Falling from a Pinnacle.
You might decidedly have thought that Mr. Raymond Trace was treading
upon air. But that it was almost dark—for the examination had only
terminated when the shades of evening fell—his bearing might have
excited the admiration of his fellows. His back was upright, his face
was lifted; pride and self-sufficiency puffed him out. He had come out
well before the examiners, and there could be no moral doubt that the
prize would be his. Talbot had also done well—they were about upon a
par; but Trace and everybody else knew that Talbot, his junior in the
college, would not be preferred to him. The examiners had complimented
him; the Head Master had shaken hands with him; Trace felt elevated to
the seventh heaven, and was walking forth to impart the glorious news
at Sir Simon's.
Treading upon air. His gown was thrown back from his shoulders, his
trencher sat jauntily on his head, his boots creaked, his feet seemed
not to touch the ground. Just before he turned in at Sir Simon's gate,
he saw two people turn out of it, and recognized George Paradyne and
his mother. Trace vouchsafed no notice whatever, and thought it very
like their impudence to be there. George, who did not recognize him at
the first moment, ran after him inside the grounds.
"Have you gained the prize, Trace?" he asked, as he caught him up.
"It has not pleased the Head Master to proclaim who has gained it or
who has not," answered Trace, turning, and speaking with the same sort
of accent he might have used to a dog.
"But I suppose you feel sure of it?"
"I have felt that all along. I _am_ sure now."
"That's right," cried George heartily. "I am glad I gave up to you! If
I have been secretly chafing over it all day, I'm only thankful now."
"Glad you gave up to me!" retorted Trace. "You did not give up to me;
you were forced to give up because you couldn't help yourself."
"I gave up to you indeed, Trace; that you might get it. It was through
Mr. Henry; he persuaded me: and I'm heartily glad of it as things have
turned out. Good-bye, old fellow! I won't keep you now; but I'll stand
by you through all, Trace. Mind that."
Scarcely according a moment's thought to the ambiguous words, except to
resent their insolence, Trace gave his shoulders a shake,
metaphorically shaking off George Paradyne, and went on his way of
triumph. Ah, boys! how often when we are at the very height of
prosperity, is a fall near! as you go through life you will remark it.
That was the last hour of pride to Raymond Trace.
He rang grandly at the hall-bell—as became a senior fellow who was
above the ordinary run of mortals, and had just gained the Orville. "Is
Mr. Trace in the dining-room?" he asked of Thomas, rubbing his shoes on
the inner mat, and handing him his gown and trencher.
A simple question, however lordly put, but Thomas answered it in a
peculiar way. He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, and laid
his fore-finger on Trace's shoulder, as if there were some mystery in
the house.
"He's not here, Mr. Raymond. He is safe off."
"Safe off!" exclaimed Trace. "What do you mean?"
"He is gone, sir. I let him out at the back-lawn window, with his
carpet-bag, as soon as it was dusk."
Trace stared at the man. "What is he gone for?"
"There's some trouble afoot, Mr. Raymond, and your father has gone away
out of it. He was looking like a ghost. Mr. Loftus is telegraphed for,
and we think he may get here to-night by a late train."
"But what is the trouble?" asked Trace, a strange feeling of vague
dismay stealing over him.
Thomas shook his head. "I don't rightly know what it is, sir. A man of
the name of Hopper brought it, I fancy, and he's in there now with Sir
Simon"—pointing to the dining-room. "I dare say you can go in, Mr.
Raymond," he added, advancing to open the door. "Mrs. Paradyne has just
gone."
It had been an eventful day. While Raymond Trace was flourishing his
acquirements and his proficiency before learned men, fate, so
cross-grained at times, was working elsewhere no end of ill. On the
hearthrug, when he went in, stood Sir Simon and Hopper. Hopper left
them, and Sir Simon prepared to enter upon an explanation. Trace set
himself to listen; a moisture as of some awful dread, breaking out upon
his brow.
It appeared that Hopper had been dodging about the neighbourhood the
past day and part of this, stealthily looking after Mr. Trace, and
endeavouring by covert inquiries to ascertain whether or not he was in
it; which plan he adopted for certain private reasons, rather than
apply boldly at Sir Simon's, and make open inquiry. He could learn
nothing. Nobody had seen any such person about, as he described Mr.
