CHAPTER XX

As if Ill-Luck followed him.

They sat alone, knees together, talking of the present and the past. Sir Simon had never been very fond of his brother-in-law; but to see him alive, after so long a period of no news, was a great relief; and he gave him a cordial welcome. Mr. Trace spoke of his unfortunate losses in the United States, but did not go into details; at least, into details that Sir Simon could make much of. The great scheme, about which he had been so sanguine, had failed, miserably failed, almost before it was organized: and the thousand pounds, so generously sent out to him by Sir Simon, had been swallowed in the vortex, together with his own funds. After that, he had gone to New York, trying, trying ever since, to redeem his position. He could not do it, and had now come home to Europe, penniless.

"I thought that Boston affair was a good one, or I should not have sent the money out," observed Sir Simon. "How came it to fail?"

"Mismanagement partly; partly ill-luck," was the answer of Mr. Trace, curtly delivered.

"Not your mismanagement, surely?" cried Sir Simon, who had the highest opinion of his brother-in-law as a business man.

"Mismanagement altogether. It was a great deal that Hopper's fault. I was a fool ever to have made him secretary to the affair, or to give him power," added Mr. Trace, with unmistakable animus. "Set a beggar on horseback and we know where he'll ride."

"What Hopper?" asked Sir Simon, struck with the name.

"What Hopper?" was the tart retort, as if Sir Simon's question were superfluous—as indeed the hearer thought it. Mr. Trace had never been a good-tempered man.

"Surely you don't mean the young man who was clerk to you in Liverpool!" cried Sir Simon. "What took him to America?"

Robert Trace raised his eyes from their moody stare on the ground and glanced at his brother-in-law. "You knew Hopper was at Boston with me!"

"Not I. How should I know it? I have never heard of the young man from the time of the break-up at Liverpool."

A minute's perplexed gaze, and then Robert Trace dropped his eyes again. He had made a false move. But that he had supposed Sir Simon knew of his ex-clerk's presence in America, he had certainly not mentioned him.

"Hopper told me, more than once, that he wrote to you from Boston, Simon."

"He never did—to my knowledge. What took him out there?"

"I don't know"—and Mr. Trace's tone changed to quiet civility, the same tone that used to strike on Sir Simon's ear with a false ring. "He walked into the office one morning in Boston, to my great surprise, and asked me if I could help him to employment. It happened that I had been wishing for a clever secretary, or sub-manager, under myself, an Englishman if I could get him; and I put Hopper in the place. He was sharp, intelligent, up to the work, and had served us well in Liverpool."

"And by way of rewarding you, he made ducks and drakes of your money and mine!"

"He turned out as great a rogue as ever stepped," exclaimed Mr. Trace, an acrimonious red tinging his cheeks. "I was obliged to go away from Boston to avoid him. The man nearly worried my life out. He made out a claim, and wanted to enforce it. When he discovered that I had gone to New York, he followed me there. I had a world of trouble with him."

"A claim for what?" asked Sir Simon. But Mr. Trace did not answer at once.

"Past salary," he presently said, rousing himself out of a reverie. "I had a great deal of trouble with him. The follow stuck to me like a leech. He claimed a hundred pounds. I would have given it to him willingly, if I'd had it, to be rid of him. Three several times did he tell me he had written over to you."

"But why should he write to me?"

"I conclude for assistance," replied Mr. Trace after another pause. "I know he said he did write, and it never occurred to me to doubt him. He knew of the money you had kindly sent me in answer to my appeal, and possibly thought he might make one on his own score. He was a great rogue."

"I think it possible that he was," returned Sir Simon; somewhat significantly to Mr. Trace's ear, who had applied the epithet in more of a general sense than a particular one. "Did it ever occur to you, Robert, to suspect that Hopper might have been the guilty man at Liverpool? Hopper, and not Paradyne."

"No," cried Mr. Trace in an accent of surprise not mistakable.

"That sharp young son of Paradyne's thought it at the time," observed Sir Simon, who was speaking in accordance with what had been related to him by Mr. Loftus in Boulogne, touching the conversation with George Paradyne. "_I_ don't cast suspicion on the man, mind. I have no cause to do so."

