A Visitor for Sir Simon.
Once more the school had met, and were at work with a will. Ah, this
was the real trial—that could occur but once in three full years—the
competition for the great Orville prize. Masters and candidates were
alike on their metal, making stern preparation for it. It was no
child's play. Gall, Loftus, Trace, Savage, Brown major, Whitby, Talbot,
and Paradyne, were going up for it.
Who would win? Some thought one would, some another; opinions were
divided, a whisper of bets reigned. Gall openly avowed he did not
expect to get it, Bertie Loftus made no secret of not really trying:
they chose to go up for it as the seniors of the school, but they were
regarded as virtually out of the contest. The more general impression
was that the real contest would lie between Trace and Paradyne.
And none were more conscious that this was likely to prove a fact than
Trace himself. He was afraid of Paradyne. In spite of Trace's large and
vain self-esteem, there was a disagreeable conviction within him that
in the trial Paradyne's scholarship might weigh down his own. A bitter
pill of anticipation for Trace to swallow from any competitor: but from
Paradyne—words could not express his angry indignation: and he felt
inclined to question the divine ordering of events that should have
brought that one miserable unit of creation in this offensive
antagonism with him. With _him_, Raymond Trace!
Ten times a day he said to himself that it _ought not_ to be. He was
quite honest in thinking this: he believed he was just; for he saw
things with a jaundiced eye. The son of the man who had so signally
failed in his duty to the world in general, and to his father and Mr.
Loftus in particular, was out of place in Orville College, the
associate of honest gentlemen. It had however pleased Dr. Brabazon to
keep him in it, and Trace thought himself worthy of a gold medal at
least for having buried the secret of the past from the school. The
far-famed duel in Boulogne had become public property, to the raging
mortification of the two duellists, who were chaffed unmercifully, and
grew to wish that duels had never been invented. The rescue of Dick
Loftus also spread from mouth to mouth, and Paradyne was lauded as some
young god descended from Olympus. All so much heart-burning for Trace.
He had bitterly rebelled at the favour shown to Paradyne in Boulogne,
asking what brought him there at all; what right he had there. He
seemed fated to be haunted by this Paradyne everywhere: a second case
of Faust and Mephistopheles. All that was bad enough, but Trace, doing
violence to his own feelings, had passed it over. What, he began to ask
himself now, was—ought this fellow, this waif of ill-descent, to be
allowed to go in for the great Orville prize—the prize that all were
burning to gain, either for the honour or the money. Trace pondered the
question very seriously, and meanwhile fanned the ill-feeling against
Paradyne, which had been buried, into a smouldering heat, that might
burst at any moment up in a flame.
He fanned something else—and, that was, a vague rumour reflecting on
Mr. Henry. That gentleman's name became connected with Miss Paradyne's
in anything but a pleasant manner: but as yet only by hints and
innuendoes; the school had got hold of nothing tangible. Bertie Loftus
asked Trace what the matter was, but Trace did not define it. "A bad
lot, those Paradynes," he answered, drawing down the corners of his
respectable lips: "and the German is in league with them." A terrible
score had Trace against Mr. Henry, if only from the fact that he
continued to assist, or, as Trace phrased it, to coach Paradyne: but
for that, Paradyne had never stood a chance of wresting the Orville
prize from deserving fingers. And so, in this uncomfortable and
uncertain state, the time went on.
One afternoon when October was passing, and the great day of decision,
the first of November, was drawing near, it happened that in a very
difficult Greek lesson, Trace did badly, Paradyne markedly well. They
were before the Head Master, and he said a few rather sharp words to
Trace, whose failure he attributed to carelessness, about allowing one
younger to outstrip him. "You'll stand no chance against him, Trace, if
you can't do better than this," added the doctor. Perhaps he spoke
lightly, without much thought; but Trace took the words to his heart
and let them rankle there.
When tea was over, he went out alone, debating with himself whether he
should disclose the past disgrace relating to Paradyne, and so stop his
going up for the Orville. Trace was of a concentrative nature, and
liked this self-communing. Pacing the plantation, he thought over the
question in all its bearings, and came to the conclusion that, to
speak, was a duty he owed to society, and would be a righteous act in
itself. This so far settled, he was about to leave the tree, against
which his back had been propped for the last five minutes, and to go
home, when he saw a man come stealthily forth from a dark side-path,
and look out as if he were waiting for some one. Trace had no objection
to a bit of private adventure, especially if it related to other
people's business, and remained where he was, on the watch.
Up came Mr. Henry, making directly for the stranger's hiding-place.
That he had come to meet him, was apparent; and Trace stared with all
his eyes into the obscure light. He could not make out much: they
passed him very close once, as they were talking together, and he heard
a few words from the stranger.
