The Outbreak.
It was the morning following the arrival of Mr. Trace. The boys filed
out of chapel: but instead of hindering, lingering, dallying, as it was
generally their pleasure to do, those of the first desk threw off their
gowns with remarkable haste, and rushed into school. As sheep follow
their leader, so do boys mostly go in the wake of their fellows; and
George Paradyne, who appeared to be the only one of the class not
acting in concert, and who had rather wondered wherefore the bustle,
hastened in also. But he found no place for him. His seat was occupied.
By dint of sitting wide instead of close, the first desk contrived to
fill the whole space. Brown major was before Paradyne's particular
compartment, had got it open, and was disposing his own books and
belongings in it.
"What are you doing with my desk, Brown major?" demanded George. "Move
down lower, will you."
Paradyne's place now was next to Trace. It had been curious to note in
the past weeks the tacit antagonism of the two boys, sitting side by
side; Trace ignoring Paradyne always, Paradyne having no resource but
to be ignored. Brown major took no heed to the request, and did not
move down.
"Will you go down, I say, Brown? I shall have to pull you out if you
don't."
Not a word of answer. The boys had their books out now, and were
bending over them, putting up their backs as if some great draught were
behind. George Paradyne laid hold of Brown to swing him out, when
Loftus major interposed. Gall was at home with a temporary
indisposition, or it might not have occurred, since the senior was
expected to keep peace. Bertie Loftus acted in a degree for him, but
assumed little authority.
"Take your hands off him, Paradyne; we cannot have a disturbance here."
"He is in my place; he is taking my desk," cried George.
"Look here," drawled Bertie; "as good be open about the matter. The
class tell me they don't intend to let you occupy your place again: and
if the Head Master insists that you should, there'll be a rebellion.
But it's thought he won't insist in the face of things. I am not
speaking for myself," he continued, idly running his fingers through
his luxuriant curls with a cool indifference that might have been
laughable but that it was so real, and so characteristic of him.
"Being, as may be said, a remotely interested party, I hold myself
neuter: I have neither counselled this, nor do I join in it. But I
can't have a disturbance, you know. Brown, pass me that Homer."
"Just disclose the meaning of this, will you?" cried George, speaking
to the class collectively, "before I pull Brown major out of my place."
"Tell him, some of you," drawled Bertie.
For a moment there was silence: nobody seemed inclined to respond.
Paradyne lifted his arm to begin aggression, when Brown major turned
round; speaking however civilly.
"There'd better be no row over this, Paradyne. If you flung me out of
the place—which perhaps might turn out to be a bit of mistaken
boasting, if we came to try it—another would fill it up. You ought
never to have come among us, and that's a fact; there has been a
feeling against you always, but it's only since a day or two that we've
known the cause. If I were you, I'd go quietly out at that door and
through the college gates, and have done with it for good. And upon my
word and honour I say this for the best: it's the only thing left for
you to do."
"If you don't tell me the meaning of this, I'll fling you out, I say,"
repeated George. "I give you three seconds. One! two!——."
"The meaning is, that you can't be tolerated here any longer,"
interrupted Brown. "Neither may you go in for the Orville."
"That's not the _meaning_—that's the result. I ask you for the
meaning—the reason—the cause. Are you stupid?" added George, stamping
his foot.
"Well—you know what your father was."
"What was he?"
Brown major hesitated. He was of a civil nature, and really did not
like his task. To say to a college friend in his teens—your father was
a swindler—or a forger—or a felon—is not pleasant. There was no time to
lose, for the under-masters were coming in.
"I don't know the rights of it as well as some of them, Paradyne," said
Brown at length. "Of course I'm sorry for _you_; but we are gentlemen
here. Ask Trace the particulars—or ask Lamb."
Before another word could be spoken, the hall had to rise at the
entrance of the Head Master. Instead of taking his seat when he reached
his table, he remained standing, and addressed the first desk.
"Gentlemen, in consequence of the absence of Mr. Henry this morning,
the order of studies has been changed. You will go at once to Mr.
Baker's room for mathematics."
There was a moment's lingering; either in surprise at the command, for
it was completely out of routine, or for some other purpose. Could it
be that the boys were deliberating, each in his heart, whether then to
declare their feud against Paradyne? If so, nothing came of it. Bertie
Loftus led the way through the room, and the rest followed him,
including Paradyne.
