A Man in a Blaze.
The winter holidays soon passed, and the boys came back to college
again. "No pistols this time, I hope, Mr. Loftus," was the Head
Master's greeting to that gentleman, and it called a mortified
expression into the handsome face. Loftus's whiskers were growing, and
he had taken to wear a ring in private. Trace smiled pityingly; Dick
made fun of both appendages; but their owner knew not which of the two
to admire most.
The routine of school set in, and the boys were busy; some few studying
hard, chiefly those who were to go up for the Oxford examination in
June; others going in for idleness, mischief, and sport; playing
football, snow-balling, making presents and writing love-letters to
Miss Rose. All the candidates for the Orville prize were going up for
the Oxford examination; it was essential they should pass that, or else
withdraw from the competition for the Orville.
But none, whether boys or masters, worked on so patiently and
persistently as Mr. Henry, for none had so much to do. His private
assistance to Talbot terminated with the holidays; but not so that to
George Paradyne. Trace was outrageously angry at the latter fact, and
spoke his mind: as Paradyne was going in for the Orville prize, it was
_disgraceful_ to give him an advantage that the others did not get.
Trace's opinion carried the school with it: Paradyne was shunned worse
than before, and resentment prevailed against the German master.
"You have only to come to me," Mr. Henry reiterated to them; "I can
read with a dozen of you just as well as I can with one. I have no wish
surreptitiously to get Paradyne on; I would a great deal rather that
you should all keep together, and enjoy the same advantages, one as the
other; but if you will not come to me, and he does, the blame rests
with you."
"Such a thing as coaching a fellow for the Orville prize was never
heard of before, you know," retorted Brown major.
"I am not coaching him for the Orville prize. I am not coaching him at
all, for the matter of that. He reads the classics with me, and I
explain away his difficulties in mathematics. It is preparatory to the
Oxford examination, not the Orville."
"The one implies the other," said the angry boys. And they spurned the
assistance for themselves; which, metaphorically speaking, was like
cutting off their noses to spite their faces. Talbot would have liked
to continue, but could not fly in the teeth of popular prejudice.
"Perhaps I'd better give it up," said George Paradyne one day, throwing
himself back in his chair at Mr. Henry's.
"Give what up?"
"Everything. What with the life at college and the life at home, I'm
ready to—to—pitch the whole overboard," concluded Mr. George, having
hesitated for an expression sufficiently strong to denote his feelings.
"You have only to bear up bravely against the one; you'll live it down
in time——"
"Rather a prolonged time, it seems," put in George, who was quite
unlike his own light-hearted self to-day.
"And for the other," continued Mr. Henry, ignoring the interruption,
"you should bear it cheerfully, for you know it is born of love for
you."
"Ah, but you can't _imagine_ what it is," said the boy, leaning
forward, his wide-open bright grey eyes full of eagerness. "It has been
worse since we dined at Sir Simon's; that called up to mamma all the
old forfeited prosperity. The grumbling never ceases; the lamentation's
dreadful. We can't make ourselves rich, if we are not rich, so where's
the use of groaning over it? It drives me wild."
"Hush, George."
"But I can't hush. Mamma is so ungrateful. There's poor Mary slaving in
that school, never coming up for the holidays; and here's——"
"George, I'll not hear this. Your mother's trials are very great."
"There's an awful bother about the Christmas bills," went on George,
paying slight attention to the reproof. "I wish you'd come down and
talk with her."
"I! My talking might do more harm than good."
"You might try to smooth things a little—get her to look at troubles in
a different light. Won't you? I can tell you it is miserable for me."
"Well, I'll see. Go on with your Greek now."
Mr. Henry, ever ready to do good where it was to be done—to throw oil
on troubled waters—went down that evening to Mrs. Paradyne's. His
interference was not received graciously. Mrs. Paradyne invited him to
an opposite chair, and talked at him from the sofa.
"I _should_ like to know what business it is of Mr. Henry's," she
exclaimed, her cold resentful manner in full play. And of course he
could not reply that it was any business of his; but he spoke of the
trouble it was causing that fine boy, George; he spoke a little of the
sad past, he spoke cheerily of a future that should be brighter. Mrs.
Paradyne was often in a grumbling mood, but never in a worse than that
evening.
"I can't pay the Christmas bills. The money prepared for them I have
had to encroach upon for other things. A new silk gown I was obliged to
have; I can't go like an alms-woman. Never before did I have Christmas
bills; I paid as I went on; but the cost of things in this place is
frightful. I did not want money embarrassment added to my other
troubles. It is all through our having come up here."
Mr. Henry winced at the last reproach, too evidently directed to him.
"I did it for the best," he gently said. "I was anxious that George
should get on."
