CHAPTER XIX.

A Visitor for Sir Simon.

Once more the school had met, and were at work with a will. Ah, this was the real trial—that could occur but once in three full years—the competition for the great Orville prize. Masters and candidates were alike on their metal, making stern preparation for it. It was no child's play. Gall, Loftus, Trace, Savage, Brown major, Whitby, Talbot, and Paradyne, were going up for it.

Who would win? Some thought one would, some another; opinions were divided, a whisper of bets reigned. Gall openly avowed he did not expect to get it, Bertie Loftus made no secret of not really trying: they chose to go up for it as the seniors of the school, but they were regarded as virtually out of the contest. The more general impression was that the real contest would lie between Trace and Paradyne.

And none were more conscious that this was likely to prove a fact than Trace himself. He was afraid of Paradyne. In spite of Trace's large and vain self-esteem, there was a disagreeable conviction within him that in the trial Paradyne's scholarship might weigh down his own. A bitter pill of anticipation for Trace to swallow from any competitor: but from Paradyne—words could not express his angry indignation: and he felt inclined to question the divine ordering of events that should have brought that one miserable unit of creation in this offensive antagonism with him. With _him_, Raymond Trace!

Ten times a day he said to himself that it _ought not_ to be. He was quite honest in thinking this: he believed he was just; for he saw things with a jaundiced eye. The son of the man who had so signally failed in his duty to the world in general, and to his father and Mr. Loftus in particular, was out of place in Orville College, the associate of honest gentlemen. It had however pleased Dr. Brabazon to keep him in it, and Trace thought himself worthy of a gold medal at least for having buried the secret of the past from the school. The far-famed duel in Boulogne had become public property, to the raging mortification of the two duellists, who were chaffed unmercifully, and grew to wish that duels had never been invented. The rescue of Dick Loftus also spread from mouth to mouth, and Paradyne was lauded as some young god descended from Olympus. All so much heart-burning for Trace. He had bitterly rebelled at the favour shown to Paradyne in Boulogne, asking what brought him there at all; what right he had there. He seemed fated to be haunted by this Paradyne everywhere: a second case of Faust and Mephistopheles. All that was bad enough, but Trace, doing violence to his own feelings, had passed it over. What, he began to ask himself now, was—ought this fellow, this waif of ill-descent, to be allowed to go in for the great Orville prize—the prize that all were burning to gain, either for the honour or the money. Trace pondered the question very seriously, and meanwhile fanned the ill-feeling against Paradyne, which had been buried, into a smouldering heat, that might burst at any moment up in a flame.

He fanned something else—and, that was, a vague rumour reflecting on Mr. Henry. That gentleman's name became connected with Miss Paradyne's in anything but a pleasant manner: but as yet only by hints and innuendoes; the school had got hold of nothing tangible. Bertie Loftus asked Trace what the matter was, but Trace did not define it. "A bad lot, those Paradynes," he answered, drawing down the corners of his respectable lips: "and the German is in league with them." A terrible score had Trace against Mr. Henry, if only from the fact that he continued to assist, or, as Trace phrased it, to coach Paradyne: but for that, Paradyne had never stood a chance of wresting the Orville prize from deserving fingers. And so, in this uncomfortable and uncertain state, the time went on.

One afternoon when October was passing, and the great day of decision, the first of November, was drawing near, it happened that in a very difficult Greek lesson, Trace did badly, Paradyne markedly well. They were before the Head Master, and he said a few rather sharp words to Trace, whose failure he attributed to carelessness, about allowing one younger to outstrip him. "You'll stand no chance against him, Trace, if you can't do better than this," added the doctor. Perhaps he spoke lightly, without much thought; but Trace took the words to his heart and let them rankle there.

When tea was over, he went out alone, debating with himself whether he should disclose the past disgrace relating to Paradyne, and so stop his going up for the Orville. Trace was of a concentrative nature, and liked this self-communing. Pacing the plantation, he thought over the question in all its bearings, and came to the conclusion that, to speak, was a duty he owed to society, and would be a righteous act in itself. This so far settled, he was about to leave the tree, against which his back had been propped for the last five minutes, and to go home, when he saw a man come stealthily forth from a dark side-path, and look out as if he were waiting for some one. Trace had no objection to a bit of private adventure, especially if it related to other people's business, and remained where he was, on the watch.

Up came Mr. Henry, making directly for the stranger's hiding-place. That he had come to meet him, was apparent; and Trace stared with all his eyes into the obscure light. He could not make out much: they passed him very close once, as they were talking together, and he heard a few words from the stranger.