Mr. Baker was waiting for them. Mr. Baker was an irascible sort of
gentleman who might have settled any dispute, any incipient rebellion,
by caning around him indiscriminately. The room was large too, the
table spacious, the diagrams on the walls were plentiful, and there was
no chance of shutting out George Paradyne from a seat here. So the
class had to bottle up its resentment for the present.
Trace had not outwardly joined in the movement by word or look. Not in
obedience to the advice given by his father the previous evening, but
in accordance with his usual policy. Mr. Trace had casually remarked,
"I'd not interfere with young Paradyne, Raymond, to oppress him. What
passed was no fault of his, you know." Advice which Mr. Raymond had not
the slightest intention of following. Some inward speculation was
arising in his mind, touching the cause of Mr. Henry's absence, as just
announced. Had he been dismissed? Had the boast—that the Head Master
knew who he really was—been a false one, and had Mr. Henry, in
consequence of the discovery, forced himself to declare his deceit, and
been met by an abrupt dismissal? Trace would have given his two ears—as
they say in France—for the knowledge, but did not see his way clear to
get at it. As if to gratify him, Mr. Baker suddenly inquired of the
class generally, if they knew why Mr. Henry was absent. George
Paradyne, who was standing before one of the slates, following out its
diagrams, turned round to answer.
"Mr. Henry is gone out, sir. I went round this morning to borrow
Ollendorf's key from him, and found him away. Mother Butter thought he
had gone off somewhere by train."
"I feared he might be ill," remarked Mr. Baker. "He has looked ill
lately."
"His wicked conscience smited him,
He lost his stomach daily,"
sang Whitby in an undertone, quoting the lines from a once popular song
that Mr. Lamb carolled on occasion for private benefit at bedroom
festivals, and protested it had been composed by Tennyson.
"Mr. Henry had another of those fainting-fits last night when I was
reading with him," said George, in answer. "Mother Butter came in, and
asked him what he meant by not getting advice for himself."
"Attend to your business," roared out Mr. Baker by way of acknowledging
the information. And they did it, one and all; bottling up their
private grievances, as previously remarked, for a more auspicious
opportunity. Which did not arrive until the close of morning school, so
cross-grained and inconvenient a turn did the order of studies take
that morning.
Mr. Henry had taken the train to London, to pay a visit to a great
physician. Not in obedience to Mrs. Butter's remonstrance, as disclosed
to us by George, but because the time for doing so was come. He had
been intending to see a doctor, long and long; had put it off in a sort
of vague dread, as many of us do; and now it could no longer be
delayed; no, not for a day. As George said, he had another fainting-fit
the previous night; but, instead of recovering from it blithely, as was
usual, he had lain all night in pain, his heart fluttering strangely.
Medical aid, and that of the best, was necessary now, although he felt
well again in the morning.
The dread was not for himself, but for those dependent on him. Who
would help them if his help failed? The whole night long he lay awake,
tormenting himself. With morning light—daylight does not come early
when November is on the dawn—he rose and took his breakfast. Dropping a
note to the Head Master, explaining the cause of his absence, he went
off by train to London, doing all in a quiet manner. Times and again it
had been in his thoughts to go to this gentleman, who was one of fame,
especially in diseases of the heart. Very nearly an hour did he wait in
the anteroom, before his turn came.
He was examined, questioned, talked to: and then the doctor sat down to
his table and took up a pen. But he laid it down again.
"I am about to write you a prescription; but I tell you candidly it is
not medicine you want. One thing may do you good; and one thing only."
"What is that?"
"Rest. Rest both of mind and body. I do not mean tranquillity only, but
entire rest from all kinds of exertion. Great or sudden exertion might
be——" the doctor paused; and, as it struck Mr. Henry, seemed to change
the word he had been about to speak—"prejudicial to you, excessively
so. You must avoid alike fatigue and emotion."
"I gather, then, that my heart is not sound."
"Not quite as sound as could be wished."
"Is it so unsound as to place me in danger?" questioned Mr. Henry, his
luminous eyes bent earnestly on the physician. "You need not fear to
speak freely to me. I have come here to ask you to do so."
"In a case such as yours there is no doubt danger," replied the doctor.
"We can do little. It lies chiefly with the patient himself."
"What does?"
"Well, I had almost said life or death. So long as he can keep himself
perfectly tranquil, the danger is comparatively very little."
"But it is always there, nevertheless, even with tranquillity. Am I to
understand that?"
"It is. In a degree."
