The End.
A day in December. The fine old hall was decorated as for a festival.
Ordinary signs and appurtenances were put out of it; desks were not;
books, slates, ink, canes, all had disappeared. The boys wore their
gowns; the masters were all suavity; and James Talbot, Earl of
Shrewsbury, had a bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole, the badge of
the Orville Prize. From his chair of state the Head Master had just
announced him as the victor, and decorated him with its sign. It had
been virtually known for some weeks that Talbot would have it, but this
was the formal investiture.
The term was drawing to its end: Mr. Henry, in his proximate dwelling,
was drawing near to his. On the day but one following this, the school
would disperse. Gall, Loftus major, Brown, Talbot, and others who have
less concerned us, were quitting the place for ever. Mr. Henry had been
considerably better for some days; he had been up, and even walked in
the garden. It was the flickering of the candle's flame before going
out.
Mr. Trace had just sailed for America, taking Raymond with him. The
full particulars of the past frauds had been for some time known; and
the unhappy man had never come out of hiding. He had nothing to fear,
legally or criminally, but he could not face the world. Not until this
morning, when the news of their sailing for New York reached the boys,
had they given up the hope that Raymond might come up to say farewell.
And Mr. Lamb, as you will see, intended to take advantage of the fact
of his departure. Hopper had disappeared from Orville; nobody knew or
cared where. Sir Simon had made short work of his refusal to give him
money: though it was very generally suspected that he had again
substantially assisted his brother-in-law, Robert Trace.
The ceremony of formally investing Talbot with the bit of blue ribbon
was over, and the masters left the hall. Up rose the boys with their
shouts of congratulation.
"Long live the Earl of Shrewsbury!"
The earl laughed, and held his hands above his head. "Don't hail me,"
said he jestingly, "I have but stepped into another's cast-off shoes.
Trace gained the prize."
"If hailing goes by deserts, you should hail Paradyne," interposed
Gall. "But for his withdrawal, Trace would have come off second-best. I
know it."
"I'll shake hands with the whole of you with pleasure as Trace's
deputy," heartily called out George Paradyne.
Lamb stepped forward. Never had his face been more virtuous, his voice
so candid. "I can't let the opportunity pass without declaring a thing
that is in my keeping," he smoothly began. "In that matter of the
pistol, fifteen months ago, when Lord Shrewsbury was shot—you all
remember it well. It was Trace who did it."
Gall wheeled round on Lamb. The rest stood in wonder, listening for
more.
"And it was Trace who inked that Latin essay of Paradyne's," continued
the estimable young man. "I _saw_ him do that, and I know he did the
other. As he is gone, it's as well the truth should be known. Trace was
a sneak."
A good swinging blow in the chest, which sent Mr. Lamb staggering
backwards. It came from Bertie Loftus. Never before had Bertie been
seen to strike gratuitously.
"You are the sneak," he said to Lamb. "Can't you let a fallen fellow
alone? Trace is in misfortune, and absent. But for that, you'd not have
dared to traduce him, you coward."
"It was he who fired off the pistol," roared Lamb, smarting under the
blow. "I swear it was. There! It's only lately I got to suspect it, and
I taxed Trace with it the morning he left, and he couldn't deny it: he
didn't seem to care to; he was too down. You hold your row, Loftus
major."
In dodging away from Bertie, Mr. Lamb contrived to back amidst the
throng, and tread upon their feet. It only wanted that to set them on.
This last announcement, so exceedingly characteristic of him, was as
the climax of his sins, and they thought the time had come to pay him
out. Trace had never been a favourite; and perhaps he really had
something of the sneak about him; but this did not make Lamb less of
one. Hissing, pushing, striking, calling him every derisive name they
could lay their tongues on, buffeting, kicking, the lot set to on the
miserable Lamb. And Bertie helped in it.
His ears were tingling, his hair was pulled, his eyes were smarting.
One whacked him here, another kicked him yonder; his back was already
growing blue; his voice, poor wretch, was raised in a howl, piteously
shrieking for quarter. Suddenly the onslaught was interrupted. Somebody
had interposed to part them, and so stopped the fray. One look round,
and the boys fell back in very astonishment.
It was their dear old master, Mr. Henry—for dear in truth he had become
to them. A little worn, shadowy, looking taller than he used; but with
the same kind and gentle face, the same loving gaze from the luminous
eyes. Sir Simon stood behind.
"I thought I would try and get as far once more; and my good friend,
Sir Simon, helped me with his arm," said Mr. Henry, speaking so very
quietly that a sudden hush seemed to fall upon the room. "But I did not
expect to find you _thus_."
As if in excuse, and perhaps a little ashamed of the turmoil, a score
of voices avowed the cause. Lamb stood to his creed; and Sir Simon's
ears were regaled with Raymond Trace's private misdoings in the past.
Perhaps it did not much surprise him.
"It does not excuse Lamb," said Gall, his eyes flashing indignation on
the latter, who stood cowering behind.
"It was Lamb who told about the smoking that time," called out Leek
with indignation.
"He's a wretched coward." And the boys began to hiss again.
"Forgive him for my sake," said Mr. Henry, throwing oil on the troubled
waters. "Next term he will do better perhaps; he will have learnt a
lesson."