"I shall stop here, I tell you. The voyage——"

Those were all the distinct words Trace caught then. When they came back again, Mr. Henry was speaking.

"Of course, if you are determined to remain, I cannot say you shall not: but I fancy you will not succeed. And then, you know, there will be the risk of——"

So far only, this time, before they were out of hearing again. Trace's ears were strained to the uttermost, but he caught only two words more, and that from the stranger as they were parting: "Mother Butter's." Mr. Henry walked quickly towards home, the man disappeared amid the trees the other way, and Trace stayed where he was, revolving the mystery. But he could find no clue to it.

Clashing footsteps sounded now. One of the boys was tearing home from the railway station. It was Lamb, with a parcel in his hand, and Trace went out to meet him. How it came about Trace never exactly knew, but while he was saying to himself "Shall I tell, or shall I not?" he _told_, and Lamb was put in possession of the real facts relating to Paradyne: all the past trouble; the past disgrace; that he belonged to a family of fraud, and never ought to have been at Orville. Nuts for Mr. Lamb to crack. But, strange to say, no sooner had the secret escaped Trace's lips, than a voice within seemed to warn him that he had done wrong. It was too late to repent; Lamb went whispering the poison about with his stealthy tongue, and the school listened eagerly.

A few days passed on without explosion. The boys met in secret knots to take counsel, and felt half paralysed at their own audacious words. They talked of mutiny, if Paradyne were allowed to go up for the Orville; they whispered of rebellion, if subjected longer to the authority of a master so ill-doing as Mr. Henry. _But they did nothing_. Not one would undertake the responsibility of commencing hostilities, or of speaking to the Head Master: it was a practical illustration of the old fable of the mice proposing to put the bell on the eat. And November was close at hand.

The rumours, connecting Mr. Henry's name with Miss Paradyne were by no means pleasant rumours; not tending to exalt either of them in public opinion. When a young lady could be guilty of stealing evening walks with a school usher, and very familiar walks indeed—as Mr. Lamb could testify on Trace's private authority, and _did_, turning up the whites of his eyes—of course there was no more to be said for her.

So long as these rumours were confined to the boys, they did not affect Miss Paradyne personally; but circumstances led to their being whispered beyond the college. Mrs. Hill, the lady with whom she had the daily engagement as governess, had gone unexpectedly to Torquay for the winter months, in consequence of the ill-health of one of her children, and Miss Paradyne had made another engagement with Mrs. Talbot. On the evening previous to the day she was to enter on it, the Earl of Shrewsbury dashed home for a minute, and told his mother confidentially that she must not have Miss Paradyne for the girls; that it "wouldn't do."

"Why will it not do?" questioned Mrs. Talbot in surprise.

"Because it won't."

"James, to say so much, and no more, is nonsense. You must tell me why."

But Talbot could not say why. Things had not been made very clear to his understanding. All he knew was, that something was "up" about Miss Paradyne and Mr. Henry. He supposed they were privately engaged; but the school was in arms against Miss Paradyne, saying she went out walking with him at night, and—oh, all sorts of things. She must not be let go there as governess.

"Don't you think, James, that this is arising out of the ill-feeling entertained for Miss Paradyne's brother?" quietly asked Mrs. Talbot.

"No, I don't think it is. Oh, but there is a row about him!—going to be, at any rate," broke off the earl in a parenthesis. "Well, I can't stop, mother mine, but don't you admit Miss Paradyne."

"Upon what plea can I refuse? I have engaged her. James—wait a moment. Upon what plea can I refuse, I ask."

James Talbot looked puzzled and rueful. "I'm sure I don't know," he answered, twirling his trencher round and round. "I thought I'd better tell you. I'm afraid they must be a bad lot. Queer things are coming out about the father: and Paradyne is not to go up for the Orville."

"Why?" she exclaimed half-startled, and beginning to think the affair must be serious. "Not go up for the Orville!"

"The school would be in mutiny."

"James!"

"It would. And Trace may make as certain of the prize now as if he'd got it."

"Is there no chance for you, James?" she asked, rather wistfully.

He laughed, and shook his head. "I have done my best, but there's not a bit of hope for anybody against Trace. Had Paradyne gone in for it, there'd have been a close struggle between the two—and I don't think victory would have declared for Trace. About the father? oh, I can't stay to tell you,"—preparing to dash off again. "Queer rumours they are."

Queer indeed, and various; as whispered about from boy to boy. The exaggerations were something ludicrous. "Paradyne's father had been hung for murder," "been transported for forgery," "was now serving out his time at Portland Island," and so on. Perhaps Talbot did well not to mention such to his mother.

