CHAPTER X.

A Man in a Blaze.

The winter holidays soon passed, and the boys came back to college again. "No pistols this time, I hope, Mr. Loftus," was the Head Master's greeting to that gentleman, and it called a mortified expression into the handsome face. Loftus's whiskers were growing, and he had taken to wear a ring in private. Trace smiled pityingly; Dick made fun of both appendages; but their owner knew not which of the two to admire most.

The routine of school set in, and the boys were busy; some few studying hard, chiefly those who were to go up for the Oxford examination in June; others going in for idleness, mischief, and sport; playing football, snow-balling, making presents and writing love-letters to Miss Rose. All the candidates for the Orville prize were going up for the Oxford examination; it was essential they should pass that, or else withdraw from the competition for the Orville.

But none, whether boys or masters, worked on so patiently and persistently as Mr. Henry, for none had so much to do. His private assistance to Talbot terminated with the holidays; but not so that to George Paradyne. Trace was outrageously angry at the latter fact, and spoke his mind: as Paradyne was going in for the Orville prize, it was _disgraceful_ to give him an advantage that the others did not get. Trace's opinion carried the school with it: Paradyne was shunned worse than before, and resentment prevailed against the German master.

"You have only to come to me," Mr. Henry reiterated to them; "I can read with a dozen of you just as well as I can with one. I have no wish surreptitiously to get Paradyne on; I would a great deal rather that you should all keep together, and enjoy the same advantages, one as the other; but if you will not come to me, and he does, the blame rests with you."

"Such a thing as coaching a fellow for the Orville prize was never heard of before, you know," retorted Brown major.

"I am not coaching him for the Orville prize. I am not coaching him at all, for the matter of that. He reads the classics with me, and I explain away his difficulties in mathematics. It is preparatory to the Oxford examination, not the Orville."

"The one implies the other," said the angry boys. And they spurned the assistance for themselves; which, metaphorically speaking, was like cutting off their noses to spite their faces. Talbot would have liked to continue, but could not fly in the teeth of popular prejudice.

"Perhaps I'd better give it up," said George Paradyne one day, throwing himself back in his chair at Mr. Henry's.

"Give what up?"

"Everything. What with the life at college and the life at home, I'm ready to—to—pitch the whole overboard," concluded Mr. George, having hesitated for an expression sufficiently strong to denote his feelings.

"You have only to bear up bravely against the one; you'll live it down in time——"

"Rather a prolonged time, it seems," put in George, who was quite unlike his own light-hearted self to-day.

"And for the other," continued Mr. Henry, ignoring the interruption, "you should bear it cheerfully, for you know it is born of love for you."

"Ah, but you can't _imagine_ what it is," said the boy, leaning forward, his wide-open bright grey eyes full of eagerness. "It has been worse since we dined at Sir Simon's; that called up to mamma all the old forfeited prosperity. The grumbling never ceases; the lamentation's dreadful. We can't make ourselves rich, if we are not rich, so where's the use of groaning over it? It drives me wild."

"Hush, George."

"But I can't hush. Mamma is so ungrateful. There's poor Mary slaving in that school, never coming up for the holidays; and here's——"

"George, I'll not hear this. Your mother's trials are very great."

"There's an awful bother about the Christmas bills," went on George, paying slight attention to the reproof. "I wish you'd come down and talk with her."

"I! My talking might do more harm than good."

"You might try to smooth things a little—get her to look at troubles in a different light. Won't you? I can tell you it is miserable for me."

"Well, I'll see. Go on with your Greek now."

Mr. Henry, ever ready to do good where it was to be done—to throw oil on troubled waters—went down that evening to Mrs. Paradyne's. His interference was not received graciously. Mrs. Paradyne invited him to an opposite chair, and talked at him from the sofa.

"I _should_ like to know what business it is of Mr. Henry's," she exclaimed, her cold resentful manner in full play. And of course he could not reply that it was any business of his; but he spoke of the trouble it was causing that fine boy, George; he spoke a little of the sad past, he spoke cheerily of a future that should be brighter. Mrs. Paradyne was often in a grumbling mood, but never in a worse than that evening.

"I can't pay the Christmas bills. The money prepared for them I have had to encroach upon for other things. A new silk gown I was obliged to have; I can't go like an alms-woman. Never before did I have Christmas bills; I paid as I went on; but the cost of things in this place is frightful. I did not want money embarrassment added to my other troubles. It is all through our having come up here."

Mr. Henry winced at the last reproach, too evidently directed to him. "I did it for the best," he gently said. "I was anxious that George should get on."