Trace to be. This afternoon, he met Mrs. Paradyne close to her house,
and she caused him to enter. Full of her griefs and grievances, she
spoke out unreservedly, especially of this latter grievance of George's
treatment about the Orville Prize; that he should have been forced to
put himself out of it that young Trace might win.
Hopper listened. He seemed struck with the injustice dealt to the boy.
He could but sympathize with Mrs. Paradyne—who had been kind to him in
the days gone by, when he was a poor friendless clerk—and her
misfortunes; with her changed face, with the tears that she once in her
life let fall, overcome by the old associations his presence brought;
and in a rash fit of generosity, he avowed solemnly to her that the
misfortunes were unmerited, for her late husband was _not the guilty
man_. He appeared to repent of this confidence almost as soon as given,
and went away, asking her to keep it strictly to herself.
Keep it to herself! not Mrs. Paradyne. The disclosure had fallen on her
in the light of a revelation; the belief maintained in her husband's
guilt swept itself from her mind at a single stroke, and she marvelled
at her credulous blindness. It seemed to change the current of her
life's blood, the knowledge; to restore to her the energy she had lost.
Never so much as giving a thought to Hopper's request for secrecy,
deeming it wholly unreasonable, Mrs. Paradyne took her way to Sir Simon
Orville's, requested a private interview, and told her tale. Sir Simon,
impressed by the energetic words, caught up the conviction that the
unfortunate Captain Paradyne had been really innocent. He could not
call Mr. Trace to the council because that gentleman had gone to London
by train and was not yet back.
"And who was guilty?—who was guilty, my dear lady?" cried Sir Simon.
"Did Hopper tell you that?"
"No; he would not say. I pressed the question urgently on him,"
continued Mrs. Paradyne; "but could get no answer. All he said was,
that it was inconvenient just yet to disclose it."
"The guilty man was himself," said Sir Simon.
"I do not think so," answered Mrs. Paradyne. "His manner did not strike
me as that of a guilty man."
Sir Simon nodded, but did not by words maintain his opinion. He quitted
the room, took prompt measures, and in a very short while, Mr. Hopper
found himself under convoy to Pond Place, somewhat against his will.
There, very much to his surprise, he was accused by Sir Simon of the
past frauds. At first Hopper laughed at it; but he soon found it a
matter all too earnest; that he was about to be consigned to the
protection of the law. In self-defence he made a clean breast of the
truth, and avowed that the real culprit was—Robert Trace.
Sir Simon Orville felt something like a stag at bay. He listened to the
particulars like a man in a dream: never, never had his doubts touched
on this. And Mr. Trace, who returned home during the recital, and was
told by Thomas that Sir Simon was engaged on business, went straight to
his chamber, all unconscious that the business concerned him, and that
he had been seen to enter and was recognized by Hopper.
"I suspected Mr. Trace from the very first," observed Hopper,
continuing his story to Sir Simon. "A singular occurrence, though
trifling enough in itself, led to my doing so: and I thought it was
beyond the range of probability that Mr. Paradyne, so simple-minded and
honourable, could be guilty. But Mr. Paradyne died before anything
could be proved or disproved, and the guilt was supposed to have died
with him. Mr. Trace hushed the matter up. People said how lenient he
was; but I looked upon the leniency, which was foreign to his usual
mode of doing business, as another reason for doubting him. I was not
sure, but I quietly set to work to track out my clue; I had one to go
upon; and I tracked it out surely and safely. The result was what I had
anticipated—Robert Trace was the guilty man. Never, sure, was one so
lucky before! had Mr. Paradyne but lived four-and-twenty hours, the
farce could not have been kept up. Ask him, Sir Simon, whether I am
right or not," concluded the worthy Hopper. "I know he is here."
"If you knew all this, why did you not denounce him at the time?"
growled Sir Simon, who was feeling terribly scandalized by the whole
thing.
"Because he had sailed for America before I had finished tracking it
out."
"And you followed him there! And worried his life nearly out of him,
trying to make your own game. I see now; I understand it all," added
the aggrieved knight, his thoughts going back to the semi-explanations
of Hopper's conduct and claims, given him by Mr. Trace.
"Anybody else would have done the same in my place, sir," was the
self-excusing answer. "It was better for him that I should keep the
affair hushed up, than proclaim it."