He left her in a comfortable state of uncertainty. She did not like to disregard the warning altogether, and yet did not like to act upon it. Neither did she see how she could act upon it; and sat on much perplexed.

"I will put a question or two plainly to Miss Paradyne, when she comes to-morrow, as to whether there is any private acquaintance between her and Mr. Henry," decided Mrs. Talbot at length. "I am convinced the Paradynes are as nice as they can be: and I don't believe a word against the daughter. It's all the work of those envious boys."

Utterly unconscious of the storm that was brewing, Mary Paradyne looked forward to her engagement; and when the morning and hour dawned to enter on it, she got ready with alacrity. The young are always so full of hope.

"If the remuneration were but a little better," exclaimed Mrs. Paradyne, in her semi-fretful, semi-resigned way. "Three hours a day, and luncheon and thirty-four shillings a month! What is it?"

"Dear mamma, it is better than nothing a month," was the cheering answer. "When I first knew that the Hills were going away, I feared I might be unemployed for the winter. Something better may arise later: and I am sure I shall like Mrs. Talbot. Miss Brabazon dropped a hint to me the other day that perhaps they might engage me for Rose."

She tied her bonnet, kissed her mother, and went forth with her bright face. It was not far to go; only a few doors. Mrs. Talbot came to her directly, and entered on her task, which did not seem an agreeable one—that of putting a few questions in regard to her intimacy with Mr. Henry. But, instead of meeting them—as Mrs. Talbot had anticipated she would—in a calm spirit of refutation, the young lady turned red, grew confused, and flung her hands up to her disturbed face with a faint cry of dismay. It had come upon her so suddenly.

"Believe me, I do not wish to pain you," said Mrs. Talbot, speaking gently in the midst of her surprise. "Neither would I think of inquiring into any particulars that you may prefer not to disclose. Only tell me that there is nothing in the rumour; that you and Mr. Henry have no—no—acquaintance in common; that will be quite sufficient."

"But I cannot tell it you," replied Miss Paradyne in her straightforward truth.

"What the college boys have got hold of, I'm sure I am unable to say," resumed Mrs. Talbot, thinking she could not have been understood. "Nothing very grave: the most tangible charge I can make out is, that you have been seen walking with Mr. Henry. There is, of course, no harm in that; the harm lies in its being done in secret. Can you refute it, Miss Paradyne?"

No, she could not: and she was growing sick with fear. Not fear for herself: the reproach that might ordinarily be supposed to arise from such a thing, she never so much as glanced at. Her whole thought was for her brother Arthur, lest the concealment of which he had been guilty in regard to his true name, was becoming known. Mrs. Talbot, feeling both grieved and surprised, pressed the question.

"I daresay I may have been seen with Mr. Henry: I did not know it," answered Miss Paradyne, forced into the avowal, and beginning to shiver. Had it only occurred to her to say "My mother is cognisant of all I do," Mrs. Talbot might have been satisfied: but it did not.

There was nothing for it but to part. Mrs. Talbot reluctantly said she could not carry out the engagement, and Mary Paradyne went away, to bear home her unhappy tale. As she stood at Mrs. Talbot's door, the bright sun shining full upon her, she became aware how long the interview had lasted, for the outdoor boys were quitting the college after morning school. George was nearly the first of them, and she drew him into the middle of the road.

"Whatever is the matter?" cried he, perceiving something strange in her countenance.

"George," she whispered, "you must go to Arthur—"

"To Mr. Henry," interrupted George, correcting her. "You are not half so prudent as I am, Mary. I've told you of this before."

"To Mr. Henry," she mechanically resumed, her heart beating with a great pain. "Tell him to be on his guard, lest he should be taken unawares. Something is oozing out, I am sure; and Mrs. Talbot has declined to receive me."

"Declined to receive you!" repeated George, his honest grey eyes flashing anger.

"She was very kind in the midst of it, but she said there were rumours abroad connected with Mr. Henry, and if I could not refute them, I must not enter on the engagement. I did not quite understand her," added Mary Paradyne, speaking to herself rather than to George: "but you had better go at once and warn Ar—warn—you know."

George laughed at the slip, pushed his trencher jauntily aside, and turned back whistling. Knots of the outdoor boys were advancing. Some shot past him with a bound; some stole by sheepishly, as if ashamed to cut him; others walked on deliberately and looked straightforward; a few gave him a hard, bold, insolent stare of non-recognition; and as he went by the quadrangle, the juniors, gathered there, turned their backs upon him.

"It's an awful shame that they should send me to Coventry like this," soliloquized George. "If I thought any one of them set the rest on, wouldn't I leather him! Never mind, gentlemen, if I do get the Orville, you'll be more civil to me."

