothing. I would do it for"—he laughed as he spoke—"love. Oh, Trace, I
wish you would let me help you! I wish I could get you to believe that
it would be one pleasure in my lonely life."
"What a hypocrite!" thought Trace: "I wonder what he's saying it for?
Thank you," he rejoined aloud, with distant coldness; "I shall not
require your assistance." And so the offer terminated; and Trace,
speaking of it to Loftus, said it was like the fellow's impudence to
make it.
One thing had been particularly noticeable throughout the term—that the
young German usher seemed to have a facility for healing breaches. In
ill-feelings, in quarrellings, in fightings, so sure was he to step in,
and not only stop the angry tongues, but soothe their owners down to
calmness. Rage, in his hands, became peace; mountains of evil melted
down to molehills; fierce recrimination gave place to hand-shaking. He
did all so quietly, so pleasantly, so patiently! and, but for the
under-current of feeling against him that was being always secretly
fanned, he would have been an immense favourite. Putting aside the
untoward events at its commencement, the term had been one of the most
satisfactory on record.
Loftus and his brother, Trace, James Talbot, and Irby were spending the
holidays at Pond Place. Sir Simon Orville generally had two of the
boys, besides his nephews. They had wanted Irby and Leek this time; but
Sir Simon chose to invite Talbot, and gave them their choice of the
other two. And it happened that Sir Simon, the day after their arrival,
overheard Trace and Loftus talking of sundry matters, and became
cognisant of the offer made to Trace by Mr. Henry.
"And you didn't accept it, Raymond?" he asked, plunging suddenly upon
the two in his flowery dressing-gown. "If I were going in for the
Orville competition, I shouldn't have sneezed at it. This comes of your
pride: you won't study with Paradyne."
"No, it does not, uncle," replied Trace; "though I should object to
study with Paradyne. It comes of my dislike to Mr. Henry."
"What is there to dislike in Mr. Henry?"
Trace hesitated, making no direct reply. Bertie Loftus moved away. Sir
Simon pressed his question.
Wisely or unwisely, Trace, in his ill-nature, forgot his ordinary
caution, his long-continued silence, and disclosed the suspicions
attaching to Mr. Henry in regard to the lost pencil. It was so
delightful a temptation to speak against him! Loftus came back during
the recital, and curled his lip in silent condemnation of Trace.
"Look here," said Sir Simon, wrathfully, "I'd rather suspect one of
you."
Loftus went away again without making any answer. Trace smiled very
grandly compassionate.
"You were always suspicious, Trace," continued Sir Simon; "it's in your
nature to be so, as it was in your poor mother's. He's a kindly, honest
gentleman, so far as I've seen of him. Steal a pencil, indeed! Who rose
the report? You?"
"There has not been any report," said Trace, with composure.
"Lamb saw him before the study window that night, and we wondered
whether he had come in and taken it. The doubt was hushed up, and has
died away."
"Not hushed up as far as you go, it seems. Raymond, I'd——"
Talbot and Dick Loftus came running in, and Sir Simon changed the
private bearings of the subject, for the more open one of Raymond's
pride, as he called it, in not accepting Mr. Henry's offer.
"Giving him two hours a day in the holidays!" exclaimed Talbot. "I wish
it had been made to me!"
"You do!" cried Sir Simon. "I suppose you hope to get the prize
yourself?"
"I shall try my best for it, sir," said the boy, laughing. "Seventy
pounds a year for three years! It would take me to Oxford; and there's
no other chance of my getting there."
Holidays for everybody but poor Mr. Henry! He was slaving on. He took
George Paradyne for two hours a day; he took another boy, one of the
outsiders, who was poor, friendless, and very backward; receiving
nothing for either; he gave Miss Rose Brabazon her daily lessons,
French one day, German the next, alternately; he went to Mrs. Gall's,
to drill three of her little boys, not out at school yet, in Latin and
Greek; and he worked hard at his translation, which translation was a
very difficult one to get on quickly with, necessitating continual
references to abstruse works; for Mr. Henry discovered numerous errors
in the original, and desired, in his conscientiousness, to set them
right in the English version.
He was at home one morning, a few days after the holidays began, buried
in his translation books, marking the faults in Miss Rose Brabazon's
last French dictation—and he believed nobody else could have made so
many—when Sir Simon Orville walked in. The sweet, kind, patient
expression in Mr. Henry's face had always struck him: very patient and
wearied did it look to-day. It was Christmas Eve.