"Nor has anybody else," quietly returned Mr. Trace, taking off his spectacles to wipe them. "A clerk could not have played the game for an hour; I should have found it out at once. Not but that Hopper was villain enough for it."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead."

"Dead!"

Mr. Trace nodded, and broke into a quiet laugh. It jarred on the ear of Sir Simon, and his brow contracted.

"Don't deem me unfeeling, Simon. I am not laughing at Hopper's death: which was sad enough: but at a mistake he made. Never mind that now."

"I do mind. I want to hear all this."

"I had taken a berth on board the 'Cultivator,' a New York vessel, bound for London. Hopper discovered this, and took one also, with the view no doubt of renewing his worry on the passage. I did not sail in her. He did; and was drowned."

"Mercy upon us!" cried Sir Simon.

"You heard of the calamity, I daresay," continued Mr. Trace, putting on his glasses again. "She went down with every soul on board. We got news of her loss at New York just before I left. Laugh at that? No. It may be my own fate in going back."

"Shall you return to the New Country?"

"If I can get you to help me once again," boldly answered Mr. Trace. "I came home for the sole purpose of asking you. I shall do better if I get another start. I ought to have done well before, but—"

"But what?" asked Sir Simon, interrupting the sudden pause.

"But for ill-luck. Over and over again the chances slipped through my fingers. It was as if ill-luck followed me. We'll talk further of this another day, Simon."

Sir Simon nodded acquiescence, and rang the bell for Mr. Trace to be shown to a chamber.

A message was despatched to the college for Raymond, and he arrived in the evening. His astonishment when he saw his father was something ludicrous, so entirely was he unprepared for it, and the pleasure proportionately great. Cold and cynical to the general world, Raymond cared for his father. Raymond poured out his budget of news of the past and present; it was of various kinds and degrees of interest: and Mr. Trace the elder had his ears regaled with the current history of the Paradyne family, and George's presumptuous aspirings to the Orville prize.

"But we shall do him," cried Trace, with a self-satisfied nod. "Where's Uncle Simon?"

Sir Simon's absence had passed unnoticed in their own absorption of self-interest. Mr. Trace could not say where he was.

Truth to say, there was a something beating on that estimable knight's brain: a little scrap of news that he had read, or seemed to have read, in the newspapers some days before. He thought it related to the ship spoken of by Mr. Trace, "The Cultivator:" and he was now hunting in every corner of the house for old newspapers, which he scanned attentively. But without success. He went back to the room, nodded to Raymond, and sat down in silence, drumming on the table and ransacking his treacherous memory. It was so unusual a mood for Sir Simon, that Raymond remarked upon it, asking if anything was amiss.

"I am trying to recollect something," was the reply. "Your father has told you, I suppose, Raymond, of Hopper's sailing for home in the ship 'Cultivator,' and her sinking with her passengers—"

"No. I have not told him," interrupted Mr. Trace, so sharply as to startle Sir Simon. "Why bring it up to him?" he more calmly added, appearing to recollect himself. "The ship was lost with every soul on board."

"But that's just it—that I don't think every soul was lost," explained Sir Simon. "I read an account lately of the landing of some passengers at Cork, who were supposed to have been lost. They were picked up at sea in an open boat, having put off from a foundering vessel. It strikes me the vessel was 'The Cultivator.'"

"If you are speaking of 'The Cultivator,' from New York, some of her passengers have been saved, and are now in England," interposed Raymond. "Mr. Batty, old Gall's partner, had a son on board; the news arrived of the ship's loss, and the Battys went into mourning; but, a day or two ago, young Batty walked in. Father, what's the matter?"

Mr. Trace was standing up, looking like a man scared out of his senses. "Is—Hopper—saved?" he gasped, rather than asked.

"I don't know," answered Raymond. "Who is Hopper?"

"And if he is?—you need not be afraid of him over here!" cried Sir Simon, wondering at the emotion displayed. "It is your father's former clerk at Liverpool that we are speaking of, Raymond," he added to the son. "The man went over to Boston, got put into a good thing there by your father, which failed; and then he began to worry him for money. Let him come and worry here! We'll teach him that England is not without laws, if America is."