He was dashing into Mr. Henry's room, when Mrs. Butter interposed, rather less crusty than usual. Mr. Henry was engaged at the moment; he must call again.

"I'll wait in your kitchen, Mother Butter," said George, who rarely stood on ceremony.

"Then you can't," answered Mother Butter, with more haste and decision than the case seemed to warrant. "I've got my saucepans on the fire, and you'd be upsetting of 'em. There. Be off."

As if to end the colloquy, Mr. Henry's parlour door opened, and Miss Brabazon came forth.

"Rely upon me," Mr. Henry said to her in a low tone: and George wondered.

They went into the parlour together, the two brothers, and George delivered his sister's message, adding a comment of his own. "I'd give a guinea to know what's up."

Mr. Henry pondered over it for a few minutes in silence, leaning his head upon his hand. His face was turned to the searching light of the meridian sun, and something unusually wan in its aspect struck George.

"The better plan will be to declare all; to put away this semi-concealment altogether," observed Mr. Henry. "Mary must not be subjected to unpleasantness."

"Only let me get the Orville," observed George, with a vain schoolboy's light boasting. "I'll crow over some of them then."

"George!"

"I know; you are all for meekness and peace. I _should_ like to pay off some of those fellows. Will you believe that I met half the classes coming here, and not a soul of the whole lot spoke to me? Something new is arising. I've seen it this week past."

"I have seen it, too," was Mr. Henry's reply. "George, I used to say you would live this down by dint of time and patience; I thought just after you got back from France that the time had nearly come. But I have my doubts now. I wish I could have helped you better. Well, I'll think about this matter, George, and decide on something. You go home to your dinner now."

Nothing loth to obey, for dinner was as welcome to him as it is to most schoolboys, George was quitting the room, when Mrs. Butter entered it, with a small tray, a basin of bread and milk on its white cloth. She put it before Mr. Henry and went out again.

"I say," cried George, "that's not your dinner, is it? Why it's nothing but bread and milk!"

"My appetite is going strangely," observed Mr. Henry. "Slops seem to suit me best now."

George's great grey eyes flashed out a look of yearning. "Arthur! you have been starving yourself for us—that we may have plenty!"

"Don't be indiscreet; there's no Arthur here," returned Mr. Henry, with a light smile. "I am eating bread and milk to-day, George, because I feel ill: that's all. Run home."

Easily reassured—as it was in his age and nature to be—George Paradyne went flying off. In turning the angle by the chapel at a sharp canter, he came full tilt against Sir Simon Orville, who was walking towards his home.

"Holloa, young sir! Don't run me down. I am not a ship."

George laughed, begged his pardon, and was passing on, when Sir Simon stopped him.

"Here, George; don't fly off again as if you were wound up to go on wheels. What is this matter about your not going up for the Orville?"

"I don't understand you, Sir Simon."

"Are you going up for it?"

"Of course I am, sir. I should like to get it, too. And I don't say I shan't," he concluded, laughing.

"Why, what did those young simpletons mean, then?" cried the knight. "I met a lot of them just now, and Dick Loftus whispered to me you were not going up for the Orville."

"It is a mistake," said George. "Not that I should go up if the fellows could prevent me. But they can't, you know, sir. Good-bye, Sir Simon."

Sir Simon went on, the matter passing from his mind. Turning into his own grounds, he had been busying himself for some time amidst his cherished autumn flowers, when a servant came out, having apparently just seen him from the house.

"A gentleman is waiting to see you, Sir Simon."

"Bless me," cried Sir Simon, who was too kindhearted, too simple-minded ever to keep people waiting unnecessarily, gentle or simple. "Who is it, Thomas?"

"I don't know, sir. He came in a cab with a portmanteau. He looks like a traveller."

Sir Simon went trotting off as fast as his short legs would go. The servant went after him.

"It is not Mr. Loftus, Thomas, I suppose? You'd know him."

"Oh dear no, sir, it's not Mr. Loftus. It is somebody older than Mr. Loftus."

Thomas went forward and held open the door for his master to enter. In the tesselated hall, with its bright painted windows gleaming in the sunlight and throwing out their rich colours, Sir Simon saw a portmanteau and a cloak. He turned to the door on the right, and entered. The traveller sat in the shade of the spacious room, the green blinds being closely drawn behind him, and for a moment Sir Simon did not recognise him. The stranger: a slight elderly man, wearing silver-rimmed spectacles: rose quietly and offered his hand.

"Don't you know me, Simon?"

"Why—my goodness me! It's Robert Trace!"