CHAPTER XII.

In the Shop in Oxford Street.

Miss Brabazon was walking through Oxford Street on that memorable afternoon, taking her time, as befitted the heat of the day, and looking into the shop windows; which, truth to say, bore attraction for her, as they do for most persons who see them rarely.

"I daresay I could get it here," she thought, halting at a jeweller's shop and finally entering it. A double shop with two separate doors, but Miss Brabazon did not observe that. She had broken the key of her watch and wanted a new one, but wished it of a particular pattern. A middle-aged, pleasant-looking man came forward, whom she took to be the master. Yes, he had keys of the shape she described, he said, and reached out a tray.

While he was fitting the key to the watch, Miss Brabazon's eyes went roaming (naturally) amidst the many attractive articles of plate and jewelry. They alighted on a gold pencil with a diamond set in the top. Except that the stone was considerably smaller, it was very much like the one lost from the college.

"That is a beautiful pencil!" she exclaimed.

"Very, ma'am. The diamond makes it also a valuable one."

"Is it not very unusual to see a diamond set in a pencil-case?"

"Rather so," he replied. "I have made them to order before now. We have a better one than that, but it's not for sale. Not yet, at least. It is one of our pledges in the other shop; was left with us some months back."

"Do you mean it was—pawned?" she asked, bringing out the word gingerly, as ladies in general do.

"Yes, ma'am."

"But—is this a pawnbroker's?" she hastily asked.

"The other shop is, ma'am."

A thousand thoughts came crowding over her; a suspicion arose, almost amounting to an instinct, that it was the pencil they had lost. "When was it left with you, do you say?" she inquired.

"Some time last autumn; either in September or October."

"I wish you would let me see it," she exclaimed.

"It is quite against all rule, ma'am, to show our pledged goods," was the reply of the jeweller.

"Is it? But if you would! The truth is—I don't see why I should not tell you—we lost one about that time. I do not wish to claim the pencil, only to see it for my own satisfaction, just to set my doubts at rest. They have been—" dreadful, was the word on her tongue, but she paused in time and substituted another—"tiresome."

The jeweller was an honest man; kind and considerate. It was, as he said, entirely against the rule to show pledges left with them; but the young lady seemed very anxious, and was evidently sincere. He stood in hesitation.

"I am Miss Brabazon," she resumed, drawing out her card-case and showing her cards. "My father is Dr. Brabazon, of Orville College; you may have heard of it and of him. Indeed you may trust us not to make any fuss or trouble about this."

"Orville College," repeated the jeweller. "I am almost sure that was the address given with the pencil. I think the person who pledged it said he was a master there."

A rush of conviction and the image of Mr. Henry came over her together. "Do let me see it," she said; "I am certain it is the same."

He went into the other shop by a communicating door, was away for several minutes, and came back with a box in which was the pencil. She only needed to take one glance at it; the chased gold was bright as ever, the diamond flashed with all its accustomed brilliancy. It was Dr. Brabazon's. "Yes, it is papa's," she exclaimed. "Who was it that pledged it?"

"The name in the book is Henry Jebb; I have been looking. But there seems to have been some doubt whether——. Here, Simms," broke off the jeweller, "step this way."

"Henry Jebb!" mentally repeated Miss Brabazon, as a young man, running his hand through an amazing head of light hair, came in from the other shop.

"Tell this lady the particulars of the transaction I have been asking you about," said his master. "When you took in this pencil, you know."

"It was Watson that took it in, sir, not me; but I was standing by and heard what passed. The gentleman came in, mem," he continued, turning to Miss Brabazon, "and said he wanted a little temporary accommodation for a few days, and he pulled the pencil out of his waistcoat pocket, mem, and asked what we'd lend upon it; as much as ever we could, he hoped, for he was hard up till his remittances came. Well, Watson, seeing a pencil like that, with the diamond stone in the top, was rather sharp; he asked whether it was the party's own, and if it wasn't a family relic, and lots more things; he was quite down upon him, mem, in fact, and gave him a look from head to foot as if he didn't think him exactly the one to be offering such an article. 'Hadn't you better call in the nearest policeman and tell him to question me?' says the customer. 'I can go where I'm known if you decline to negotiate.' Well, what with his coolness, and his composed manner, and his gentleman's voice, Watson thought it was all right, mem, and lent him seven pounds upon it. 'What name?' says Watson. 'Henry,' answered he, and stopped. 'Henry what?' says Watson; 'is that the surname or Christian name?' and the stranger stroked his chin for a moment looking at him. 'I suppose I must give it in?' said he; 'Henry Jebb.' 'What address?' asks Watson next. 'Oh, Fleet Street,' said he. 'That won't do this time,' says Watson, 'I should like the real one.' 'Then take it,' said he, picking up the money and putting it in his pocket, and he gave the address that is in the book, sir,"—turning to the jeweller—"Orville College. 'I'm one of its masters,' he went on, 'and that pencil was presented to me by the pupils, so you may be sure I shall redeem it. In a week's time from this it will be in my pocket again.' But here it is still," concluded the speaker; "and it often is so."