"I shall stop here, I tell you. The voyage——"
Those were all the distinct words Trace caught then. When they came
back again, Mr. Henry was speaking.
"Of course, if you are determined to remain, I cannot say you shall
not: but I fancy you will not succeed. And then, you know, there will
be the risk of——"
So far only, this time, before they were out of hearing again. Trace's
ears were strained to the uttermost, but he caught only two words more,
and that from the stranger as they were parting: "Mother Butter's." Mr.
Henry walked quickly towards home, the man disappeared amid the trees
the other way, and Trace stayed where he was, revolving the mystery.
But he could find no clue to it.
Clashing footsteps sounded now. One of the boys was tearing home from
the railway station. It was Lamb, with a parcel in his hand, and Trace
went out to meet him. How it came about Trace never exactly knew, but
while he was saying to himself "Shall I tell, or shall I not?" he
_told_, and Lamb was put in possession of the real facts relating to
Paradyne: all the past trouble; the past disgrace; that he belonged to
a family of fraud, and never ought to have been at Orville. Nuts for
Mr. Lamb to crack. But, strange to say, no sooner had the secret
escaped Trace's lips, than a voice within seemed to warn him that he
had done wrong. It was too late to repent; Lamb went whispering the
poison about with his stealthy tongue, and the school listened eagerly.
A few days passed on without explosion. The boys met in secret knots to
take counsel, and felt half paralysed at their own audacious words.
They talked of mutiny, if Paradyne were allowed to go up for the
Orville; they whispered of rebellion, if subjected longer to the
authority of a master so ill-doing as Mr. Henry. _But they did
nothing_. Not one would undertake the responsibility of commencing
hostilities, or of speaking to the Head Master: it was a practical
illustration of the old fable of the mice proposing to put the bell on
the eat. And November was close at hand.
The rumours, connecting Mr. Henry's name with Miss Paradyne were by no
means pleasant rumours; not tending to exalt either of them in public
opinion. When a young lady could be guilty of stealing evening walks
with a school usher, and very familiar walks indeed—as Mr. Lamb could
testify on Trace's private authority, and _did_, turning up the whites
of his eyes—of course there was no more to be said for her.
So long as these rumours were confined to the boys, they did not affect
Miss Paradyne personally; but circumstances led to their being
whispered beyond the college. Mrs. Hill, the lady with whom she had the
daily engagement as governess, had gone unexpectedly to Torquay for the
winter months, in consequence of the ill-health of one of her children,
and Miss Paradyne had made another engagement with Mrs. Talbot. On the
evening previous to the day she was to enter on it, the Earl of
Shrewsbury dashed home for a minute, and told his mother confidentially
that she must not have Miss Paradyne for the girls; that it "wouldn't
do."
"Why will it not do?" questioned Mrs. Talbot in surprise.
"Because it won't."
"James, to say so much, and no more, is nonsense. You must tell me
why."
But Talbot could not say why. Things had not been made very clear to
his understanding. All he knew was, that something was "up" about Miss
Paradyne and Mr. Henry. He supposed they were privately engaged; but
the school was in arms against Miss Paradyne, saying she went out
walking with him at night, and—oh, all sorts of things. She must not be
let go there as governess.
"Don't you think, James, that this is arising out of the ill-feeling
entertained for Miss Paradyne's brother?" quietly asked Mrs. Talbot.
"No, I don't think it is. Oh, but there is a row about him!—going to
be, at any rate," broke off the earl in a parenthesis. "Well, I can't
stop, mother mine, but don't you admit Miss Paradyne."
"Upon what plea can I refuse? I have engaged her. James—wait a moment.
Upon what plea can I refuse, I ask."
James Talbot looked puzzled and rueful. "I'm sure I don't know," he
answered, twirling his trencher round and round. "I thought I'd better
tell you. I'm afraid they must be a bad lot. Queer things are coming
out about the father: and Paradyne is not to go up for the Orville."
"Why?" she exclaimed half-startled, and beginning to think the affair
must be serious. "Not go up for the Orville!"
"The school would be in mutiny."
"James!"
"It would. And Trace may make as certain of the prize now as if he'd
got it."
"Is there no chance for you, James?" she asked, rather wistfully.
He laughed, and shook his head. "I have done my best, but there's not a
bit of hope for anybody against Trace. Had Paradyne gone in for it,
there'd have been a close struggle between the two—and I don't think
victory would have declared for Trace. About the father? oh, I can't
stay to tell you,"—preparing to dash off again. "Queer rumours they
are."
Queer indeed, and various; as whispered about from boy to boy. The
exaggerations were something ludicrous. "Paradyne's father had been
hung for murder," "been transported for forgery," "was now serving out
his time at Portland Island," and so on. Perhaps Talbot did well not to
mention such to his mother.
