Told at Last.
In passing the College gates on his way homewards, after quitting Mrs.
Paradyne, Mr. Henry, very much to his surprise, saw Dr. Brabazon going
in. No further explanation had taken place between them; for the doctor
had been staying at Malvern with his daughters. He held out his hand to
the young German master.
"You are looking as much astonished as if you thought I was my own
ghost," cried he, jestingly.
"Well, sir, I should almost as soon have expected to see it. I thought
you were at Malvern."
"A little matter of business brought me up. I go back to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" echoed Mr. Henry. "Can you let me speak to you before you
go back?" he continued on sudden impulse.
"Certainly. Come in with me now if you like."
Dr. Brabazon led the way to his favourite room, the study, and they sat
down there in the subdued light of the summer's evening. The sun had
set; a crimson glow lingered in the west, and the evening star shone in
the clear sky. Perhaps Mr. Henry was glad of the semi-light; it is the
most welcome of all for an embarrassing interview.
"I have been anxious for you to return," he began in a low, distinct
tone. "I did not like to make my communication to you by letter, and
yet there was little time to spare."
"Why was there little?" interrupted the master.
"Because, sir, you may have occasion to look out for some one to
replace me in the College."
"Are you going to leave?"
"Not of my own accord; but you will in all probability dismiss me when
you have heard my confession."
He made a pause, but the doctor, waiting for more, did not break it.
They were, as usual, near the window, and what light there was fell
full on Mr. Henry. His hands lay on his knee listless; his face was
bent, in its sad earnestness, towards the master. A strange look of
contrition was upon it.
"I hardly know which you would deem the worse crime, Dr. Brabazon," he
resumed; "the theft you were led to suspect me of, or the real offence
of which I am guilty. I have not stolen property; but my whole life
since I came here has been one long-acting deceit."
"Why, what can you mean?" exclaimed the doctor, who had nearly
forgotten that there remained anything to explain, and was again
putting full trust in his German master.
"Deceit especially to you, and in a degree to others," came the reply.
"I am not Mr. Henry. Henry is only one of my Christian names. I am
Arthur Paradyne."
The doctor sat staring. "You are——; I don't understand," he cried,
breaking off in hopeless bewilderment.
"I am Arthur Henry Paradyne, son to the unfortunate gentleman who was
associated with the firm of Loftus and Trace in Liverpool; son to Mrs.
Paradyne; brother to Mary and George."
"Why, bless my heart!" slowly exclaimed the master, when he had taken
in the sense of the words; and then he came to a full stop, and fell
into his sea of bewilderment again.
"I never intended to deceive you—never;" resumed the young man. "When I
came over to enter on the situation here, I fully meant to disclose to
you that I was Arthur Paradyne. The name had not been concealed by any
premeditation; but—if I may so express it—in the ordinary course of
things. I was always called 'Henry' at the university, and in the town
of Heidelberg. My father at one time was living there; he was Mr.
Paradyne with the Germans—for they often forgot to give him his title
of captain—I, by way of distinction, was called Mr. Henry. It is a
foreign custom. In my case it grew into entire use; and before I left
Heidelberg, I believe three parts of the people there had forgotten I
possessed any other name. I was willing it should be so forgotten;
after that terrible calamity in Liverpool, Paradyne was a tainted name,
and I took no pains to recall it to any one, friend or stranger. Can
you wonder at it, sir?"
"Go on," cried Dr. Brabazon, giving no direct answer to the question.
"The negotiations for my coming here were made between you and
Professor Von Sark, one of our chiefs. You wrote to request him to
supply you with a master who could teach French and German. He knew I
was wishing to do better for myself, in the point of remuneration, than
I was doing in the university, and proposed it to me. It was what I had
long wanted, and I begged him to accept it for me. Until the
negotiations were concluded, I did not know that he had throughout
written of me by the name of Henry, and by that only. It did not much
matter, I thought; I could explain when I came."
"And why did you not?"
"Ah! there lies my sin," was the somewhat emotional answer; and the
Head Master thought the young man before him was taking almost an
exaggerated view of his offence. "The first evening of my arrival,
there was no opportunity: many were coming and going, and you were
fully occupied; but when I heard myself addressed in my own tongue as
'Mr. Henry,' when you introduced me to your daughter and to the masters
as such, my face flushed with shame: it was so like premeditated
deceit. I should have told you that night but for the bustle that arose
in consequence of the accident to Talbot: it took all opportunity away.