Mrs. Paradyne lifted her delicate hands with deprecation, and went on with her complaints. They were wearying and painful, even to him; what, then, must they be to the high-spirited and generous boy who was exposed to them always? But Mr. Henry contrived to accomplish his mission, and he left a feeling of peace behind him when he quitted the house.

He had plenty of work on his hands yet that night, and ran all the way home. Dashing into Mrs. Butter's kitchen for a light, a quicker mode than ringing for that esteemed and rather slow landlady to bring it, he dashed against a man who was seated on the kitchen table by fire-light, his legs swaying. No need to wait for recognition this time; it was the young man he had twice seen near the college.

"Well?" said the latter, with cool equanimity; "there's room to pass without knocking me over."

"Who are you?" exclaimed Mr. Henry; "are you waiting to see Mrs. Butter?"

"I have seen her—cross-grained old thing! Her temper does not improve with years."

Before anything more passed, or Mr. Henry had in the least formed an idea as to the aspect of affairs, Mrs. Butter came in with Miss Brabazon. The latter had a shawl over her head, and burst out crying as she spoke to the stranger. "Oh, Tom, why have you come here?"

"Can I be of any assistance to you, Miss Brabazon?" whispered Mr. Henry, partially comprehending the mystery. "Will you make use of my sitting-room?"

"Thank you. It is my brother!"

Yes, it was her brother,—the great incubus on Dr. Brabazon's life. In spite of all that had been done to reclaim him; in defiance of education, position, training, Tom Brabazon had turned out a black sheep amidst the doctor's white flock. Dr. Brabazon had paid and paid until he could pay no more; Emma Brabazon never awoke to morning light but a dread crossed her mind of what trouble in regard to him the day might bring forth. It was not only debt; he had done worse things than spend; he had been in prison for three months, and worn the felon's dress, and had his hair cut close; he had been forbidden his father's house; he dared not show himself there or elsewhere in the broad light of day. Mrs. Butter, faithful to the family, knew about it, and she said a word or two of explanation to Mr. Henry as he sat on the other side of her fireplace, while the brother and sister were in his parlour.

"He wants to stay here," she resentfully cried, giving her fire a fierce stir, as if she were stirring up the delinquent. "He is obliged to be in hiding again; and he avows it with all the brass in the world. I'd not have gone to Miss Emma with my own will, but he made me. Ah! the aching heart that she and my poor master have had with him, that ill-doing Tom!"

Emma came in, her eyes inflamed. "You must let him be in that upper room for a day or two; there's no help for it," she said to Mrs. Butter. "And he must have a bit of supper to-night. I'm going back now, or papa may find out my absence. Of course—you know—his being here must be kept a secret."

"I know, Miss Emma," was the wrathful answer; made doubly wrathful because the gentleman had entered. "He up and told me that the first thing."

"Hold your tongue, Mother Butter," cried Tom Brabazon, laughing as if he had not a care in life. "You have been in scrapes yourself before this, I'll lay. Mind you make me a plum-pudding to-morrow; I've not tasted a piece of one yet. Perhaps you'll introduce this gentleman to me, Emma."

And she obeyed mechanically. In the blow the night had brought, she felt utterly bewildered. "My unfortunate brother, Thomas Brabazon; Mr. Henry."

Mr. Henry acknowledged the introduction slightly; and took up his hat to walk home with Miss Brabazon. She begged him not to take the trouble, but he quietly insisted, and they went out together.

"Is this the same that you have seen near the college?" she asked, as they went along.

"It is."

"Ah, yes; I only inquired to see if you remembered him. He denies, most positively, having entered the study that night; and when I spoke of the pencil, he apparently did not know what I meant. He had written a letter to papa, asking for some trifling temporary assistance, intending to send it in and wait for the answer. But he saw the front sitting-rooms were in darkness, and went round, fearing we were out, to see if the back ones were. That is what he says. We were out, you know, as the want of light showed him, and he returned to London, and was arrested before he could come again. When I mentioned the pencil, he asked whether I thought he had become worse than a common thief to touch _that_. I don't think he took it."

"But why have used an evasion to me—that he was looking for the entrance to the college?" returned Mr. Henry.

"He fears an enemy in every person he meets, and I suppose wished to pass himself off as a stranger. Mr. Henry, I must rely on you not to betray his sojourn at your house."

"Betray him! You little know me. Anything in the world I can do for him, or for you, or for Dr. Brabazon, in this painful emergency, I shall only be too happy to do, faithfully and truly."

"You see now," she said, with a faint smile, "that we have too much trouble of our own to be severe upon others. Every bit of secret pride has been taken out of us, and papa's hair is grey before its time. He is the eldest son."