Raymond, all curiosity, questioned further, and Mr. Trace could not put a stop to Sir Simon's answers; though it seemed that he would have done it, had there been a decent plea. There was not time for much; Raymond was unable to stay: but for the peremptory message, he would not have come out at all that busy evening. Mr. Trace put his hat on to walk part of the way with his son. They struck into the plantation, arm in arm: it was the shortest way; and the moon glimmered cheerily through the trees.

"You are as tall as I am, Raymond," observed Mr. Trace.

"And that's not very tall; I hope to shoot up yet," answered Raymond. "You should see Bertie Loftus. But it seems to me that you have grown shorter."

"As we all do, when age and care come upon us," remarked Mr. Trace. And, with that, he relapsed into silence.

"I hope you have come back rich, sir," resumed Raymond presently, in a tone of half jest, half earnest.

"I have come back not worth a shilling, Raymond," said Mr. Trace, momentarily halting as if to give emphasis to his words. "All I had of my own, all I borrowed from your uncle, is lost."

Something like an ice-shaft shot through Raymond in his bitter disappointment. During this many, many months' silence of his father's, fond visions had dawned over him of his coming back a millionaire.

"How is it lost?" he asked, when the shock allowed him to speak.

"Oh! in those American securities, and in unlucky speculations. I was not clever enough for the Yankees, you see."

"What was my uncle saying about Hopper? I did not understand him."

"He says that Hopper's saved; whereas I had thought he was drowned."

"I meant, sir, about his worrying you. But he did not say Hopper was saved; only that he might be."

"Raymond, as surely as that I see those trees around us, so surely do I see that the man's saved."

"And what if he is?"

"Why, he has it in his power to do me injury."

"Of what nature, sir?"

Mr. Trace looked upwards, as if searching, for an answer. It was a remarkably bright night, and the moonbeams sent a radiance on the glass of the spectacles. "He says I owe him money, Raymond; he might pursue me for it, I suppose, in this country, and give me a world of trouble. Do you recollect him?"

"Pretty well. I have a sort of general recollection of him."

"Raymond, do you look out for him;" and Mr. Trace pressed his son's arm, to give emphasis to the charge. "A middle-sized man, of two-and-thirty, or thereabouts, with a pale face, and a reddish shade on his brown hair. He was looking shabby when I last saw him, perhaps is more so now. If he _is_ saved, the first thing he'd do would be to come here and watch for me by stealth. Keep your eyes open, and warn me."

"But, sir, do you really owe him money?"

"No; I do not," was the positive answer. "I don't legally owe him a farthing. Nevertheless, I should"—Mr. Trace paused—"I should have some difficulty in proving that here. Were he to press his false claim upon me to the extent of arrest, which is just what he'd like to do, I might languish in prison longer than I care to think of."

"I will look out," murmured Trace. "I think I should know him. I wish we were not so busy with the Orville. But in a couple of days that will be over."

"Shall you get that prize?"

"If Paradyne is put out of it. You heard me say so, father?"

"Yes, yes," was Mr. Trace's laconic answer, as if the very mention of the name were offensive to him.

A silence ensued. Raymond's spirits were down at zero; his father's were not much higher. As they passed the spot where Mr. Henry came out to meet the stranger, the fact was naturally recalled to Trace's mind: he had not yet succeeded in fathoming the mystery. All in a moment a question darted through him—could that man have been Hopper? That man was shabby, that man was pale; that man had a reddish cast in his hair, and looked about two or three and thirty; and Trace had heard him speak of a voyage. A conviction that it was Hopper, and no other, took instant possession of him. With his brain heating at the discovery, his heart shrinking with an apprehensive fear, Trace halted in his walk, and rapidly told the news.

"When was this, do you say?" questioned Mr. Trace in a covert whisper, as if afraid the very trees might hear.

"It was last Friday. Five days ago."

"Had the saved passengers been landed then?"

"Oh dear yes, and had come from Cork to England. Young Batty had."

"Then, Raymond, it was Hopper," said Mr. Trace, who was looking at matters through his own suspicious glasses; and his face seemed to turn of a grey hue. "Rely upon it, he was trying to ferret out whether I was in the neighbourhood. Who is this Mr. Henry?"

"Our German and French master. He's an awful rat. Just the fellow for a sneak to apply to for any dirty information."

"You must try and get the truth out of him—whether it was Hopper or not, and if so, where he is now. I'll wait for you here."