Mrs. Paradyne lifted her delicate hands with deprecation, and went on
with her complaints. They were wearying and painful, even to him; what,
then, must they be to the high-spirited and generous boy who was
exposed to them always? But Mr. Henry contrived to accomplish his
mission, and he left a feeling of peace behind him when he quitted the
house.
He had plenty of work on his hands yet that night, and ran all the way
home. Dashing into Mrs. Butter's kitchen for a light, a quicker mode
than ringing for that esteemed and rather slow landlady to bring it, he
dashed against a man who was seated on the kitchen table by fire-light,
his legs swaying. No need to wait for recognition this time; it was the
young man he had twice seen near the college.
"Well?" said the latter, with cool equanimity; "there's room to pass
without knocking me over."
"Who are you?" exclaimed Mr. Henry; "are you waiting to see Mrs.
Butter?"
"I have seen her—cross-grained old thing! Her temper does not improve
with years."
Before anything more passed, or Mr. Henry had in the least formed an
idea as to the aspect of affairs, Mrs. Butter came in with Miss
Brabazon. The latter had a shawl over her head, and burst out crying as
she spoke to the stranger. "Oh, Tom, why have you come here?"
"Can I be of any assistance to you, Miss Brabazon?" whispered Mr.
Henry, partially comprehending the mystery. "Will you make use of my
sitting-room?"
"Thank you. It is my brother!"
Yes, it was her brother,—the great incubus on Dr. Brabazon's life. In
spite of all that had been done to reclaim him; in defiance of
education, position, training, Tom Brabazon had turned out a black
sheep amidst the doctor's white flock. Dr. Brabazon had paid and paid
until he could pay no more; Emma Brabazon never awoke to morning light
but a dread crossed her mind of what trouble in regard to him the day
might bring forth. It was not only debt; he had done worse things than
spend; he had been in prison for three months, and worn the felon's
dress, and had his hair cut close; he had been forbidden his father's
house; he dared not show himself there or elsewhere in the broad light
of day. Mrs. Butter, faithful to the family, knew about it, and she
said a word or two of explanation to Mr. Henry as he sat on the other
side of her fireplace, while the brother and sister were in his
parlour.
"He wants to stay here," she resentfully cried, giving her fire a
fierce stir, as if she were stirring up the delinquent. "He is obliged
to be in hiding again; and he avows it with all the brass in the world.
I'd not have gone to Miss Emma with my own will, but he made me. Ah!
the aching heart that she and my poor master have had with him, that
ill-doing Tom!"
Emma came in, her eyes inflamed. "You must let him be in that upper
room for a day or two; there's no help for it," she said to Mrs.
Butter. "And he must have a bit of supper to-night. I'm going back now,
or papa may find out my absence. Of course—you know—his being here must
be kept a secret."
"I know, Miss Emma," was the wrathful answer; made doubly wrathful
because the gentleman had entered. "He up and told me that the first
thing."
"Hold your tongue, Mother Butter," cried Tom Brabazon, laughing as if
he had not a care in life. "You have been in scrapes yourself before
this, I'll lay. Mind you make me a plum-pudding to-morrow; I've not
tasted a piece of one yet. Perhaps you'll introduce this gentleman to
me, Emma."
And she obeyed mechanically. In the blow the night had brought, she
felt utterly bewildered. "My unfortunate brother, Thomas Brabazon; Mr.
Henry."
Mr. Henry acknowledged the introduction slightly; and took up his hat
to walk home with Miss Brabazon. She begged him not to take the
trouble, but he quietly insisted, and they went out together.
"Is this the same that you have seen near the college?" she asked, as
they went along.
"It is."
"Ah, yes; I only inquired to see if you remembered him. He denies, most
positively, having entered the study that night; and when I spoke of
the pencil, he apparently did not know what I meant. He had written a
letter to papa, asking for some trifling temporary assistance,
intending to send it in and wait for the answer. But he saw the front
sitting-rooms were in darkness, and went round, fearing we were out, to
see if the back ones were. That is what he says. We were out, you know,
as the want of light showed him, and he returned to London, and was
arrested before he could come again. When I mentioned the pencil, he
asked whether I thought he had become worse than a common thief to
touch _that_. I don't think he took it."
"But why have used an evasion to me—that he was looking for the
entrance to the college?" returned Mr. Henry.
"He fears an enemy in every person he meets, and I suppose wished to
pass himself off as a stranger. Mr. Henry, I must rely on you not to
betray his sojourn at your house."
"Betray him! You little know me. Anything in the world I can do for
him, or for you, or for Dr. Brabazon, in this painful emergency, I
shall only be too happy to do, faithfully and truly."
"You see now," she said, with a faint smile, "that we have too much
trouble of our own to be severe upon others. Every bit of secret pride
has been taken out of us, and papa's hair is grey before its time. He
is the eldest son."