The next morning the bustle continued; Talbot's friends came; the
doctors came; it seemed that you had not a minute for me. In the
afternoon arose that unpleasantness connected with the discovery that
George Paradyne was—who he was; rendering it all the more essential for
me to declare myself. But still I could not get the opportunity: the
story would have been a long one; and I wished to consult you as to
whether I might not still be generally known as Mr. Henry. Do you
recollect, sir, my meeting you in the stone corridor just after tea,
and asking if I could speak with you?"
"I think I do. I was in a hurry, I know, at the moment; for I had
business at the railway station."
"Yes; you were going out, and said quickly to me, 'Another time, Mr.
Henry, another time.' I went down to Mrs. Paradyne's that evening, and
she—my mother—utterly forbid me to disclose it. 'Did I want to ruin
everybody?' she asked; 'herself, me, George.' Was it likely that I,
Arthur Paradyne's son, should be retained at my post to _teach_ the
College boys, when a question had arisen whether George might be even
allowed to study with them? It was a doubt that had never before struck
me; it staggered me now. My mother took a different view of it. The
fact of my being a Paradyne could not make any difference to the boys,
or render me less efficient as a teacher, she urged, so long as they
were in ignorance of it. It was only by the knowledge that harm could
come. Well; I yielded. I yielded, knowing how mistaken the reasoning
was, utter sophistry; knowing how wrong a part I should be playing; but
she was very urgent, and—she was my mother. There's my secret, Dr.
Brabazon."
"A secret truly," observed the Head Master, leaning back in his chair,
while he revolved the tale.
"The weight of it has half killed me," returned Mr. Henry, lifting his
hand to his head, as if he felt a pain there. "At any moment discovery
was liable to fall, bringing disgrace in its train. It was not so much
_that_ that I felt—or feared—as the actual deceit in itself. My life
was a long living lie, every moment of it one of acted duplicity: I,
set up in a post of authority to guide and train others! When the
school broke up for Christmas I begged my mother to withdraw her
embargo, and let me speak then, but she would not. She would see about
it when George had passed his Oxford examination, she said, not before.
It is not with her full consent that I speak now; but I laid the two
only alternatives before her—to declare myself, or leave the
College—and she allowed me to speak as the lesser evil. In any case I
may have to leave."
"We'll see: we'll see: I think not. Why should you?" added the master,
apparently putting the question to himself, or to the four walls of the
room, but not to Mr. Henry. "I am glad to see young men respect the
wishes of their mother."
And Mr. Henry's respect for his—that is, his sense of the law of filial
obedience—was something ultra great. But he did not say it.
"What a trouble that past business of your father's must have been to
you!" exclaimed the doctor, whose thoughts were roving backwards.
Trouble! Mr. Henry shrank at the word, as relating to it, even now. "It
took every ray of sunshine out of my life," he breathed.
"No, no; not every one," said the master, kindly.
"For a long, long time every ray of hope—of _life_ I may say—went out
of me. And now my—my hope lies elsewhere; there's not much of it left
for daily use."
"Where does it lie?" questioned the Head Master, rather puzzled.
The young man gave no answer, unless a sudden hectic that flushed his
face, and was discernible even in the fading light could be called
such. ONE, looking down at him from beyond that tranquil sky, grey now,
knew where it lay, and what it was vested in.
"I had revered my father as the most honourable, just, good man
living," he resumed, in a low tone; "a Christian man, a brave officer
and gentleman; and when the blow came it seemed to stun me—to take away
everything that was worth living for."
He spoke only in accordance with the truth. The blow was great; his
sensitiveness was exceeding great, and the shock had cut off all hope
for this life. His spirit was by nature a proud spirit; his rectitude
great; to do ill in the eyes of the world—and such ill!—would to him
have been simply impossible; and the awful disgrace that seemed to fall
upon him, to have made itself his, struck to every fibre of his inward
life. Never more could he hold up his head in the sight of men. Added
to this, was the terrible grief for his father, whom he so loved—for
his father's fall, and his father's death. This, of itself, would have
gone well nigh to break his heart.
"Have you been assisting your mother?" asked the doctor, remembering
the stories carried to him of Mr. Henry's saving habits.
"Oh yes."
"Ay," said the master, as if this explained all.
Few young men have their hopes blighted on the very threshold of life
as his had been. His prospects came suddenly to an end with the shock.
Not a doubt of his father's guilt had penetrated his mind. The
particulars, as written to him circumstantially by Mrs. Paradyne, did
not admit of doubt. He had been working for them ever since. Mrs.