"I had a friend once; a fellow-student at Heidelberg, who had
heart-disease. The German doctors recommended perfect tranquillity—as
you do to me. He followed their advice; he was of wealthy family, and
could do it; but the disease made rapid strides, and shortly killed
him. He lay ill less than a week."
"Ah, yes," replied the doctor, evincing no surprise.
Mr. Henry, who displayed and felt entire calm throughout the interview,
then proceeded to mention the strides his own sickness had been making.
He was quite aware of the nature of his (possibly) inherited malady;
recent symptoms had brought the knowledge to him. But, had he been
differently circumstanced, in the enjoyment of past immunity from work
and care and fear, it might not have shown itself for years and years.
As it was—he frankly spoke of what the ending must in all probability
soon be. The physician did not say much; it is not customary to do so;
but when Mr. Henry went, he had gathered that death sooner or later
must come to him. It gave him no shock: he had seemed to know
beforehand what the fiat would be.
Notwithstanding, it was altogether a very serious vista, and yet a
sensation of strange peace seemed to fill his heart. How he had shrunk
from ascertaining the true nature of his disease, from the consequent
absolute cessation from toil, which he knew would be imposed, he alone
knew. All for the sake of his mother, her home, her interests. Over and
over again he had asked himself, who would work for them when he could
not. As if the delay would alter the evil, it was for this he had put
off seeking to know the truth; he had dreaded it as one, unprepared,
dreads death; and now that it was spoken, instead of the torment and
trouble it might have brought, he felt nothing but resignation and
sweet peace.
It was but another great mercy, this feeling, from the loving and
merciful Father: and Mr. Henry had learnt to trust Him in all things,
with the simple, reliant, undoubting trust that a child feels in its
earthly parents; in darkness as well as light; in gloom as well as
brightness. Oh, my boys, how I wish I could make you understand what
this trust is, and how to acquire it! It is the one great blessing in
life; the only true peace; a pearl of great price. It is a sure and
safe refuge; an ever-present comfort in sunshine and in storm; a resort
that is never closed. Every grief, every care, every doubt, had Henry
Paradyne learnt to carry _there_, and he knew that it could not fail
him. "Things seem dark and dreary; I cannot see my way; undertake for
me, Lord!" had been latterly the burden of his prayer. He never failed
to rise up comforted, to _know_ that God had been with him, lending His
gracious ear, listening compassionately to his cry: there were times
when he seemed to have been talking with Him face to face, a joy so
heavenly was diffused throughout his spirit. My boys, you perhaps hold
an idea that religion (as it is very commonly called) is but a gloomy
thing; let me tell you that the real religion, as experienced by those
who live thus near to God, is as a very light of happiness. It will not
come to you all at once; but it will surely come with time if you
earnestly desire it. Think what it is to possess a refuge _always_, one
that cannot fail! In danger and sorrow, in doubt and difficulty, in
trouble and storm, there you may go, and kneeling say, "I cannot see my
way; I am threatened on all sides; my fears overwhelm me. Oh, Father of
mercies, I put myself into Thy hands; guide me, act for me, love me!" I
tell you that, to those who have learnt it, this trust is as a ray
direct from heaven, a glimpse of it before its time. With the necessity
for comfort, comfort had come, and Mr. Henry was at rest.
He made his way home again. Just as he was entering his house, he heard
himself called to, and turning saw Sir Simon Orville.
"I've come on a fishing expedition," cried the knight, who seemed all
in a flurry with the haste he had made.
"A fishing expedition!" repeated Mr. Henry with a smile and air as
tranquil as though—as though he had not been on a visit to the great
physician, and brought that knowledge home with him. Sir Simon glanced
around, wishing to make sure that nobody was within hearing.
The facts were these. Raymond Trace returned to his father the previous
night with the account of what he had been able to do with Mr. Henry:
or, rather, what he had not been able to do. Mr. Trace, by some logic
of reasoning, adopted the information as a proof that the stranger was
undoubtedly Hopper, and went home to Pond Place in a state of mind not
to be envied. The chief torment was the uncertainty. If the man in
hiding was _not_ Hopper, the inconvenience of going away from him was
not to be thought of pleasantly; for, truth to say, Mr. Trace did not
possess so much as a handful of silver to go with: if the man _was_
Hopper, go he must, whatever the cost. He imparted his doubts to Sir
Simon, just relating the story told by Raymond—that there was somebody
in hiding at Mrs. Butter's, who might, perhaps, be Hopper—and no more.