"The eldest son?"

"Yes, the oldest of us all. He went wrong first of all at Oxford, and instead of retrieving his position, or allowing it to be retrieved for him, as others do who get into debt there, he went on from bad to worse. Good night, Mr. Henry."

She hung her shawl up in the inner hall, smoothed her hair, and went in as if nothing unusual had happened. Mr. Jebb was sitting with Dr. Brabazon; they were in an animated discussion about some popular question of the day, and her absence had passed unnoticed. Miss Rose had disappeared. Miss Rose, finding the coast clear, had taken the opportunity to visit her treasure drawer upstairs. It contained presents and love-letters; the one of about as much real value as the other; but the young lady coveted both. Some fresh parcels had just arrived to be added to the collection: we may as well look over her while she examines them. And I beg to state, for the benefit of society in general, that the letters are but copies of genuine originals.

"Dear Miss Rose,—I hope you will accept of the enclosed trifle. With my best love, believe me yours ever affectionately,

"Dick L."

Which stood for Dick Loftus. The enclosed trifle was a thin paper scent-case, pretty to the eye and sweet to the nose. Rose gave a few sniffs, and flung it into the drawer to take up another.

"My dearest Miss Rose,—Will you oblige me by trying the accompanying? That blue bonnet you wore on Sunday was charming. Ever yours, C. Brown."

Meaning Brown minor. A packet of barley-sugar came with this, and Miss Rose began upon it greedily. Then she turned to the third.

"Ever dear Rose,—I take this favourable opertunity of writeing to you, Our desk got in a row this morning and I can't go out to buy that broche I told you of, If Stiggings buys it you fling it in his face, I send you a few rasons if you'll except of them, We are going to have a joly lark this week with Mother Butter, Your affectionate lover, Alfred Jones."

Mr. Alfred Jones was a gentleman of Miss Rose's own age, thirteen. She put as many raisins into her mouth as it would conveniently hold, and went on again.

"Beloved Miss Rose,—_Would_ you wear the accompanied box for my sake, I mean its contents, which Jones minor (that wretched little muff in the fifth form, you know) said he should buy for you, the impudense of the youngster. I expect some jam to-morrow and shall send you a pot. Ever your devoted and respectful admirer, W. Stiggings. P.S.—I hope you have less bother now with those beastly lessons. Miss Brabazon's a tyrent."

The box contained a very smart brooch, for which W. Stiggins, who was a year older than Jones minor, had given ninepence. Miss Rose stuck it into her dress and figured off before the glass, eating alternately the raisins and the barley-sugar. Emma had not called her down, or come to see after her, so she thought she might write her acknowledgments, and got out a pencil and some delicate miniature note-paper, straw-coloured and notched round the edge.

"Dear Mr. Loftus,—Thank you for the scent-paper, it's very delicious, but not so nice as that almond-rock you sent me. I've no more time, for fear Emma should come up. Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.I saw you all riding that donkey on the common, why didn't you look up? I was with Jessie Gall and their governess."

This accomplished, she went on to the next, taking them in rotation.

"Dear Mr. Brown,—The barley-sugar's first-rate; I've eaten it nearly all. It's a love of a bonnet. I wanted Emma to let me have a blue mantle like it, and she went and bought a black! Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.—Please excuse the smuge; an old raisen out of my drawer got crushed on it."

And the next was to Jones minor.

"Dear Mr. Jones,—I'm very sorry about the brooch; perhaps you could get me something else. Don't you ever speak to Stiggins—I shouldn't. The raisens are gritty; perhaps you droped them. Do pay out that Mother Butter. She told Emma the other day I was a little minx. Couldn't you steal her cat? So no more at present from yours ever, Rose B. P.S.—You ought to do some dictation."

And then came the last.

"Dear Mr. Stiggins,—The brooch is beautiful; I've got it in my frock now, but daredn't go down in it for fear of Emma. I wonder you could ever mention Jones minor to me. Why do you speak to him? I don't. I like jam, apricot especially. The lessons are worse than ever, and I wish German was buried. Emma's going to have me put into linear drawing, or some such horrid name, so I mean to break all the pencils. Ever yours, Rose B. P.S.—I'd tell you of something I heard from Jessie Gall, only I'm afraid Emma will be up."

These various missives were directed to the gentlemen, each of them receiving the title of "esquire," and Miss Rose locked up her treasures, the brooch included. A little cousin of hers who was in the junior class, and ran in at will, was made the messenger on either side; otherwise the young men might have found it difficult to convey their offerings to the shrine.