He left her in a comfortable state of uncertainty. She did not like to
disregard the warning altogether, and yet did not like to act upon it.
Neither did she see how she could act upon it; and sat on much
perplexed.
"I will put a question or two plainly to Miss Paradyne, when she comes
to-morrow, as to whether there is any private acquaintance between her
and Mr. Henry," decided Mrs. Talbot at length. "I am convinced the
Paradynes are as nice as they can be: and I don't believe a word
against the daughter. It's all the work of those envious boys."
Utterly unconscious of the storm that was brewing, Mary Paradyne looked
forward to her engagement; and when the morning and hour dawned to
enter on it, she got ready with alacrity. The young are always so full
of hope.
"If the remuneration were but a little better," exclaimed Mrs.
Paradyne, in her semi-fretful, semi-resigned way. "Three hours a day,
and luncheon and thirty-four shillings a month! What is it?"
"Dear mamma, it is better than nothing a month," was the cheering
answer. "When I first knew that the Hills were going away, I feared I
might be unemployed for the winter. Something better may arise later:
and I am sure I shall like Mrs. Talbot. Miss Brabazon dropped a hint to
me the other day that perhaps they might engage me for Rose."
She tied her bonnet, kissed her mother, and went forth with her bright
face. It was not far to go; only a few doors. Mrs. Talbot came to her
directly, and entered on her task, which did not seem an agreeable
one—that of putting a few questions in regard to her intimacy with Mr.
Henry. But, instead of meeting them—as Mrs. Talbot had anticipated she
would—in a calm spirit of refutation, the young lady turned red, grew
confused, and flung her hands up to her disturbed face with a faint cry
of dismay. It had come upon her so suddenly.
"Believe me, I do not wish to pain you," said Mrs. Talbot, speaking
gently in the midst of her surprise. "Neither would I think of
inquiring into any particulars that you may prefer not to disclose.
Only tell me that there is nothing in the rumour; that you and Mr.
Henry have no—no—acquaintance in common; that will be quite
sufficient."
"But I cannot tell it you," replied Miss Paradyne in her
straightforward truth.
"What the college boys have got hold of, I'm sure I am unable to say,"
resumed Mrs. Talbot, thinking she could not have been understood.
"Nothing very grave: the most tangible charge I can make out is, that
you have been seen walking with Mr. Henry. There is, of course, no harm
in that; the harm lies in its being done in secret. Can you refute it,
Miss Paradyne?"
No, she could not: and she was growing sick with fear. Not fear for
herself: the reproach that might ordinarily be supposed to arise from
such a thing, she never so much as glanced at. Her whole thought was
for her brother Arthur, lest the concealment of which he had been
guilty in regard to his true name, was becoming known. Mrs. Talbot,
feeling both grieved and surprised, pressed the question.
"I daresay I may have been seen with Mr. Henry: I did not know it,"
answered Miss Paradyne, forced into the avowal, and beginning to
shiver. Had it only occurred to her to say "My mother is cognisant of
all I do," Mrs. Talbot might have been satisfied: but it did not.
There was nothing for it but to part. Mrs. Talbot reluctantly said she
could not carry out the engagement, and Mary Paradyne went away, to
bear home her unhappy tale. As she stood at Mrs. Talbot's door, the
bright sun shining full upon her, she became aware how long the
interview had lasted, for the outdoor boys were quitting the college
after morning school. George was nearly the first of them, and she drew
him into the middle of the road.
"Whatever is the matter?" cried he, perceiving something strange in her
countenance.
"George," she whispered, "you must go to Arthur—"
"To Mr. Henry," interrupted George, correcting her. "You are not half
so prudent as I am, Mary. I've told you of this before."
"To Mr. Henry," she mechanically resumed, her heart beating with a
great pain. "Tell him to be on his guard, lest he should be taken
unawares. Something is oozing out, I am sure; and Mrs. Talbot has
declined to receive me."
"Declined to receive you!" repeated George, his honest grey eyes
flashing anger.
"She was very kind in the midst of it, but she said there were rumours
abroad connected with Mr. Henry, and if I could not refute them, I must
not enter on the engagement. I did not quite understand her," added
Mary Paradyne, speaking to herself rather than to George: "but you had
better go at once and warn Ar—warn—you know."
George laughed at the slip, pushed his trencher jauntily aside, and
turned back whistling. Knots of the outdoor boys were advancing. Some
shot past him with a bound; some stole by sheepishly, as if ashamed to
cut him; others walked on deliberately and looked straightforward; a
few gave him a hard, bold, insolent stare of non-recognition; and as he
went by the quadrangle, the juniors, gathered there, turned their backs
upon him.
"It's an awful shame that they should send me to Coventry like this,"
soliloquized George. "If I thought any one of them set the rest on,
wouldn't I leather him! Never mind, gentlemen, if I do get the Orville,
you'll be more civil to me."