"And the Paradynes to have lain under the guilt all this while!"
groaned Sir Simon. "What on earth did he do with the money?" he added,
the problem striking him.
"Ah well, that's best known to himself," cried Hopper. "He _had_ it. He
went into ventures under another name, for one thing."
"Into ventures?"
"Speculations, and that," explained Hopper. "Lots of folks do the same
nowadays, more than the world knows of. If successful, they grow into
millionaires, and their friends can't make out how; if non-successful,
there comes a smash. Ask him, sir, whether it's not all true that I
have told you. I saw him come up that path a few minutes ago."
Sir Simon Orville had no need to ask. A conviction that the man did
indeed speak truth was within him, sure and certain as a light of
revelation. He followed Mr. Trace to his chamber and accused him,
speaking quietly and sadly; and Mr. Trace finding that Hopper was
below, felt scared out of his senses. The time for denial was past:
Robert Trace, believing himself overtaken by the destiny that seemed so
long to have been pursuing him, did not attempt to make any. Sir Simon,
locked in with him, saw how it was—that the hunted man was, and had
been all these years, at his ex-clerk's mercy.
"I never intended to accuse Paradyne," said Mr. Trace with abject lips.
"Loftus got meddling with the accounts, a thing he had not done for
years, and found something was wrong. For appearance sake, I was
obliged to go through the books with him; and then to agree with him
that fraud must be at work. It was Loftus who accused Paradyne; there
was no one else whom it was possible to suspect; it was Loftus who
ordered him to be taken into custody: and I could not say the man was
innocent without betraying myself. Then came Paradyne's sudden death,
and I let the onus of guilt rest upon him."
Sir Simon interposed with but one question. "What became of the money?"
"Private speculations," answered Robert Trace. "There you have the
whole."
Yes; Sir Simon had the whole, and now, a little later in the day,
Raymond Trace had it. Mr. Trace had made his escape from the house at
the dusk hour, while Hopper was still detained with Sir Simon. Hopper
showed every wish, as far as hints could show, to compromise the
affair; meaning, that for a sum of money he would hush up Mr. Trace's
part in it. Sir Simon dismissed him when Raymond entered: Mr. Hopper
gave his address at the inn, and went away in confidence; leaving, as
he supposed, Mr. Trace the elder and Sir Simon to talk over any offer
they might feel inclined to make him.
Sir Simon disclosed the whole to Raymond: there was no possibility of
its being kept from him. The boy—if it be not wrong to call him so—sat
very still on a low chair, feeling as if the world, and everything in
it bright, and honest, and desirable, were closing to him. If ever a
spirit was flung suddenly down on its beam-end from an exalted
pinnacle, it was that of Raymond Trace.
"You cannot go in for the Orville now, Raymond," said Sir Simon to him
in a low tone, breaking a long and miserable pause.
Raymond glanced slightly up. "I have gone in for it. And gained it."
"My boy, you know what I mean. You must give up the gain."
The same thought had been beating itself into Trace's conscience. A
bitter struggle was there. "You would have let Paradyne gain it and
wear it, Uncle Simon, when you thought _his_ father guilty!"
"True. But there is a difference in the cases."
As Raymond Trace saw for himself. He sat with his pale face bent, his
cold fingers unconsciously pressing his hair off his brow. Sir Simon,
sorry to his heart for the signs of pain, laid his own hand
compassionately on the cold one.
"Raymond, this disgrace is no more your fault than it was young
Paradyne's. Take my advice: look it in the face, now, at first; do your
best in it; in time you may live it down. Let it be the turning-point
in your life. You have not gone in—I use the language of your college
fellows—for a strictly straightforward course: begin and do so now. It
will be as certain to lead you right in the end, as the other will lead
you wrong. Begin from this very hour, Raymond."
"I'll do what I can," was the subdued answer. "Where's my father gone?"
"I don't know where until he writes to me. Raymond! your mother, poor
thing, knew the truth of this."
Raymond looked up questioningly.
"I am sure of it. I can understand now her bitter sorrow, the shivering
dread that used to come over her, her anxiety that I should be kind to
the Paradynes. She seemed always to be living in a sort of fear. The
knowledge must have killed her."