A few days passed. One dark evening Mrs. Butter was in her kitchen, making toast for her not very welcome lodger-guest, who had descended from his room of concealment to talk to her and enjoy the warmth, when there came a sudden and imperious knocking at the casement. Down went the toasting-fork, and Tom Brabazon sprang from the fire into a dark corner.

"Not there, Mr. Tom," she whispered. "Better go upstairs again; it's safest."

One fear only was in the mind of both of them—that this peremptory summons must mean mischief to the fugitive hiding from the law. Mrs. Butter, when he had escaped, drew the heavy red curtain from before the window, and looked out. She expected to see some officers of justice there, or something as formidable; her heart rose to her month; he _was_ her old master's son, with all his faults and sins, and she would have shielded him with her life.

"Don't open the door on any account," softly cried Tom Brabazon, from the stairs.

Between the light inside and the darkness out, combined with her own flurry, Mrs. Butter could see absolutely nothing. A form in a hat, as of a short, stout man, at last made itself dimly visible to her, but he seemed to be standing with his back to the window; at least, she could discern no features.

"What do you please to want, sir?" she called out, deeming it well to be civil.

Instead of making any answer, the glass was rapped at again, more peremptorily than before. Mrs. Butter drew the easement open; it had upright iron bars on the outside, so there was no danger that any Philistine, above the size of a thin rabbit, could make his way in.

"What is it?" she asked.

But still the man never spoke; and now that her eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, she saw that he had no face, or if he had a face, it was enveloped and hidden from view. A disagreeable feeling, as of some vague fear, stole over her.

"What is it, sir, I ask? Won't you please to say what you want?"

All in a moment, without warning, the man burst into a blaze. Blazed up as if he had been coated with pitch or stuffed with gunpowder, and had suddenly caught fire. Mrs. Butter, nearly beside herself with terror, darted back from the window, uttering scream upon scream.

For some little time all was confusion. Mr. Henry, and Tom Brabazon, the one brought from his room by the cries and the light, the other forgetting his needful privacy in the interests of humanity, rushed out of doors, each with a bucket of water. But the burning man, who appeared to have arrived on an iron barrow, was suddenly wheeled to a safe spot off the premises, and a set of gleeful savages were dancing and shouting round him, while he blazed away. Tom Brabazon stole indoors again.

Need you be told that this was the work of the college boys? It was the "jolly lark" hinted at by Jones minor to Miss Rose. They had made a straw figure, introducing a modicum of gunpowder, and fired it before Madam Butter's eyes for her especial edification.

Dancing, howling, shouting, the boys did not see the approach of Mr. Baker until that gentleman was close upon them. He had happened to be passing within view, and ran up in terror. They took flight then; and indeed there was nothing to wait for, for the figure had nearly emitted his last spark. Mr. Baker, rather in fear still, perplexed, and outrageously angry, threw out his arms in the dark, but only succeeded in grasping one: the rest eluded him. That one was George Paradyne. Mrs. Butter, in a state of fury, came out with her tale.

"I'll cane _you_ at all events," said Mr. Baker to his captive. "Come with me."

"I have not done anything," said George. "I don't know now what has happened."

"I'll teach you, you vagabond, what has happened," stuttered Mr. Baker, still further exasperated by the assumption of ignorance, which he entirely disbelieved. "Come along."

He marshalled George Paradyne away to the hall, holding his jacket collar. Every boy had got back before them. About twenty were in the fray, and Mr. Baker had not distinguished one. They were seated sedately at their evening lessons now, in common with the rest, and not to be distinguished. The angry master got out his cane.

"One single moment, Mr. Baker, before you strike me," said George Paradyne. "I _declare_ that I was not in this. I knew nothing of it: I was going to Mr. Henry's for my usual reading when I came upon the blaze. Surely they will tell you I was not in it! They never do let me join in anything."

Mr. Baker paused, cane in air. George Paradyne had certainly been amidst the throng: he did not believe that he was not joining in the mischief.

"I was not in it, indeed, sir: I had but run up when you came. I was asking what it was."

"Who was in it, if you were not?" asked Mr. Baker. "You saw."

"I saw some of them."

"Tell me who they were. I shall cane you if you don't."

George looked round on the boys, as if to say, "Will none of you exculpate me?" They dropped their eyes on their books, and made no response.

"I shall cane you, Paradyne, if you don't tell."

"I can't help it, sir. I will not tell."

He took his punishment, a very severe one. Pulling his jacket on his stiff and aching arms, when it was over, he once more looked at the lot as he went out. And the boys, in their heart of hearts, felt that George Paradyne, the despised, was made of nobler stuff than they were.