If the Boys had but seen!
The long worked-for Oxford examination was over, and the results were
at length known. Irby and Fullarton had not passed; Powell had not gone
up for it by the decision of the Head Master; the rest had passed,
including Paradyne. All George Paradyne's apprehensions, and the
school's forebodings had proved alike mistaken, for Dr. Brabazon had
sent up Paradyne in spite of the damaged essay. In his glee, George
Paradyne heartily forgave all, and was his own bright self again. The
studies went on again vigorously until July: the great prize, the
Orville, had to be competed for yet.
In July the school rose for the long vacation, and Dr. Brabazon could
no longer put off the explanation with Mr. Henry, which he had deemed
it well to defer until the term should be over. To say the truth, he
shrank from it. To convict this hardworking, painstaking gentleman of
theft—and such a theft!—was a most unpleasant task to enter on. He let
a day or two pass, and while he was seeking for an opportunity to
speak, it was afforded by Mr. Henry himself. The heat, or something
else, seemed to be retaining its spite against the German master, and
on the third day of the vacation, when he was giving Miss Rose her
usual lesson, he fainted away without notice, just as he had that other
day at Mr. Gall's. He had a short cough occasionally, and symptoms of
blood-spitting.
The doctor sent Rose away and sat with him when he was restored, and
rang for Mr. Henry's favourite beverage, coffee. "You shall not go
until you have taken some, and the child's lesson can be continued
another day," said he, peremptorily and kindly, in answer to
remonstrances. "Do you think you can be very well?" he continued, the
weary look of pain on Mr. Henry's face striking him forcibly.
"Not very; perhaps I have a little overworked myself," was Mr. Henry's
reply. "Sometimes I think this place—the air, I mean—does not agree
with me."
"Have you anything on your mind?" asked the doctor; and either the
nature of the question or its suddenness brought a flush to Mr. Henry's
face. They were in the study, seated opposite each other near the large
window, the deserted playground, silent now, lying beyond it in the
vista; so that the quick flush was perfectly perceptible to Dr.
Brabazon.
"Now," thought he, "for my opportunity: I could not have a better. Mr.
Henry," he resumed, aloud, "I have for some time fancied that you had
some care or trouble, that you were concealing especially from me."
A pause. A yearning look of what seemed like detection—detection
pleading for pardon—crossed Mr. Henry's countenance. The hour, which he
had been dreading for months, was come; and he was not ready for it! He
sat in uncomfortable suspense, not knowing how much or how little the
master knew, pressing his thin fingers together, his elbows resting on
the arm of the chair.
"That some unpleasant trouble was on your mind I have undoubtedly
seen," resumed the doctor. "Now that the opportunity for explanation
has come, I think you must afford it to me."
"I cannot disclose it to you now, sir," said Mr. Henry slowly, and with
evident pain. "Perhaps in a day or two—"
"But suppose no disclosure is needed?—suppose I know it already?"
interrupted the master.
"Is that so?" asked Mr. Henry, lifting his face.
"It is. The affair has unhappily come to my knowledge; not, of course,
the inducement—the—the leading motive for yielding to the temptation. I
cannot describe to you how it has pained me. Had you been a son of mine
I could scarcely have felt it more. It seemed that I might so fully
trust you."
"Since when have you known it?" asked Mr. Henry in a low tone.
"For some weeks now. I did not stir in it at the time," continued the
master, brushing a large fly off his black waistcoat, "on account of
not interrupting the classes of the boys who were going up for the
examination. And, that over, I thought things might remain as they were
until the vacation, as they had gone on so long."
"Then you intend to discharge me, Dr. Brabazon?"
The doctor could not help thinking it was rather an _assuming_
question. He played with his paper weight on the table.
"What do _you_ think about that, Mr. Henry?"
"Of course I have feared so. But yet—"
"But yet what?"
"Oh, sir, I'd rather not go on. I was going to speak of leniency—of
consideration; but you might think it only made my offence worse."
"I will show you all the leniency in my power. I think my having
delayed the explanation proves that my intentions are not hostile, and
I will be your friend if I can. You were, I conclude, led into this by
some overwhelming pecuniary pressure, as others have been before you,
and then found that you could not redeem your act. This is Emma's view
of the case as well as mine. Why did you not make a friend of me, and
tell me your difficulty? I would have lent you the money."
"What money, sir?"
"The money you had need of. It was a poor sum to peril one's future
for—seven pounds. And why did you use Mr. Jebb's name?"
Mr. Henry had been staring with all his eyes, as if the words
bewildered him. "I don't quite understand, sir, what it is you are
talking of."
"Of my pencil, that you took from this room and pledged in Oxford
Street for seven pounds," returned the Head Master in terse language,
nettled at the assumption of ignorance and innocence. "Why do you force
me to speak out so plainly?"