"He'd better not come back! he'd better not show his face here again!"
growled the boys.
"I'm not coming back," retorted Lamb.
"But to think that Trace——"
"Hush, hush," interrupted Mr. Henry. "We must have peace and
pleasantness to-day. How can we expect mercy for our own faults if we
do not show it to one another? If you only knew how pleasant it is to
do a kindness instead of an injury! Try it, Lamb, in future."
Lamb's only answer was to steal out of the room surreptitiously, as
quickly as his stiffness allowed. He had not enjoyed his bonneting. Sir
Simon Orville went up to Talbot, and fastened a gold watch and chain to
his waistcoat.
"My present comes opportunely," he remarked, "since you were on the
subject of the pistol. You may remember that I offered a gold watch and
chain to whosoever should track out the shooter of Talbot. But what do
you think I did, boys?—I'm nothing better than a plain old goose, you
know.—I went and bought the watch and chain, never supposing but
somebody would turn up to win it the next day. He didn't turn up, and
I've had it by me ever since, lying useless. It crossed my mind once to
give it to my friend Onions here,"—with a nod to Mr. Leek—"for his
services in a certain duel you've heard of; but I hadn't got it with me
in Boulogne; and, besides, he has a handsome gold watch of his own. So
then I determined to keep it for the winner of the Orville; and I've
brought it. It seems consistent with poetical justice that it should be
Talbot's at last, since he was the one damaged by the shots. Long life
to you, my brave earl, to wear it out!"
"Not to me, sir," said the earl, flushing with delight, but just and
generous in the midst of it. "It is true I have got the Orville, but
Paradyne merited it. He gave up the contest voluntarily—and he has not
a watch any more than I have."
"I'll take care of Paradyne," said Sir Simon, with a significant nod.
"He'll miss neither the watch nor the Orville, and he goes to Cambridge
when you go to Oxford. I'm a plain man and like Cambridge best. Wear
your watch with content, my boy: your name is on it, and you have
deserved it."
A deafening cheer followed Sir Simon as he went out. Mr. Henry stayed
behind. Sitting down on a bench, he gathered them round him, his low
clear voice echoing on their ears and hearts with a strangely peaceful
echo, as he talked of the journey he was so close upon; of the one they
must all take in their turn, and of many little things that would speed
their packing up for it. In the middle of this, to the general
consternation, Dick Loftus broke into sobs, and dropped his head upon
Mr. Henry's arms. Dick came to himself in a few moments. Feeling
intensely ashamed, he made a feint of carrying of things with a
careless hand.
"Don't you go and die yet. We shouldn't like it, you know. Wait till we
are off. And couldn't you leave us something as a legacy?"
"Oh yes! leave us a legacy," cried the rest, ready for any suggestion
of that sort.
"A legacy?" repeated Mr. Henry, smiling. "Very well. What kind of
legacy?"
They ran over different articles, each in his mind, from a gold watch
and chain like Lord Shrewsbury's, to a lock of Mr. Henry's hair. But
nobody mentioned one thing in particular. "Anything you like," said the
boys.
He smiled still, and rose; shaking hands with each of them, saying a
tender word of encouragement to all; and went out, leaning on Gall's
arm, Bertie walking on the other side. Ah, what a contrast it was!
They, so full of life, of its interests and passions; he, so near its
close.
Nearer than they thought. On the following morning when they were at
breakfast, crowing over the premature departure of Mr. Lamb, who had
declined to face the school again, the Head Master walked in and
imparted the news.
They were allowed to go and see him. He lay on the bed where he had
died. His face was perfectly beautiful from its look of intense peace,
almost as if a halo of glory were around it. No wonder: he had gone to
the God and Saviour whom he served. With hushed breath and softened
hearts, they stood gazing on him, very conscious just then that their
time must also come. He had but gone on a little while in advance—as he
told them the previous afternoon in the college hall.
They were returning to their homes that day or the following: to their
Christmas festivities, the puddings, the games, the gaieties, all to be
merry; just as you are at this very present time. Some few would never
come back to Orville College; they were about to be launched forth on
their several ways of life. A tempting prospect to look forward to: but
a conscious voice within them was whispering that _he_ was happier in
his early death, than they who had yet the battle and the strife to
encounter. God defend them in it, and keep them for Himself! As He had
kept him, who lay there.
And the promised legacy? As they filed noiselessly out, a folded paper
was put into Gall's hand. It was headed "The legacy to my dear friends
and pupils." He had sat up in bed the previous night to write it. It
proved to be a small portion of the thirteenth chapter of St. John, in
his own beautiful handwriting, and signed with his full name, "Arthur
Henry Paradyne."
"_A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another: as I
have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men
know that ye are my disciples, ye have love one to another_."
Gall reverently folded the paper, and they passed out of the house,
putting on their trenchers. "We'll have it framed," said he, "and hang
it in the hall. Us senior fellows will be gone, but we can come in
sometimes, and look at it."
Oh, boys! my dear young fellow-workers for whom I have written this
story! Do you strive, earnestly and patiently, to do your duty in this
world; and take that legacy home to your hearts!
THE END.
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.