Sir Simon, detecting the anxiety, and a little wondering at it—for, as
he reiterated over and over again to his brother-in-law, rogues could
not threaten gentlemen in England with impunity—undertook to appeal to
Mr. Henry himself the first thing in the morning, and get the matter
set at rest.
"This is the third time I have come here this morning, Mr. Henry.
You've been gadding about London," good-humouredly added Sir Simon, in
supreme unconsciousness of what the "gadding" had been. "And now, as I
say, I am come fishing, and I hope you'll not let me throw out my line
in vain."
Mr. Henry led the way indoors. Nobody was about; Mrs. Butter's kitchen
door was shut, and Sir Simon talked on, believing they were alone, as
soon as he was in the passage.
"My nephew, Raymond Trace, was questioning you, last night, Mr. Henry,
as to some man he had seen you with in the plantation. You thought it
was impertinent curiosity, no doubt, and very properly refused to
satisfy him; but I want you to tell me. Is there anybody staying here
in private, or is there not? And if there is, What's his name?"
Mr. Henry laid his hat and gloves on the table, rubbed his handkerchief
across his damp brow: it was strange how a very little exertion would
put him into a heat now: and led the way to his parlour. "I wish I
could tell you, Sir Simon," he answered, with a smile. "I would have
told your nephew had I been able."
"Can you assure me that there is nobody staying in the house?"
What was Mr. Henry to answer? To say There is not, would have been
untrue: to say There is, might bring somebody trouble.
"Let me tell you why I ask," cried Sir Simon, who was by far too
open-minded a man to succeed in any matter that required craft. "A
friend of mine, at present in this neighbourhood, has an idea that he
is being looked after for a debt he owes: he got to hear, by hook or by
crook, that some rather suspicious-looking stranger had been seen
talking to you, might even be in this house; he thinks it may be his
creditor, and seems to be pretty near out of his senses with fright.
That's just the truth."
"I wish with all my heart I had got a debtor in this part of the
world," cried the voice of a strange head, putting itself in at the
door: and the interruption was so unexpected that Sir Simon backed a
few paces in surprise.
"Why, Tom!" he exclaimed. "Is it you?"
"Yes, it's me," answered Tom Brabazon; forgetting his grammar. "Excuse
my having listened. I am not afraid of you, Sir Simon, but what are you
asking questions about me for?"
"It was not about you I was asking. Is _this_ the friend Raymond saw
you speaking to?" continued Sir Simon, turning to Mr. Henry.
"Yes it is. You perceive it was not my own secret."
"Tell your friend, Sir Simon, that I've more need to run away from him
than he from me," interposed Tom Brabazon. "Here I am; under a deuced
cloud; tormenting Mother Butter out of her daily wits, frightening my
sister at odd and even hours, worrying Mr. Henry to fiddle-strings.
They are getting up a scheme of emigration for me, Emma, and the
doctor, but funds run scarce with him just now, and he thinks I'm in
Whitecross Street. The safest place going, he says, for me. It won't do
to tell him I'm here."
"I'll contribute to the emigration, Tom," cried Sir Simon, his
benevolent eyes glistening. "I'll try and make things straighter for
you with the doctor. Mr. Henry has been keeping your secret, I see."
"In first-rate style, too! He has done all sorts of things for me: home
with my temper when I've invaded his room at night; gone to and fro
with messages for Emma; bought my smoke for me, for old Butter said
she'd not, and stands to it. What a droll man that friend of yours must
be, to be afraid of _me!_"
"But, you see, Tom, we thought it was somebody else," returned Sir
Simon, who really understood less than ever his brother-in-law's
anxiety. But the relief to that gentleman would no doubt be very great.
Sir Simon, ever good-natured, trotted off home to impart the welcome
news, and Mr. Henry, not staying to take anything, but saying he would
be back immediately, went his way to the college. His object was only
to report himself back, for he intended to take his duties in the
afternoon. Not until the following day should be over—the great one of
the Orville examination—would he disturb Dr. Brabazon with his
ailments. The sky was blue and somewhat wintry, the leaves were
falling, the air seemed to strike upon him with a chill. But that sweet
peace, diffusing itself within, was whispering comfort: he might be
taken, but his mother—he saw it with a sure prevision—would be
sheltered under the good care of God.
Not redolent of peace, certainly, were the sounds that greeted his ear
as he came to the quadrangle, or the sight that met his astonished
gaze. His back propped against a pillar, his honest grey eyes flashing
with anger, his arms outstretched to ward off blows, was George
Paradyne.