"You have a good memory, Simms," observed his master, smiling.

"And so I have, sir. I won't take upon me to say that those were the precise words used, but I know they are not far out on either side. Watson said afterwards that he'd lay half-a-crown Henry was the right name; though he put it down as Henry Jebb."

"Was he a young man?" asked Miss Brabazon; feeling how superfluous was the question in her certainty of conviction.

"Oh yes, mem; youngish, that is."

"That's all, Simms; you may go. Has this helped to solve your doubts at all, ma'am?" continued the jeweller, turning to Miss Brabazon.

"It has indeed," she sadly said. "We have suspected him—at least some of us did—from the first. His name is not Jebb. But I would rather not say any more about it. Do not think me uncivil," she hastened to add; "indeed I am sensible of your kind courtesy, and thank you very much. You will keep the pencil safe; and please keep—if you would so far oblige me—the matter secret too."

He came round to open the door for her, assuring her of his discretion, and that the pencil would be perfectly safe.

"Mr. Henry!" she repeated over and over again to herself as she went home. "And I had nearly overcome those doubts of him that so pained me. But the impudence of his using poor, unconscious Mr. Jebb's name!"

And the "impudence" of the thing did strike upon her so forcibly that, in spite of her distress, she stood still and gave way to a burst of laughter, unable to restrain it within bounds.

Dr. Brabazon was alone in his study when she entered, looking over some books just brought in. As if anxious to get the communication over, she sat down at once on a stool at his feet, and told him all. It must be remembered that _his_ suspicions had never been directed to Mr. Henry, and for the first few minutes he really thought his daughter was dreaming, or that the day's heat had affected her usually cool brain.

"It is impossible, Emma. Steal my pencil!—Mr. Henry! My dear, you don't know what you are saying."

"Papa, I am very sorry to say it. You must judge for yourself; but I don't see how it can have been otherwise. You have not been listening to me."

"Begin again. Surprise took my listening faculties away."

She untied her bonnet, pushed it off her head, and began again; telling him of Trace's back suspicions and their foundation; of her recent discovery of the pencil, and what passed. "Is there any _room_ to doubt, papa?"

"Stay a moment, Emma: why did you not inform me of this doubt of Mr. Henry at the time?"

"Because I thought, as you do now, that it was so very unlikely; and also—I feared—that some one altogether different might have taken it."

"Who?"

"Forgive me, papa; I know how you dislike the name to be mentioned—Tom."

Dr. Brabazon frowned. "How could you possibly have suspected him when he was not near the place? That comes of letting your thoughts run upon him always. You should have told me this about Mr. Henry."

She sat with her finger on her cheek, looking out apparently at the boys in the playground, and asking herself whether to tell the whole now—that Tom _was_ near the place the evening of the loss. But to what end? To hear of his being near them, always destroyed her father's rest; and the suspicion was now quite removed from him.

"Mr. Henry must have intended to redeem it within a week, as he said, papa; or he would never have disclosed the fact of his being one of the college masters: he hoped, I suppose, to replace it here before it was missed. I wonder why he did not do it?"

"Emma, I could have trusted that young man with untold gold."

"What shall you do about it, papa?"

"I don't know what to do," said the doctor, rousing himself from a pause of perplexed thought. "Look you, child; he _must_ stay here until the Oxford examination. To discharge him now might peril the passing of the boys."

"I see. Of course it might. And he is so excellent a master!"

"I wish; I _wish_ I had not heard this."

Emma wished so too; wished, rather, there had been nothing to hear.

"His staying on a little while will not make matters worse, papa," she resumed, trying to put the best side of things outwards; "he might stay until the end of the term. We have missed nothing since. And if I had not happened to go into that shop for a watch-key, we should be in just as much ignorance as we were before."

"If!" said the doctor, "if! if! life is half made up of ifs. I'll take a night's rest upon this unpleasantness, Emma; meanwhile keep strict counsel."

"I shall keep that always, poor young man. I can't help being sorry for him; he is so hardworking and so friendless; and, papa, with it all, he is a gentleman. But what about the pencil?"

"Time enough to think of that," said the doctor. "It won't run away."

It was all utterly incomprehensible to Dr. Brabazon. As he said, he could have _trusted_ Mr. Henry; not only with untold gold, but with things far more precious. He thought that some great emergency, some urgent need of money must have tempted him; it had tempted others before him, as the world's history tells. It struck the doctor that in this must lie the secret of Mr. Henry's demeanour; there was always a sort of shrinking reticence observable to _him_, not to others. "As if—I declare, as if he were conscious of some acted wrong towards me!" cried the doctor aloud, the new thought striking him. Whatever his degree of guilt, Dr. Brabazon felt certain it was bitterly repented of. To part with him before the Oxford examination, thereby suddenly cutting short the thread of the French and German instruction, was not to be thought of and the Head Master buried the unwelcome knowledge within his breast, and suffered things to go on as usual.