Mr. Henry rose up; his whole attitude, his face, one entire questioning
astonishment. "Why, Dr. Brabazon, what is it that you would accuse me
of?" he exclaimed.
"Of the theft of the gold pencil. Of your having taken it out of this
inkstand—this inkstand," laying his hand angrily upon the article—"and
making money upon it."
The charge was so exceedingly different from the one feared by Mr.
Henry, and seemed in itself so entirely absurd and ludicrous, that he
burst into a laugh—laughed, it might be, in very relief.
"I beg your pardon, sir, a thousand times. You cannot seriously suspect
me capable of such a thing. Steal your pencil!"
"Yes, my pencil," replied Dr. Brabazon, feeling rather bewildered. "Did
you not come in at this window and take it; and then pledge it the next
day in Oxford Street for seven pounds, and say you were a master here,
and give in Mr. Jebb's name instead of your own?"
"Certainly not. What can possibly have induced you to fancy it? Oh,
sir, don't you _see_ that you might trust me better than that?"
"Well, I had thought I could," answered the doctor, feeling in a
hopeless maze. "I said so to Emma. You see, one of the boys had noticed
you that night walking about before the window; and there were other
attendant circumstances—never mind them now. I am very sorry to have
said this to you if you are innocent."
"Which of the boys was it that saw me?"
"Trace, I think. It was he who spoke to Emma." And the doctor, feeling
a conviction that this accusation was really a mistaken one, gave a
summary of the details. Mr. Henry distinctly and decisively denied the
charge, and the doctor could doubt no longer. But—that no shadow of
uncertainty might remain Mr. Henry urged him to accompany him at once
to the jeweller's shop, that the matter might be set at rest: nay,
demanded it.
"A moment ere we start, Mr. Henry," said the master. "If this is not
the trouble on your mind, what is that trouble? You cannot deny that
there's something. What is its nature?"
"Spare me the question a little while, Dr. Brabazon," came the answer,
given in a strangely-impassioned tone. "I have been wishing to tell you
all along, but I—I—have been unable; and the conflict has robbed my
days of peace, my nights of rest. Perhaps—in a few days—in a day even,
I may disclose it to you."
"What can it be?" cried the wondering doctor, gazing at him earnestly.
"Have you done anything wrong?"
"Yes, very wrong. But—it is neither theft nor murder," he added, his
eyes lighting up with their luminous smile. A smile that so strangely,
one could not tell how, imparted a feeling of confidence in him to
whomsoever it was cast upon.
They took the first conveyance, and were soon in Oxford Street. The
master of the shop was in, as before, and listened to a few offered
words of explanation. He called the same young man in—Simms.
"Look at this gentleman," he said, indicating Mr. Henry. "Do you
recognize him as one of our customers?"
Mr. Simms ran his eyes over Mr. Henry, and shook his head conclusively.
"No, sir; I don't remember ever to have seen him."
"Is he the gentleman who pledged that gold pencil with the diamond
top?"
"Oh dear no, sir. That person was older than this gentleman. They are
not in the least alike."
"Just so," said Dr. Brabazon. "Will you give me a description of that
person?"
Mr. Simms complied. "A party getting on for thirty-five, I should say,
sir: rather shabby than not, but talked offhand like a gentleman. Hair
had a reddish cast; and party walked, I believe, a little lame."
"Lame!" exclaimed the doctor, in a startled tone.
"You did not mention any lameness the other day, Simms," interposed the
jeweller.
"No, sir; I didn't know it then. When I was telling Watson afterwards
about questions being asked as to who had pledged that article, he said
the party walked lame; least-ways, that he limped in going out of the
shop. I hadn't noticed it, and so I told him; but Watson was positive."
Dr. Brabazon looked like a man who has received a blow. He went home
leaning on Mr. Henry's arm, as if he needed the support.
"Forgive me for having entertained a doubt of you," he murmured, as he
wrung his hand at parting. "Perhaps when you tell me of this trouble of
yours I may be able to make it up to you. I know now who it was took my
pencil."
And so did Mr. Henry know; for he had recognized the description and
the lameness. Mr. Tom Brabazon was the culprit; and had no doubt
enjoyed amazingly the joke of giving in the Reverend Mr. Jebb's name,
and taking in the shopmen with his assumption of innocent inexperience.
Before the time had expired for the running out of the pledge, he would
probably have enclosed the ticket to Dr. Brabazon, or to Emma, with Mr.
Jebb's name on it as large as life.