It has been said that no opportunity occurred for an outbreak on
Paradyne during morning study. That the row began. He was caught up in
passing through the quadrangle, on his way home, and surrounded.
Yelling, shouting, kicking, hitting, a hundred inflamed faces were
turned upon him at once, a hundred arms and legs put out their
aggressive strength. The seniors, who first raised the storm, had not
intended it to take this turn, but they were powerless to stem the
torrent now, and so some of them went in for it. The boy put his back
against a pillar, and stood his ground bravely, fencing off blows as he
best could, hitting back again, his whole face glowing with scorn for
his assailants, and for the unequal conflict. Suddenly Bertie Loftus
appeared: he had been indoors, and knew nothing of it: and stood for a
moment in surprised astonishment. Pushing through the crowd with his
great strength, great when he put his indolence off and his metal on,
he took up a position side by side with Paradyne.
"Look here, you fellows, I'll have no more of this. You ought to be
ashamed of your manners: I am, for you; disgracing yourselves in this
fashion! Trace! Brown major! Talbot! Whitby!—all you strong ones—I call
upon you to beat the throng off. Dick, you young fool, be a man if you
can!"
He spoke with the authority of the acting senior, but he was not obeyed
as the real one. The boys' passions were up. None of them saw that a
stranger who happened to be passing, had halted at the great gates to
look on, and was standing in amazement. Bertie's words made some
temporary impression, and there came a lull in the storm.
"Now then," he cried, taking advantage of the silence, "wait, all of
you. Let us bring a little reason to bear, and don't go in for this
row, as if you were so many Irish jackasses met at a fighting fair.
Trace, the affair is yours if it's anybody's; you raised it; suppose
you explain to Paradyne what the matter is."
"Suppose you explain yourself," retorted Trace, terribly vexed at being
thus publicly called upon.
"It is not my business," said Bertie. "You know, you all know, I have
not joined the cabal."
"Let Paradyne take himself off, and have done with it," roared a voice:
and a Babel of tongues followed, each one taking the explanation on
itself. The late Mr. Paradyne was called everything but a gentleman,
some of the names being remarkably choice. George, with flashing eyes
and earnestly indignant words, denied the truth of the charges, and
stood up as bravely (morally) for his father, as he did physically for
himself. He kept his place and defied the lot, Bertie protecting him.
"Wasn't he a sneak? Wasn't he a swindler? Didn't he go in for
everything that was low and bad and dishonest, and then poison
himself?" roared the malcontents, hustling and jostling each other.
"No; he was neither a sneak nor a swindler; he went in for nothing that
was bad, and he did not poison himself," retorted George. "Look
here—you, Lamb—when you were accused of firing off the pistol that shot
the earl, were you not innocent?"
"Of course I was innocent," roared Lamb.
"But your innocence did not prevent your being accused. When that straw
man was set ablaze to frighten Mother Butter, I had nothing to do with
it, as you are all aware, I did not even know of it, but Baker accused
me, and gave me the cane. Well, it was just so with my father. He was
accused, being perfectly innocent, and before the proofs of his
innocence could be brought forth, before almost he had time to deny it,
before he well understood what the charge was, he died: the excitement
killed him. Loftus—and I thank you for standing by me now, and I know
you have never worked against me as some of the rest have—I told your
father this in Boulogne, and I think he grew to believe me. If you have
anything to bring against me, you fellows, bring it; but you shall not
traduce my father. What have _you_ to say, Trace?"
"I am sorry you force me to speak, Paradyne," returned Trace, his quiet
voice, civil still, rising above the hubbub. "I say that your father
_was_ guilty, and that you had no right to come here amidst honest
men's sons. We have put up with the companionship; the Head Master
forced us to it; and have kept your secret from the rest; and should
have kept it to the end but for your attempting to go up for the
Orville. It was pure audacity, that, and you were exceedingly
ill-advised to think of it. No fellow whose father had dirty hands——"
George Paradyne laid his hand on Trace's mouth, sharply enough, though
it was not a blow. It was the signal for renewed hostilities. Trace
drew away, but many of the others hit out; Bertie Loftus and George
being on the defensive. It was at this moment that Mr. Henry came up;
he interposed with more authority than Bertie possessed; but the boys
turned their derisive backs upon him, and kicked out behind. Mr. Henry
was not to be put down: never was authority more uncompromising than
his, when he chose to exert it. He pressed forward and stood before the
assailants; he stopped the blows with his firm but gentle hands, he
spoke words of calm good sense, his soothing voice hushed the noise and
rancour. It was as if magic were at work, or some expert mesmerist: the
angry feelings subsided; the boys' passions were allayed: the fierce
storm had become a calm.