"The eldest son?"
"Yes, the oldest of us all. He went wrong first of all at Oxford, and
instead of retrieving his position, or allowing it to be retrieved for
him, as others do who get into debt there, he went on from bad to
worse. Good night, Mr. Henry."
She hung her shawl up in the inner hall, smoothed her hair, and went in
as if nothing unusual had happened. Mr. Jebb was sitting with Dr.
Brabazon; they were in an animated discussion about some popular
question of the day, and her absence had passed unnoticed. Miss Rose
had disappeared. Miss Rose, finding the coast clear, had taken the
opportunity to visit her treasure drawer upstairs. It contained
presents and love-letters; the one of about as much real value as the
other; but the young lady coveted both. Some fresh parcels had just
arrived to be added to the collection: we may as well look over her
while she examines them. And I beg to state, for the benefit of society
in general, that the letters are but copies of genuine originals.
"Dear Miss Rose,—I hope you will accept of the enclosed trifle. With my
best love, believe me yours ever affectionately,
"Dick L."
Which stood for Dick Loftus. The enclosed trifle was a thin paper
scent-case, pretty to the eye and sweet to the nose. Rose gave a few
sniffs, and flung it into the drawer to take up another.
"My dearest Miss Rose,—Will you oblige me by trying the accompanying?
That blue bonnet you wore on Sunday was charming. Ever yours, C.
Brown."
Meaning Brown minor. A packet of barley-sugar came with this, and Miss
Rose began upon it greedily. Then she turned to the third.
"Ever dear Rose,—I take this favourable opertunity of writeing to you,
Our desk got in a row this morning and I can't go out to buy that
broche I told you of, If Stiggings buys it you fling it in his face, I
send you a few rasons if you'll except of them, We are going to have a
joly lark this week with Mother Butter, Your affectionate lover, Alfred
Jones."
Mr. Alfred Jones was a gentleman of Miss Rose's own age, thirteen. She
put as many raisins into her mouth as it would conveniently hold, and
went on again.
"Beloved Miss Rose,—_Would_ you wear the accompanied box for my sake, I
mean its contents, which Jones minor (that wretched little muff in the
fifth form, you know) said he should buy for you, the impudense of the
youngster. I expect some jam to-morrow and shall send you a pot. Ever
your devoted and respectful admirer, W. Stiggings. P.S.—I hope you have
less bother now with those beastly lessons. Miss Brabazon's a tyrent."
The box contained a very smart brooch, for which W. Stiggins, who was a
year older than Jones minor, had given ninepence. Miss Rose stuck it
into her dress and figured off before the glass, eating alternately the
raisins and the barley-sugar. Emma had not called her down, or come to
see after her, so she thought she might write her acknowledgments, and
got out a pencil and some delicate miniature note-paper, straw-coloured
and notched round the edge.
"Dear Mr. Loftus,—Thank you for the scent-paper, it's very delicious,
but not so nice as that almond-rock you sent me. I've no more time, for
fear Emma should come up. Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.I saw you all riding
that donkey on the common, why didn't you look up? I was with Jessie
Gall and their governess."
This accomplished, she went on to the next, taking them in rotation.
"Dear Mr. Brown,—The barley-sugar's first-rate; I've eaten it nearly
all. It's a love of a bonnet. I wanted Emma to let me have a blue
mantle like it, and she went and bought a black! Ever yours, Rose B.
P.S.—Please excuse the smuge; an old raisen out of my drawer got
crushed on it."
And the next was to Jones minor.
"Dear Mr. Jones,—I'm very sorry about the brooch; perhaps you could get
me something else. Don't you ever speak to Stiggins—I shouldn't. The
raisens are gritty; perhaps you droped them. Do pay out that Mother
Butter. She told Emma the other day I was a little minx. Couldn't you
steal her cat? So no more at present from yours ever, Rose B. P.S.—You
ought to do some dictation."
And then came the last.
"Dear Mr. Stiggins,—The brooch is beautiful; I've got it in my frock
now, but daredn't go down in it for fear of Emma. I wonder you could
ever mention Jones minor to me. Why do you speak to him? I don't. I
like jam, apricot especially. The lessons are worse than ever, and I
wish German was buried. Emma's going to have me put into linear
drawing, or some such horrid name, so I mean to break all the pencils.
Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.—I'd tell you of something I heard from Jessie
Gall, only I'm afraid Emma will be up."
These various missives were directed to the gentlemen, each of them
receiving the title of "esquire," and Miss Rose locked up her
treasures, the brooch included. A little cousin of hers who was in the
junior class, and ran in at will, was made the messenger on either
side; otherwise the young men might have found it difficult to convey
their offerings to the shrine.