Trace shivered in his turn. Yes, the knowledge of her husband's guilt,
and the fear of its coming to light, must have killed her.
"Have you sent for Mr. Loftus, Uncle Simon?"
"Hours ago. Thomas telegraphed for him."
Raymond rose. It was time for him to go. He must show himself at
college, and attend evening service at chapel as usual. On festivals
especially there might be no excuse, and this was All Saints' Day. The
great examination had not done away with duties, neither did this
private blow of his own. A thought crossed his mind to write a note to
the Head Master, and never go back to college again: but it was not
feasible. Better, as Sir Simon said, face it out. If he could bring
himself to do it!
The contrast nearly overwhelmed him—between this walk out and the
recent walk in. He placed his back against a tree in the long avenue,
wondering if any misery since the world began had ever been equal to
this. As he stood there, the cruelty of his behaviour to the Paradynes
came rushing over him in very hideousness. Mr. Henry had once put an
imaginary case to him—"Suppose it had been your father who was
guilty?"—and that now turned out to be reality. Trace's line of conduct
was coming home to him; all its hard-heartedness, all its sin: a little
forgiving gentleness towards the Paradynes, a little loving help to
bear their heavy burden, would have cost him nothing; and, oh! the
comfort it would have brought to him, now, in his bitter hour. As a man
sows so must he reap.
They were filing into the robing-room when he got in. Gall said
something about his being late, but Trace took no notice. He had his
gown on already, and stood near the door to take up his place.
"Have you heard the news?" asked Gall.
"What news?" was the mechanical response.
"About Mr. Henry. He is dying."
"Dying! Mr. Henry! Who says it?"
"It is quite true, unhappily; he will never get up from his bed again,"
answered Gall. There was no time for more explanation: the masters were
approaching, and the organ was already playing in the chapel. Once more
Trace sat in his place, listening to the lessons as one in a dream. How
applicable the first of those lessons was to his present state of mind,
he alone could feel. Gall read it, with his soft, clear voice that in
itself was music. It was the fifth chapter of Wisdom to the seventeenth
verse. The following are the parts that struck Trace particularly, but
you can look out the whole for yourselves, and see whether it was or
was not likely to come home to one acting as Trace had done, suffering
as he suffered, repenting as he repented. Mr. Henry, dying, was in his
mind throughout; or rather, not Mr. Henry, but Arthur Henry Paradyne.
"Then shall the righteous man stand in great boldness before the face
of such as have afflicted him, and made no account of his labours. When
they see it they shall be troubled with terrible fear, and shall be
amazed at the strangeness of his salvation, so far beyond all that they
looked for. And they, repenting and groaning for anguish of spirit,
shall say within themselves, This was he whom we had sometimes in
derision, and a proverb of reproach: we fools accounted his life
madness, and his end to be without honour: now is he numbered among the
children of God, and his lot is among the Saints! . . . .
"What hath pride profited us? or what good hath riches with our
vaunting brought us? All those things are passed away like a shadow,
and as a post that hasteth by: and as a ship that passeth over the
waves of the water, which when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot
be found, neither the pathway of the keel in the waves.
"Even so we in like manner, as soon as we were born, began to draw to
our end, and had no sign of virtue to show; but were consumed in our
own wickedness. For the hope of the ungodly is like dust that is blown
away with the wind: like a thin froth that is driven away with the
storm; like as the smoke which is dispersed here and there with a
tempest, and passeth away as the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth
but a day. But the righteous live for evermore; their reward also is
with the Lord, and the care of them is with the Most High. Therefore
shall they receive a glorious kingdom, and a beautiful crown from the
Lord's hand: for with His right hand shall He cover them, and with His
arm shall He protect them."
Gall's voice ceased. And Trace thought verily that lesson had been
specially appointed by Fate to bring his works home to him. In a few
minutes there came another shock: one "in grievous sickness" was
solemnly prayed for: and he knew it was Mr. Henry. Caring little now
whether he were discovered breaking the rules, or not, Trace went after
chapel to pay a visit to Mr. Henry. Before he escaped, the boys were
upon him with their congratulations. It was the first opportunity
afforded them since the day's examination. Trace winced awfully. He
wished to respond, "I shall not avail myself of the Orville, though I
may have gained it," and thus begin at once to herald in the blow of
exposure. But his heart and his voice alike failed him; he _could not_
speak the words to that sea of faces.