As Mr. Henry was turning from the college gate, Sir Simon Orville's
pony carriage drew up, himself and Trace in it, the latter driving. Sir
Simon ran after Dr. Brabazon, who was then crossing the lawn; Trace,
conveniently near-sighted to the German master, remained in the
carriage, and turned his head the other way. However, Mr. Henry went up
to him.
"Trace, I have a question to ask you. I understand you have been
suspecting that it was I who took the Head Master's pencil. Will you
tell me what reason you had for this?"
Trace felt uncommonly taken to. He had not a great deal of moral
courage. "Oh," said he, shuffling with the reins, "that's an old affair
now; past and gone."
"Not quite past and gone yet, Trace. What could have led to your
suspecting me? Will you tell me the truth, so far? I have a reason for
asking."
"Of course it was only a doubt. Some one must have gone in and taken
it, and Lamb saw you there before the window. And—you appear to be
always so inconveniently short of money as to make a few pounds an
object," candidly added Trace, plucking up his courage. "Pardon my
alluding to it."
"Slight grounds. I don't think I should have suspected you on such. Was
there no other reason?"
"Except that you are a sneak and a cad," rose to Trace's lips. But he
did not consider it would be convenient to speak it, and answered with
a monosyllable, "None."
"Then —— was it a kind or a good thing of you to go with these
suspicions to Miss Brabazon, my master's daughter? Had the doctor been
a different man from what he is, you might have utterly ruined me. A
charge of this nature cannot be refuted, in most cases, as easily as it
is made."
"Have you refuted this one?" asked Trace, turning full upon him.
"Yes; at once and entirely. I did not know until to-day that it stood
against me."
"Then I must tender you my apologies," returned Trace. Not that there
was the least sign of apology in his tone; rather, it seemed to have
borrowed the haughty ring of his cousin's, Bertie Loftus. "There was no
harm done, it appears, so don't let us have a fuss raised now."
"I am not one to raise a fuss. You cannot but be conscious that to you,
Trace, I have been especially tolerant—some might say forbearing. I
fear it has been lost upon you."
"You have been very kind, no doubt," cynically returned Trace. "I do
not wish more tolerance or forbearance shown to me than others get.
Neither am I conscious of having received more."
"No? Yet I have been keeping some of your secrets, Trace. Suppose I had
betrayed you in the matter of Paradyne's essay?"
"Of Paradyne's essay?" echoed Trace, seizing the whip and flicking the
ear of one of the pretty ponies. "I don't think you know what you are
talking of."
"Yes I do. And so do you. When I saw the blotches of ink on your
wristband that afternoon, and asked what had caused them, that you
should be so sedulous to tuck it out of sight, you knew as well as I
did that I guessed the secret. I did not tell of you. It would have
been a shocking thing, ruining you with the school and with the
masters. Not even to forward the interests of Paradyne in a just cause,
would I injure _you_. I wonder if you will ever understand me, Trace;
or get to learn that I would be your friend and not your enemy?"
Trace cut the air with his whip; but he gave no answer. At that moment
Sir Simon came back, holding out his hand in his cordial manner.
"You are not looking fat and rosy, Mr. Henry. Fagged with the term: it
has been a heavy one. Why don't you do as we are going to do—take a
trip over the water?"
"To Germany, Sir Simon?"
"Germany!—that's your paradise," laughed Sir Simon. "We are going to
Boulogne—not much crossing there, you know, which I confess doesn't
agree with me. We get over in an hour and a half. You should try it
yourself. Good day!"
The pony carriage rattled off, and Mr. Henry turned to Mrs. Paradyne's.
He had a little matter of business to arrange with her. But matters of
business were not always palatable to that lady; and there ensued an
unprofitable argument between herself and her visitor. He sat at the
table in the little drawing-room, his elbow on it, his thin cheek
resting on his two fingers. Mrs. Paradyne, dropping her work, a glove
of George's that she was mending, talked at him from the sofa, and in
her quiet, persistent way, allowed no reasoning but hers to be heard.
Seated near her mother was Mary Paradyne, a bright-looking girl of
twenty, with her brother George's great grey eyes. She had come home in
June, having left the school in Derbyshire, and was seeking daily
teaching near home. A Mrs. Hill, living near Pond Place, was
negotiating with her.
"Where's George?" asked Mr. Henry, when he at length rose to leave.
Mrs. Paradyne would not answer. She was resenting something that Mr.
Henry had said. He approached Miss Paradyne to shake hands, but she
left her seat and followed him out.
"You are right and mamma is wrong," she whispered, with the handle of
the closed door in her hand, and the tears gathering in her eyes as she
lifted them to his. "Oh, I wish she would not be so unjust to you.
George is spending the day at William Gall's."
All the answer Mr. Henry made was to bend down and kiss her lips. A
very suggestive action, and certainly not discreet. If the boys had but
seen!