"Hard at work? But this is holiday time, Mr. Henry."
Mr. Henry smiled and brightened up. "Some of us don't get the chance of
any holiday, Sir Simon," he cheerfully said, as if it were a good joke.
"Bad, that! All work and no play, you know but I'd better not enlarge
on that axiom," broke off Sir Simon, "since my errand here is to give
you more work. Of the boys whose names are down for the Orville, one
comes to you daily, I hear."
"Yes; Paradyne," replied Mr. Henry, feeling rather sensitive at
mentioning the name which must be so unwelcome to the brother of the
late Mrs. Trace.
"Ay, Paradyne. You made an offer to my nephew, Raymond Trace, to take
him also for the holidays, I hear. And he declined."
"I should have been so glad to be of service to him!" returned Mr.
Henry, his eyes lighting with the earnestness of the wish.
"The prejudiced young jackass!" explosively cried Sir Simon. "Well, the
loss is his. But now, I want you to make the same offer to another, one
who won't refuse it; and that's Talbot—Lord Shrewsbury, as they call
him. He's staying with me—you know it, perhaps—and he can come to you
daily. The boy has only his education to look to in life; he does not
possess a golden horde laid up in lavender to make ducks and drakes of
when he comes of age, as some of the rascals do; and through those
other two bright nephews of mine his studies were stopped for some four
or five weeks. Will you take him?"
"Yes, and gladly, Sir Simon. He—perhaps"—Mr. Henry paused and
hesitated—"will have no objection to study with young Paradyne?"
"He'd better not let me hear of it, if he has," retorted Sir Simon.
"Why should he? Paradyne and his people have not hurt _him_. No, no;
Talbot's another sort of fellow to that. And now, what shall we say
about terms? Don't be afraid of laying it on, Mr. Henry; it's my
treat."
"I could not charge," said Mr. Henry, interrupting the cheering laugh.
"Excuse me, Sir Simon; but I am not helping the boys for money. It
would scarcely be an honourable thing. I am well paid by Dr. Brabazon;
and any little assistance I can give them out of school is only their
due."
"But you are not paid to teach them Latin and Greek and mathematics.
You have the right to make the most of your holidays."
"I scarcely see that I have, so far as the college pupils are
concerned. Let Talbot come to me at once, Sir Simon; but please say no
more about payment. Robbing me of my time? No, indeed, not of a minute,
if he comes with Paradyne: their studies are the same. As to any little
trouble of my own, I would not think of accepting money for that. I am
too glad to give it."
Sir Simon nodded approvingly; he liked the generosity of the feeling,
and shook Mr. Henry's hand heartily as he went out.
"The cocked-up young Pharisee!" he soliloquized, apostrophizing the
unconscious Trace, and dashing an enormous gig umbrella, that he had
brought as a walking-stick, into the ground. "If ever there was an
honest, honourable, good spirit, it's his I have just left. Mr. Trace
and his uncharitable suspicions will get taken down some day, as sure
as he is living."
Turning into the college, he went straight on to the sitting-room,
where Miss Brabazon was, to all appearance, alone. Rose was behind the
curtain at the far end of the room, ostensibly learning her German, for
Mr. Henry would be due in ten minutes; really buried in a charming
fairy-tale book, lent to her by Jessie Gall. And her sister had
forgotten she was there.
"What is it that these rascally boys have picked up against that poor
young German master?" began Sir Simon, in his impulsive fashion. "Do
you know, Miss Emma?"
Emma Brabazon laid down the pretty baskets of flowers she was arranging
for the evening; for her married brothers and sisters and their
children were coming that day on their usual Christmas sojourn. But she
did not answer.
"Trace has been talking to me about the lost pencil," resumed Sir
Simon. "But _surely_ it is a slander to suspect him of having taken it.
Miss Emma, I'd lay my life he is as honest as I am; and he's a vast
deal more of a gentleman."
"It was very foolish of Trace to speak of it," she said. "Pray forget
it, Sir Simon. The thing has dropped."
"But did you suspect him? You must forgive me, my dear, for asking you
these questions; I intended to ask Dr. Brabazon, not you, but I find he
is out."
"And I am very glad he is, Sir Simon, for I have never told papa. There
were circumstances that seemed to throw a suspicion on Mr. Henry at the
time, but they were so doubtful that it was best not to speak of them;
and I desired Trace—who was the one to bring them under my notice—to
let them die away."