He was dashing into Mr. Henry's room, when Mrs. Butter interposed,
rather less crusty than usual. Mr. Henry was engaged at the moment; he
must call again.
"I'll wait in your kitchen, Mother Butter," said George, who rarely
stood on ceremony.
"Then you can't," answered Mother Butter, with more haste and decision
than the case seemed to warrant. "I've got my saucepans on the fire,
and you'd be upsetting of 'em. There. Be off."
As if to end the colloquy, Mr. Henry's parlour door opened, and Miss
Brabazon came forth.
"Rely upon me," Mr. Henry said to her in a low tone: and George
wondered.
They went into the parlour together, the two brothers, and George
delivered his sister's message, adding a comment of his own. "I'd give
a guinea to know what's up."
Mr. Henry pondered over it for a few minutes in silence, leaning his
head upon his hand. His face was turned to the searching light of the
meridian sun, and something unusually wan in its aspect struck George.
"The better plan will be to declare all; to put away this
semi-concealment altogether," observed Mr. Henry. "Mary must not be
subjected to unpleasantness."
"Only let me get the Orville," observed George, with a vain schoolboy's
light boasting. "I'll crow over some of them then."
"George!"
"I know; you are all for meekness and peace. I _should_ like to pay off
some of those fellows. Will you believe that I met half the classes
coming here, and not a soul of the whole lot spoke to me? Something new
is arising. I've seen it this week past."
"I have seen it, too," was Mr. Henry's reply. "George, I used to say
you would live this down by dint of time and patience; I thought just
after you got back from France that the time had nearly come. But I
have my doubts now. I wish I could have helped you better. Well, I'll
think about this matter, George, and decide on something. You go home
to your dinner now."
Nothing loth to obey, for dinner was as welcome to him as it is to most
schoolboys, George was quitting the room, when Mrs. Butter entered it,
with a small tray, a basin of bread and milk on its white cloth. She
put it before Mr. Henry and went out again.
"I say," cried George, "that's not your dinner, is it? Why it's nothing
but bread and milk!"
"My appetite is going strangely," observed Mr. Henry. "Slops seem to
suit me best now."
George's great grey eyes flashed out a look of yearning. "Arthur! you
have been starving yourself for us—that we may have plenty!"
"Don't be indiscreet; there's no Arthur here," returned Mr. Henry, with
a light smile. "I am eating bread and milk to-day, George, because I
feel ill: that's all. Run home."
Easily reassured—as it was in his age and nature to be—George Paradyne
went flying off. In turning the angle by the chapel at a sharp canter,
he came full tilt against Sir Simon Orville, who was walking towards
his home.
"Holloa, young sir! Don't run me down. I am not a ship."
George laughed, begged his pardon, and was passing on, when Sir Simon
stopped him.
"Here, George; don't fly off again as if you were wound up to go on
wheels. What is this matter about your not going up for the Orville?"
"I don't understand you, Sir Simon."
"Are you going up for it?"
"Of course I am, sir. I should like to get it, too. And I don't say I
shan't," he concluded, laughing.
"Why, what did those young simpletons mean, then?" cried the knight. "I
met a lot of them just now, and Dick Loftus whispered to me you were
not going up for the Orville."
"It is a mistake," said George. "Not that I should go up if the fellows
could prevent me. But they can't, you know, sir. Good-bye, Sir Simon."
Sir Simon went on, the matter passing from his mind. Turning into his
own grounds, he had been busying himself for some time amidst his
cherished autumn flowers, when a servant came out, having apparently
just seen him from the house.
"A gentleman is waiting to see you, Sir Simon."
"Bless me," cried Sir Simon, who was too kindhearted, too simple-minded
ever to keep people waiting unnecessarily, gentle or simple. "Who is
it, Thomas?"
"I don't know, sir. He came in a cab with a portmanteau. He looks like
a traveller."
Sir Simon went trotting off as fast as his short legs would go. The
servant went after him.
"It is not Mr. Loftus, Thomas, I suppose? You'd know him."
"Oh dear no, sir, it's not Mr. Loftus. It is somebody older than Mr.
Loftus."
Thomas went forward and held open the door for his master to enter. In
the tesselated hall, with its bright painted windows gleaming in the
sunlight and throwing out their rich colours, Sir Simon saw a
portmanteau and a cloak. He turned to the door on the right, and
entered. The traveller sat in the shade of the spacious room, the green
blinds being closely drawn behind him, and for a moment Sir Simon did
not recognise him. The stranger: a slight elderly man, wearing
silver-rimmed spectacles: rose quietly and offered his hand.
"Don't you know me, Simon?"
"Why—my goodness me! It's Robert Trace!"