It was drawing so near now, that all other interests gave place to it There was a good deal of rivalry amidst the boys going up for it; there was some jealousy, a little disputing. The remoter competition for the Orville prize was lost sight of now. It was at the option of the Head Master to send the boys up for this Oxford examination, or to retain them; according as, in his judgment, they were sufficiently prepared, or the contrary.

The elder ones, those whose age would preclude trial another year, were to go; that was certain; and take their chance: but in regard to the rest it lay with Dr. Brabazon. Only, if they did not go up for the Oxford; or, going up, did not pass; they could not compete for the Orville. And of the candidates, there was not one, Gall excepted, and perhaps Loftus, who did not secretly pray that Paradyne might not be allowed to go up. Altogether there was as much excitement and commotion just now in the college over the coming Oxford examination, as there is in a bribery borough on the eve of a general election.

Mr. Loftus sat in his bedroom at Pond Place, fingering his cherished pistols. It was the day subsequent to his encounter with Gall, and he was spending it at Sir Simon's. Loftus had not been himself since the mishap; he was not one to cherish revenge in a general way, but he did in this instance firmly resolve that Gall should suffer. On all occasions of his visits to his uncle's these pistols were got out, their state ascertained, their shape and points admired. It was Sunday afternoon, but Loftus was rubbing them with wash-leather; he and Leek, who stood by, talking in a desultory manner.

"Loftus, I would not care to possess pistols if I had to keep them locked up out of sight," cried Leek rather inopportunely.

"Ah," said Loftus, "wait until I am my own master. I wish I _might_ use them," he added, significantly. "I could put a little bullet into somebody with all the pleasure in life—that is, if he were not too great a coward to meet me; but snobs are always cowards. Give me that oil, Onions."

"You mean Gall," said Onions, handing the phial, and taking out the cork by way of facilitating operations; upon which a strong smell of bergamotte was diffused through the room. Onions gave a sniff.

"I say, Loftus, this is hair oil!"

"It will do; I've got no other. Yes, snobs are safe to be cowards; it's in their blood, and they can't help it," observed he, dropping a modicum of oil on the bright steel and delicately rubbing it. "I'd lay you all I'm worth; I'd lay you these pistols, Onions, that if I called out Gall, he'd laugh in my face."

"Bosh, Loftus! Folks don't fight duels now," was the slighting remark of Onions.

"Not on this side the Channel. No; and that's what the fellow would shelter himself under—a custom obsolete. Gall has insulted me, and if I live I'll make him suffer for it. I _should_ like to put a bullet into him," continued Bertie, grandly.

"It was too bad," said sympathising Onions. "I should pitch into him, Loftus."

Mr. Loftus threw up his head. "Pitching in" was not in his line, or anything so vulgar. "It was a great mistake to allow duelling to go out," he observed, in his lordly manner. "There's no way left now for gentlemen to resent an insult. You can't fight a fellow with your fists, as if you were a prize-fighter; you can't bring an action against him, and let things be blabbed out to the world."

"You can kick him down stairs," said Onions.

Mr. Loftus scorned a refutation. "Just lay hold of this end, will you, while I rub. Mark my words, Onions, before fifty years have gone over our heads, duelling will be in again."

"I say! is this Sir Simon coming up?" cried Leek, hurriedly.

Loftus listened for a moment, and then bundled pistols and leather and oil into the drawer. Sir Simon was passing to his own room, and there was no certainty that he would not look into this. So, for the time being, the polishing and the discussion were alike cut short.

But on the following morning, Onions, whose tongue was as open as his own nature, got talking to the school. And the matter reached the ears of Gall.

"Says he would like to meet me in a duel! says he is a better shot than I! _Is_ he? If I chose to take him at his word and meet him, he'd see who was the best shot."

"And so I am a better shot," affirmed Loftus, coming forward to face Gall. "What should _you_ know about shooting? It is an art that belongs to gentlemen."

In point of fact, neither of the two could shoot at all. Gall lifted his finger.

"Look here, Loftus. This is not a time to be taken up with petty interests: I can't afford the leisure for it, if you can; neither shall the school. We'll settle matters, you and I, when the Oxford's over."

"Agreed. Mind you don't flinch from it," was the scornful conclusion.

Gall spoke rather without his host, in saying that the school should not waste its time in disputes. At that very moment, the school was divided into groups, some taking Gall's part, some taking Loftus's, some differing on private matters of their own. After morning study, the various dissensions seemed to have merged into one single outbreak, and that was between Loftus minor and Paradyne. Paradyne had been taunted well that morning, by Dick especially, and he turned at length on the taunter. It was in the quadrangle.