"Oh, Trace brought them to you, did he? But how do you mean they were
doubtful?"
"In so far as that Mr. Henry, if applied to, might have been able to
explain them all away. It would have been very cruel to bring
accusation against any one on grounds so slight."
"Just so. Well, my dear lady, I'd stake Pond Place against Mr. Raymond
Trace's prejudices, that the young man is as upright as he is—perhaps
more so. We poor sinners shan't be able to stand in Master Trace's
presence with our hats on soon; he must be going on for heaven
head-foremost, he must, with all this self-righteousness."
Emma Brabazon laughed, and followed Sir Simon out, talking. Upon which
Miss Rose emerged from her hiding-place to escape, her German book in
her hand, and the fairy tale stuffed up her frock.
"What did they mean?" debated the young lady, who had but imperfectly
understood. "If I could find out, I'd tell him. He is always kind to me
with my German, though I am so tiresome. I hate that Trace: he never
gives me anything; and he stole one of my letters out of Dick's drawer
the other day, and made game of it."
People called Sir Simon Orville an odd man. Mr. Raymond Trace in
particular could not understand him; there were moments when that young
gentleman deemed his respected uncle fit only for a lunatic asylum. He
had surely thought him so this morning, had he been behind him. For Sir
Simon, quitting Dr. Brabazon's, went on direct to Mrs. Paradyne's. It
was not the first visit he had paid her in her present residence.
Deprecating, as he did, the past frauds and crimes of which her husband
was guilty, he yet in his benevolent heart thought the poor widow as
much deserving of commiseration as were his own relatives; and he chose
to show her that he thought it. His errand was to invite her and George
to dinner on the next day, Christmas; that day of peace and goodwill to
men. Mrs. Paradyne at first declined; but Sir Simon was so heartily
pressing, there was no withstanding it, and she at length yielded. He
went home, chuckling at the surprise it would be to his nephews, for
they knew nothing of it, and he did not intend to tell them.
A surprise it proved. They went for a very long walk after morning
service on the following day, and had not been home many minutes when
the guests arrived. Trace stared with all his eyes: he thought he must
be dreaming. _Was_ that Mrs. Paradyne, coming into the room on the arm
of Sir Simon, or were his eyes deceiving him? He might be wrong: he had
not seen her indoors for many years. She wore a handsome silk gown, and
a cap of real lace; rather reserved and discontented in her manner, but
essentially a lady. George followed her in, and there could be doubt no
longer. George was free, merry, open, cordial, as it was in George
Paradyne's nature to be, and he went up to Trace with his hand
outstretched, wishing him heartily a merry Christmas. Trace turned
salmon-coloured: he would not see the hand; did not respond to it.
Bertie Loftus, as if to cover the marked rudeness, put his hand
cordially into George Paradyne's; and Trace would have annihilated
Bertie, could looks have done it.
"Is he mad?" groaned Trace in a side-whisper, alluding to his uncle.
Bertie laughed. "Let us drop old grievances for once, Ray. It's
Christmas Day."
"If my mother—who died here—could but rise from her grave and see
this!" retorted Trace. He went and stood at the window, looking out,
his bosom beating with its wrongs.
Dick leaped three feet into the air when he came in and saw the guests.
The more the merrier, was Dick's creed. It was that of Talbot and Irby.
And now that they met George Paradyne on equal grounds, away from the
prejudices of the school, they all saw how much there was to admire and
like in him—Trace excepted. Had George Paradyne suddenly cast his shell
as a chrysalis does, and appeared before them an angel, Trace, in his
condemning prejudice, would have turned his back upon him. It crossed
Trace's mind to refuse to sit down to table. But he feared Sir Simon:
it would not do to offend _him_.
It was at the dessert, when the banquet was nearing its close and Mrs.
Paradyne had drawn on her gloves, that Sir Simon told Talbot he was to
go and read daily with Paradyne at Mr. Henry's. Mr. Henry's kind offer,
he called it; and he spoke a few emphatic words of praise of the
hardworking usher. Apparently the theme was not palatable to Mrs.
Paradyne. She folded her gloved hands one over the other, said a word
or two in slighting disparagement of Mr. Henry, and then resolutely
closed her lips. Evidently she had not yet forgiven the mistake which
had brought them to Orville. George, as if reading her thoughts and
struck with their injustice, glanced reproachfully at her as he turned
to Sir Simon.
"Mr. Henry is very kind to me," said the boy: "he is kind to us all.