A few days passed. One dark evening Mrs. Butter was in her kitchen,
making toast for her not very welcome lodger-guest, who had descended
from his room of concealment to talk to her and enjoy the warmth, when
there came a sudden and imperious knocking at the casement. Down went
the toasting-fork, and Tom Brabazon sprang from the fire into a dark
corner.
"Not there, Mr. Tom," she whispered. "Better go upstairs again; it's
safest."
One fear only was in the mind of both of them—that this peremptory
summons must mean mischief to the fugitive hiding from the law. Mrs.
Butter, when he had escaped, drew the heavy red curtain from before the
window, and looked out. She expected to see some officers of justice
there, or something as formidable; her heart rose to her month; he
_was_ her old master's son, with all his faults and sins, and she would
have shielded him with her life.
"Don't open the door on any account," softly cried Tom Brabazon, from
the stairs.
Between the light inside and the darkness out, combined with her own
flurry, Mrs. Butter could see absolutely nothing. A form in a hat, as
of a short, stout man, at last made itself dimly visible to her, but he
seemed to be standing with his back to the window; at least, she could
discern no features.
"What do you please to want, sir?" she called out, deeming it well to
be civil.
Instead of making any answer, the glass was rapped at again, more
peremptorily than before. Mrs. Butter drew the easement open; it had
upright iron bars on the outside, so there was no danger that any
Philistine, above the size of a thin rabbit, could make his way in.
"What is it?" she asked.
But still the man never spoke; and now that her eyes were getting
accustomed to the darkness, she saw that he had no face, or if he had a
face, it was enveloped and hidden from view. A disagreeable feeling, as
of some vague fear, stole over her.
"What is it, sir, I ask? Won't you please to say what you want?"
All in a moment, without warning, the man burst into a blaze. Blazed up
as if he had been coated with pitch or stuffed with gunpowder, and had
suddenly caught fire. Mrs. Butter, nearly beside herself with terror,
darted back from the window, uttering scream upon scream.
For some little time all was confusion. Mr. Henry, and Tom Brabazon,
the one brought from his room by the cries and the light, the other
forgetting his needful privacy in the interests of humanity, rushed out
of doors, each with a bucket of water. But the burning man, who
appeared to have arrived on an iron barrow, was suddenly wheeled to a
safe spot off the premises, and a set of gleeful savages were dancing
and shouting round him, while he blazed away. Tom Brabazon stole
indoors again.
Need you be told that this was the work of the college boys? It was the
"jolly lark" hinted at by Jones minor to Miss Rose. They had made a
straw figure, introducing a modicum of gunpowder, and fired it before
Madam Butter's eyes for her especial edification.
Dancing, howling, shouting, the boys did not see the approach of Mr.
Baker until that gentleman was close upon them. He had happened to be
passing within view, and ran up in terror. They took flight then; and
indeed there was nothing to wait for, for the figure had nearly emitted
his last spark. Mr. Baker, rather in fear still, perplexed, and
outrageously angry, threw out his arms in the dark, but only succeeded
in grasping one: the rest eluded him. That one was George Paradyne.
Mrs. Butter, in a state of fury, came out with her tale.
"I'll cane _you_ at all events," said Mr. Baker to his captive. "Come
with me."
"I have not done anything," said George. "I don't know now what has
happened."
"I'll teach you, you vagabond, what has happened," stuttered Mr. Baker,
still further exasperated by the assumption of ignorance, which he
entirely disbelieved. "Come along."
He marshalled George Paradyne away to the hall, holding his jacket
collar. Every boy had got back before them. About twenty were in the
fray, and Mr. Baker had not distinguished one. They were seated
sedately at their evening lessons now, in common with the rest, and not
to be distinguished. The angry master got out his cane.
"One single moment, Mr. Baker, before you strike me," said George
Paradyne. "I _declare_ that I was not in this. I knew nothing of it: I
was going to Mr. Henry's for my usual reading when I came upon the
blaze. Surely they will tell you I was not in it! They never do let me
join in anything."
Mr. Baker paused, cane in air. George Paradyne had certainly been
amidst the throng: he did not believe that he was not joining in the
mischief.
"I was not in it, indeed, sir: I had but run up when you came. I was
asking what it was."
"Who was in it, if you were not?" asked Mr. Baker. "You saw."
"I saw some of them."
"Tell me who they were. I shall cane you if you don't."
George looked round on the boys, as if to say, "Will none of you
exculpate me?" They dropped their eyes on their books, and made no
response.
"I shall cane you, Paradyne, if you don't tell."
"I can't help it, sir. I will not tell."
He took his punishment, a very severe one. Pulling his jacket on his
stiff and aching arms, when it was over, he once more looked at the lot
as he went out. And the boys, in their heart of hearts, felt that
George Paradyne, the despised, was made of nobler stuff than they were.