"Because I have borne what hardly anybody else would, you think I _can't_ retaliate; you think I am a coward! Try me, Dick Loftus."

Dick—hot, impulsive, passionate Dick—dashed in and struck the first blow. That was his answer. Off went the jackets, the boys closed round in a ring; it was to be an impromptu, stand-up, hand-to-hand fight.

And the very cries would have decided it, could cries decide. Every encouragement was heaped cheerily on Dick, every derisive insult that tongue can utter was levelled at Paradyne: never had the feeling of the school been more palpably displayed than now. Paradyne stood his ground bravely: cool, collected, retaining his temper and his self-possession, he proved a great deal more than a match for Dick, who had very shortly to acknowledge himself beaten. Paradyne had not a scratch upon his face; parrying all blows successfully, to this he chiefly confined himself, and, instead of punishing Dick, had been content to show that he could have punished if he would.

"And now," said he, as he put on his jacket, "as you see that I can fight, perhaps you'll let me alone for the future. I shan't take things so patiently as I have done."

He set off to run home to dinner; and a glow of admiration went out after him from all that were unprejudiced. The boy had half won their hearts with his gallant bearing.

He appeared at his desk as usual in the afternoon. Dick Loftus was at his, a little sore about the arms. Suddenly, amidst the silence that follows the first settling down of a large number of students, a voice was heard.

"Who has done this?"

It came from Paradyne. He was standing with a paper of many sheets in his hand, and had spoken aloud in his shock of surprise. The paper was a Latin essay, to go in that night to the Head Master; it had taken him many days to write it.

"What is the matter?" asked Mr. Jebb.

Paradyne left his place and carried up the paper. It was torn, blotted, soaked in ink almost from beginning to end. The contents of one inkstand could scarcely have put it in the state it was.

"What _is_ it?" cried Mr. Jebb, gazing at the black relic.

"It is my Latin essay, sir. I left it clean and perfect in my desk after morning school."

"Your Latin essay! You left it—— Nonsense, Paradyne," broke off Mr. Jebb, "you must have had an accident with it: you have been upsetting the ink."

The whole school was staring and wondering. On the merit of these essays was supposed to lie very much the decision of the Head Master, whether their author should or should not go up for the Oxford. The school denied all knowledge of the affair. The first desk, collectively and individually, protested they had had no hand in it, and a whisper arose that Paradyne had done it himself to hide the poorness of his Latin. There was no time to attempt another.

"He can't go up for the Oxford now," were the first words that greeted Paradyne's ears when the hall rose; and they came from Dick Loftus.

"Did _you_ do it?" cried Paradyne, turning sharply upon him.

"No, I did not," answered Dick; his red face and his honest eyes raised fearlessly to Paradyne's.

"You beat me this morning in a fair, stand-up fight; but I'd scorn to do a mean trick of this sort."

"I believe you," said Paradyne, "and I beg your pardon for asking."

"And I am sorry that you should lose your chance for Oxford," added Dick, not to be outdone in generosity. "I have never said either, as some of them do, that you ought not to go up for the Orville: it's as fair for you to compete as for the rest, for what I see."

But all chance for Paradyne, either for the one or the other, was over, in the opinion of the school.

Some of the better-natured felt sorry for him, and said it. Paradyne bore himself bravely before them; not a cloud on his brow, not a shadow on his lips, proclaimed aloud the bitterness of his defeat. But, later, when he was sitting at Mr. Henry's, he astonished that gentleman not a little by bursting into tears.

"I had taken such pride in that essay! I had looked forward to this examination with so much certainty of success. And now to have it all destroyed in a moment!"

"Hush, George! You may go up yet."

"No, I shall not; I can see that Brabazon thinks I did it myself. I might just as well never have worked on for the examination; I'd better not have come to Orville. It's awful treachery!" he burst forth presently, his tone changing as anger superseded the sobs. "I know this has been done by some of them. Oh, what a life it is to lead! And there's another thing—the mother has been counting on my success."

There were rare times and seasons when Mr. Henry was so utterly dispirited himself, that it seemed like a mockery to attempt to impart consolation or preach of patience to another. This was one. The trouble lay heavier on him than it did on the boy. As he sat alone, after George's departure, and took up the Book; more, it must be confessed, from custom that night than from any comfort he thought to find—for, in truth, he felt entirely beaten down, worn, sick, weary; it opened of itself at a part that seemed—ay, that seemed to have been written expressly for him.

"My son, if thou come to serve the Lord, prepare thy soul for temptation. Set thy heart aright and constantly endure, and make not haste in time of trouble."

And by the time he had read on to the end of the chapter, which is the Second of Ecclesiasticus, peace and trust had come back to him.