Paradyne had a very small income of her own, not much more than enough
to find her in gloves and ribbons and a new silk gown once in a way.
Arthur (with what little help her daughter could give) had to do the
rest. And she was not kind to him. Perhaps it was the long
separation—he over in Germany, she in England—that estranged her
affections from him, her eldest son. In time he wrote word to her that
he had accepted an engagement in England, at Orville College, and
suggested that George should be moved to it. He had two ends in
view—the one the advantage of the boy; the other that he might get some
intercourse with his mother and sister. He knew how he should have to
toil and pinch to meet the additional expenses, but that seemed
nothing. A shadow, of what the future was to be, fell over him before
he had quitted Heidelberg; for on the morning of his departure there
came a letter from Mrs. Paradyne warning him _not to make himself known
as George's brother or as her son_, at first, until they should have
met and talked the matter over. They did meet. On the evening following
that of Mr. Henry's arrival he went to her house, as perhaps may be
remembered, since Mr. Raymond Trace chose, in a sense, to assist at it.
During that interview he had a lesson taught him—that the future was to
be estrangement, or something akin to it, between him and his family.
He was to continue "Mr. Henry," never to disclose himself as a
Paradyne, lest the authorities at the college should carp at it; in
which case his means of assisting them at home might cease. He saw how
it was—that he was valued only in the ratio he could contribute to
their support. His generous love was thrown back upon him; his impulses
of tenderness were repulsed; he was to be an acquaintance rather than a
son. Mrs. Paradyne was resentful at his having counselled their removal
to Orville, now that it was found Trace and the Loftus boys were in the
College, which, of course, was manifestly unjust. Something very like a
dispute took place about the proposed concealment of name. He refused
to conceal it from Dr. Brabazon; she insisted that he should. He
yielded at last: she was his mother: but he went away from the house
wondering whether he had not better return to Germany. Thus it had gone
on. Mr. Henry—or Arthur Paradyne, if you would prefer to call him
so—bearing his burden as he best might, and toiling patiently to fulfil
the obligations he cheerfully accepted as his own; obligations he never
thought of repining at. His heart felt crushed; his mind had a weight
upon it; but he only feared lest his health should fail and the dear
ones suffer.
"Look you," interrupted Dr. Brabazon, arousing himself from a reverie;
"you must remain as 'Mr. Henry' for the present. The fact that you are
Arthur Paradyne does not hurt the boys; but the declaring it thus
suddenly would cause a commotion that might lead to—I don't know what.
Until Christmas, at any rate, things shall go on as they have done. The
competition for the Orville will then be over; and really, for my part,
I don't see why you should not drop the name of Paradyne, if it pleases
you to do so. No, I don't," added the doctor, contesting the point with
himself aloud, as if he were disputing it with an antagonist; "and I
don't see what business it is of other people's, or why anybody should
carp at it. So that's settled. You are Mr. Henry still. But I wish you
had disclosed the truth at the beginning. It would have made no
difference."
"I wish I could have done it, sir," he said, rising to take leave. "The
concealment has told upon me. Thank you ever for your kindness to me
this evening, Dr. Brabazon."
"I call that young man the victim of circumstances," thought the
master, "It's a good, and true, and earnest nature, I am sure; and——"
Dr. Brabazon's words came to a standstill, as he followed into the
hall. There was Mr. Henry propped against the front door, instead of
letting himself out of it according to the custom of everyday mortals.
"Why, what's the matter?" exclaimed the startled doctor, as the rays of
the house-lamp fell on a white face of suffering.
Mr. Henry rallied himself, and apologized with a smile. He had only
felt a little faint: it was over now.
A little faint! But he did not mention that sharp pain, that strange
fluttering of heart, which seemed so often to follow any extra emotion
or exertion; and this day had brought plenty of both for him. However,
it was gone now.
"Here, don't start off in that haste," cried the doctor, going out
after him. "Don't you think you ought to have advice for that
faintness?" he asked, as Mr. Henry turned.
"Yes, perhaps I ought."
"I should. You have been working your strength away. Good-night."
Mr. Henry hastened home, wrote a short letter to his sick friend Weber,
enclosed the bank-note, and went out to post it. As he emerged from the
short shrubbery, skirting round by the chapel, and gained the road, he
saw, to his surprise, Dick Loftus.
"Why, Dick! Are you home again?"