Sitting up in bed, as he had been all day, his prayer-book open, and a
candle on the stand by his side, was Mr. Henry. He put out his hand and
drew Trace near; his face lighting up with the happiest smile.
"You have come to tell me the good news! Thank you for thinking of me.
I am so glad that you have gained it!"
"No," said Trace, in a voice half husky, half sullen, "I did not come
for that." And there he arrived at a pause. His task was very
unpalatable.
"I have been reading the First Lesson for the evening," remarked Mr.
Henry. "What a beautiful one it is! A real lesson. One of those that
seem to speak direct to our hearts from God."
A colour as of dull salmon tinged Trace's cheeks. But for the loving
light thrown on him from the earnest eyes, larger and more luminous
than of yore, he might have thought there was a covert shaft intended
for him.
"I came to speak to you, Mr. Henry: perhaps I ought now to say Mr.
Paradyne. Circumstances have occurred which—Have you heard any
particular news?" broke off Trace.
"Only the good news that you have gained the Orville. Dr. Brabazon has
been with me, and he whispered a little word in my ear. I seem to feel
so thankful. George will not have given up in vain, either. He said to
me last night—with a rueful face, as an argument against what I was
urging—'But suppose one of the others should get it, and not Trace?' It
is all as it should be."
Trace recalled George Paradyne's recent words; he understood them now.
He understood, unhappily, the other words—"Mind, Trace, I'll stand by
you through all." George had come forth from Sir Simon's, having learnt
what he, Trace, was then in blissful ignorance of. "Why did you urge
Paradyne to give up to me?" he asked of Mr. Henry.
"Knowing me now for Mr. Paradyne's son, you will understand how heavily
that past calamity, entailed upon you, has lain on me. If I could but
have wiped it off! I was always thinking; have atoned for it in any
way! And I could do nothing. It was but a slight matter for George to
withdraw from the Orville. And besides, you know the cabal was so great
against his trying for it."
The words went down into Raymond Trace's uneasy conscience; that debt
seemed as nothing, compared to the one now thrown on him. He dashed
into his explanation.
"Circumstances have occurred which show me how very wrong and mistaken
my resentment against you and George has been. I will not allude to
them; I'm not up to it to-night; but you will hear soon enough what
they are. And I came round to say that I am sorry for it; that I repent
of it in a degree which no words could express.—You were prayed for in
chapel to-night;" continued Trace, after a pause. "The report in the
school is that your case is hopeless."
"It is quite so, I fear."
Trace paused, as if to get up his voice, which seemed like himself—very
low. "You will say you forgive me before you die?"
"The need of forgiveness lies on my side," said Arthur Paradyne,
pressing the cold hand with a grateful pressure. "If you were a little
resentful, it was but natural. Say you forgive my poor father!"
"Don't!" cried Trace, with a sort of wail. "I'll come in again another
time, when you have learnt to understand better."
"One moment," said Mr. Henry, detaining him. "You seem to have some
great sorrow upon you to-night. Is it so?"
"Sorrow!" bitterly echoed Trace. "Ay; one that will last me my life. A
sorrow, to which yours has been as nothing."
"I have been picturing you as so full of joy this evening. Trace, you
_have_ gained the Orville. I know it."
"Yes. But I shall give it up to-night."
"Give up the Orville!"
"I cannot help myself. Good-bye."
Mr. Henry was curious, but he would not question further. Trace's hand
was still a prisoner. "When pain is too fresh to be spoken of, Trace,
there is only one thing to do," he gently whispered. "_I_ learnt it."
"Yes. What?" asked Trace, rather vacantly.
"_Carry it to God_. And then in time you will learn that it came down
to you from Him; came in love. One of those mountains that lie in the
road to Heaven, so sharp to the feet in climbing them, so good to look
back upon when the summit is gained, the labour done. Good night."
The low persuasive accents lingered on Raymond Trace's ear as he went
out into the night; the suffering, kind, gentle face rested on his
memory. God help him! God pardon him for the additional thorns he had
gratuitously cast on this young man's already thorny path. What a
wicked spirit had been his! He had sown thorns and nettles and noxious
weeds; and in accordance with the inevitable law of Nature, they had
come up to sting and pierce him.