Nobody knows how good he is. He must be very lonely to-day. He was to
have dined with us."
Sir Simon gave a start. "I _wish_ I had asked him here! The thoughtless
savage I was! No more right feeling about me than if I'd never heard of
Christmas. I might as well have been born a Red Indian."
Mr. Henry was at home, eating his dinner alone. Not potatoes or
suet-pudding to-day: he had learned to keep Christmas in Germany, and
was lavish in its honour. As George—a great deal too open-speaking to
please his mother—said, he had been invited to Mrs. Paradyne's, but
when she arranged to go to Sir Simon's she sent an apology to Mr.
Henry. Mrs. Butter cooked him a fowl and made him a jam-pudding. He
went to church in the morning and stayed for the after-service. As he
sat over the fire after dinner, in the twilight of the evening, he
could not help feeling as if he were alone in the world—that there was
nobody to care for him. At the best, his life, in its social aspect,
was not a very happy one. He had a great deal of care always upon him,
and he saw no chance of its ever being removed; but he was learning to
live for a better world than this.
Miss Rose Brabazon had let her tongue run riot the previous day,
telling him something confidentially—he could not make out what. Rose's
own ideas were obscure upon the point, therefore it was too much to
expect they would be clear to him. The young lady thought that "Trace
and Emma and 'some of them' feared he might have been capable of taking
papa's diamond pencil-case, just as much as the real thief who came in
at the glass doors and stole it." It had startled Mr. Henry beyond
measure; _startled_ him, and thrown him into a mass of perplexity. The
impression conveyed to him was, not that he was suspected of taking the
pencil, but, that he might be capable of taking one. What reason could
they have for believing him capable of such a thing?
Later in the evening he strolled out in the cold starlight air. He felt
so very lonely, so isolated from all the world, that only to look at
the gay windows of other people was company. Every house, poor and
rich, seemed to be holding its Christmas party. Quite a flood of light
streamed from Mr. Gall's—from Dr. Brabazon's; all but himself were
keeping Christmas. There was neither envy nor rebellion in his heart.
His only thought was, "If they knew I was here alone, they would invite
me in." He pictured the inside gladness, and rejoiced in it as though
it were his own. "Peace on earth, and goodwill to men!" he murmured
gratefully over and over again.
The muslin curtains were before the dining-room windows at Dr.
Brabazon's, but not the shutters. It was a large party—all the children
and grandchildren. A smile crossed Mr. Henry's lips as he thought of
Miss Rose in her element. Save the admiration of the college boys,
there was nothing that young damsel liked so much as company. Mr. Henry
halted and looked across the lawn, and by so doing apparently disturbed
another watcher. A man turned round from the window, against which he
had been crouched, and came away.
"What do you want there?" exclaimed Mr. Henry, going forward to
confront him.
"Nothing to-night," was the ready answer; "I'll come another time."
All in a moment, Mr. Henry recognized the voice; recognized the
low-crowned hat, and the slightly lame step. He placed himself in the
intruder's way.
"I saw you here once before, at the back of the house then: you were
looking for the entrance, you said, to deliver a letter. Did you—did
you enter the house that night and take anything?"
"No; _you_ did."
The cool and positive assertion nearly took away Mr. Henry's presence
of mind. He had spoken upon impulse. He was quite uncertain what he
ought to do in the emergency, whether anything or not. Meanwhile the
stranger was walking quietly away, and Mr. Henry did nothing.
The following day he met Miss Brabazon with some of her relatives and a
whole troop of children. She was a little behind the rest, hastening to
catch them up.
"Will you allow me to speak to you for one moment, Miss Brabazon?"
"Well," she answered, rather impatiently, as if it were a trouble to
remain. It cannot be denied that she had at times treated him with
scant courtesy since the suspicion of him instilled into her mind by
Trace.
He told her what he had seen; that he recognised the voice to be the
same; recognised the man and his lameness. Miss Brabazon's face grew
white.
"He was looking in at us, you say?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Are you coming, Emma? What are you about?" called out the party in
front, who had turned and halted. "John will miss the train."
"Mr. Henry, oblige me in one thing," she hurriedly said; "_don't speak
of this_. I may trust you?"
"Indeed you may," he answered. "You may doubt me, Miss Brabazon; you
have perhaps only too good cause to doubt me; but you may at least rely
upon me in this."
Emma Brabazon ran on, the curious words ringing their echo on her ears.