"Got home to dinner," equably answered Dick, whose mouth was full of
some crunching sweetmeat he had come down from Pond Place to buy. "We
had a stunning passage: the boat pitching like mad, and Uncle Simon and
old Gall fit to die. Will you have some?" he asked, exhibiting the
stuff in his hand. "It's Gibraltar rock."
"Not I, Dick, thank you. I should have thought you too old to eat
that."
"Am I, though?" said Dick, biting a huge morsel of the tempting
compound. "It's jolly. I say, how's Mother Butter?"
"_She's_ jolly," replied Mr. Henry, laughing.
"Give my respectful compliments to her, and tell her I've come home.
Do, please, Mr. Henry."
Dick disappeared with a careless good-night, that rang out joyously in
the evening air. Mr. Henry, having missed the opportunity to ask about
his perilous bath at Boulogne, went on to the railway station, and
dropped his letter into the box. There was a popular superstition
obtaining, that letters posted there went quicker than if posted at the
grocer's in the village. He was taking the middle of the road back, Sir
Simon's grounds on one side, the plantation on the other,—when fleet
footsteps came running behind, and a pair of light hands were laid upon
his coat. He turned to see his sister.
"Mary! What brings you here so late as this?"
She laughed as she explained: she was in a merry mood. Mrs. Hill had
taken them out a little way in the country, and they missed the train
they ought to have come back by, and had only now got in. She could not
help it, and she was running home to mamma and mamma's displeasure.
"You _will_ catch it," said Mr. Henry, with comic seriousness. "Mamma
had her things on in the afternoon, waiting for you to go out with her.
Is that safe, Mary?"
"Yes, yes. Just for once, Arthur."
For she had linked her arm within his. Mr. Henry looked round on the
lonely road. "All right," he said, "there's nobody about. I have not
had you on my arm for a long while."
Was there nobody about? Indeed and there was an inquisitive pair of
eyes peering after them. Mr. Raymond Trace, finding Pond Place
insupportably dull on his return, had come forth by way of a diversion,
to see any little thing there might be to see. And was thus rewarded.
Raymond Trace was in an ill-humour with the world. Certain events in
Boulogne—the presence of George Paradyne there in the first place, and
his elevation in the favour of not only Sir Simon and the Galls, but of
Mr. Loftus—had been insufferably offensive to him. And this girl was
George's sister!
Crossing the road with soft steps, as if he were treading upon eggs, he
followed them, keeping well under the shadow of the hedge. He could see
they were talking earnestly together, and he'd have given one of his
ears to be able to hear. Truth to say, the evident intimacy astonished
Mr. Trace not a little; he thought he had come upon a mighty secret,
not creditable to the assistant master at Orville College, or to any
other subordinate individual, that might indulge in such.
"The worst is over, Mary," Mr. Henry was saying. "Dr. Brabazon is at
home, and I have told him."
"Oh Arthur!" she exclaimed. "But I am thankful it is done at last. What
is the result?—your dismissal?"
"Quite the contrary. He was all kindness. I am to remain on as Mr.
Henry. He says he does not see why I should not adopt the name for
good, and discard the other one. Will you tell mamma this?"
"Yes, I'll tell her. It will be a relief; she has been dreading the
communication with a sort of nightmare. And so you will stay on?"
"If my strength shall permit me. Sometimes I have doubts of that."
A sharp pang darted through her. "Arthur, it grieves me that you should
labour as you do, and yet meet with no reward. Mamma is not what she
ought to be to you; I have told her so."
"Hush, child! it is the pleasure of my life to work for you all. I wish
I could do more."
"I wish we were more grateful," came Miss Paradyne's impulsive answer.
"George and I feel it terribly, Arthur. You should hear him break out
every now and then to mamma."
He interrupted her: he never would allow a word of reflection on his
mother: and began the story of George's bravery, as related to him by
Leek. They did not meet a soul: the road was always lonely at night.
Miss Paradyne stopped when they drew near its end, when the lighted
shops were in view in the distance.
"You must not come any farther with me, Arthur. I shall run home in no
time."
She withdrew her arm, but he stood yet a minute talking, holding her
hand in his. Then he bent his face on hers for a farewell kiss (not a
soul was about, you know), watched her away, and turned towards his
home.
Mr. Trace came out of the hedge's friendly shade, trencher first, in a
glow of virtuous amazement. He had seen the signs of familiar
intercourse; he had certainly seen the kiss; and his indignant feelings
could only relieve themselves in a burst of unstilted words that might
have been more characteristic of Dick.
"Well, this _is_ a go!"