"Enough of this for now. George, you go home. Gentlemen, make way for
him if you please. As to the Orville, which, as I gather, is the bone
of contention, his going up for it, or the contrary, is for the
decision of the Head Master; not for yours. Disperse quietly, every
one."
In after-days, when the boys should think over this little episode in
their school life, some wonder might arise in their minds how it was
that they had so implicitly obeyed. It is true Mr. Henry made a slight
allusion—it was nothing more—to certain divine mandates, that clearly
do not enjoin quarrelling and fighting and evil passions, rather, peace
and love: but the boys did not at the moment seem to think much of
that. It was ever so: come upon what scene of conflict he would, Mr.
Henry was sure to turn it into peace. The boys flitted indoors, one and
all, Bertie Loftus bringing up the rear; and Mr. Henry went inside the
cloisters and sat down on the narrow base of a stone pillar as if his
strength or his breath failed him. George Paradyne, looking round from
the small gate, happened to catch sight of his face, and came back,
asking if he felt ill.
"It's nothing," said Mr. Henry; but the wan face, the panting breath
seemed to belie the words. "Wait a moment, George: I want to speak to
you. I think you had better withdraw your name for the Orville."
"Not I. Look here, Arthur—and I'll be hanged if I care, though they
hear me call you so—this attack upon papa makes me all the more
resolute to go in and _win_. Good-bye; I shall be round this evening."
George ran on. At the great gates stood the stranger still, looking and
listening. A man of thirty, or thereabouts, with reddish hair. As
George rushed by, a thought arose that he had seen the face somewhere
before: but he was in a hurry and took no particular notice.
"A nice row, that, for college gents," cried the stranger, ignoring
ceremony. "And so you are George Paradyne! How you have grown!"
George stopped, naturally; and devoured the face with his eyes. As the
light of recollection dawned upon him, he darted close to the man, and
cried out with a great cry.
"You are Abel Hopper!"
"Just so. But I didn't expect to see you in these parts."
It was indeed Hopper, the ex-clerk at Liverpool. The coincidence was
curious; had we time to follow it out—that the real Hopper should make
his appearance just as the fears of Mr. Trace should have been set at
rest as to the false one.
"You see the life that is mine; the disgrace that clings to me," panted
George, in his impulsive emotion. "If you have a spark of manly
feeling, you will speak out and clear my father's memory, even though
at the cost of criminating yourself."
Hopper stared at George with a questioning gaze. "I don't know what you
mean," he said. "You must talk plainer, young sir."
"Yes, you do know. You know—don't you—that my father was innocent?"
"I do know it. He was innocent."
"And that you were guilty."
"No; that I swear I was not."
The accent wore a sound of truth, and George paused. "Then who was
guilty?"
Hopper laughed as he crossed the road to the plantation. "We may come
at that, perhaps, Master George, by-and-by. All in good time."
"But it is not all in good time," cried George, pursuing him. "Oh, come
with me to my mother! She has believed him guilty; and it has
embittered her heart, and changed her nature, and made a misery of our
daily life. Only come and show her that he was innocent!"
But Hopper only went on all the quicker, and the sound of George's
voice died away in the distance. Mr. Henry had seen and heard nothing
of this. Some of the boys were coming out again with bats in their
hands. Trace was one: but he carried a book, not a bat. They wondered
what the German was sitting there for. Trace went up to him, and spoke.
"The part you acted just now was uncalled for, though I did not stop it
before the school. Interference on Paradyne's behalf from you is
particularly out of place."
"I think not, Trace."
"You think not! When you know who you are! A man who is here under a
false name; whose life is a lie; is not one to——"
Trace stopped. The boys had been nearer than he thought, and were
listening with eager ears. Mr. Henry got up and walked away.
"Trace, what did you mean?" came the eager questioning voices. "Who
_is_ he?"
And Trace told them. Betrayed out of his usual civil prudence, or
perhaps tired of concealment, at last he disclosed the secret he had so
recently learnt. It was another Paradyne.
Another Paradyne! Another of the bad brood! Trace, giving his nose a
contemptuous twist, pointed a finger of scorn after the receding
master: and the boys stared in stupid wonder. Another Paradyne!