"What—now?" exclaimed Trace. "I—I don't suppose he'll tell me. I am not friendly with him."

"Make yourself friendly for the nonce, and worm it out of him," said Mr. Trace imperatively. "Raymond, _I must be at some certainty_. This is almost a matter of life or death."

Raymond went forward without another word; and with a curious sinking of the heart to which he was totally unaccustomed, and did not know what to make of. This sort of coming home of his father's was so very different from those past lofty visions of his. As to the possible arrest, hinted at, Trace went hot when he thought of it. _His_ father consigned to an ignominious debtors' prison in the face and eyes of the college where he had played first-fiddle? Why, in appearance it would be half as bad as the back disgrace of that miserable Paradyne!

Conning his lesson as he went along—a civil request to Mr. Henry to satisfy him upon some German terminations that hopelessly puzzled him—Trace at length found himself in Mrs. Butter's garden, and closely contiguous to a young damsel who was dancing in the moonlight. Trace raised his cap: child though she was, the school treated her with due respect as their Head Master's daughter.

"Miss Rose! What are you doing here?"

"I am dancing to keep myself warm."

"But why are you here at all?"

"I came after Emma," she whispered confidentially, with a suppressed laugh. "She is always going to Mother Butter's after tea now, and she'll never let me go with her; it's cold she says; so I just ran after her to-night. I think there's somebody staying here that Emma comes to see," continued the incautious girl in a lower whisper: "some friend of Mr. Henry's that dare not go out in the day-time."

"Some friend of Mr. Henry's that dare not go out in the day-time!" echoed Trace, repeating the words mechanically, his whole thoughts full of the man who _might_ be there, and _might_ be Hopper. "Why do you think so, Miss Rose?"

"Never you mind," returned the young lady, with scant ceremony. "I overheard Emma say something to Mr. Henry the other day; but it's nothing to you."

At that moment the house door opened, and Miss Brabazon appeared at it, attended by Mother Butter with a candle in her hand. "You will tell Mr. Henry, then, when he comes in," Miss Brabazon was saying to the woman, the words reaching Trace's ear distinctly, as he stepped aside out of view.

"I will, Miss Emma. He'll be in directly now, and I'll tell him as soon as he comes."

Miss Brabazon walked away quickly; Rose allowed her to go some distance, and then ran after her with a shout. A few words of surprised reprimand echoed on the night air, and they went on together. Trace followed quietly: it was just possible he might catch a stray word, touching the "friend" of Mr. Henry's: and he knew now the latter was not in. In the dwarf shrubbery that wound round near the chapel, between the cricket field and the gymnasium ground, they met Mr. Henry. Trace stepped outside it, behind the bushy laurel trees, and there, rather to his surprise, found himself close to his father, who happened to have strolled to the spot as he waited for his son. Mr. Henry raised his hat as he spoke to Miss Brabazon, and the bright moon lit up his features with perfect distinctness to the view of the gentlemen watchers.

"I have left a message for you with Mrs. Butter," said Miss Brabazon. "You will be kind enough to attend to it for me."

"I will," answered Mr. Henry. "Is that you, Miss Rose?"

"She ran after me, naughty child! I am taking her home for punishment," returned Miss Brabazon, in a tone between jest and anger. "Good-night."

They parted. Raymond Trace was hastening after Mr. Henry, when he found his arm detained by his father in a firm grasp. "Let me go," whispered Raymond. "That's Mr. Henry. I can fall into conversation with him more naturally as we walk along, than if I made a formal call at his rooms."

"Who do you say it is?" breathed Mr. Trace.

"The German master, Mr. Henry."

"You are mistaken, Raymond; the moonlight is deceiving you. It is some years since I saw that young man's face, but I should recollect it amidst a thousand."

Trace stared. "My dear father, I assure you it is Mr. Henry. I ought to know him; I take my lessons from him daily."

"Do you! It is Arthur Paradyne."

"Who?" almost shouted Trace.

"Arthur Paradyne; the eldest son. In the summer preceding the crash at Liverpool, business called me to Heidelberg. I took a letter of introduction to young Paradyne from his father; he was then a junior master in the university, and I saw him often. He used to act as my interpreter."

"Then he has been amidst us under a false name!" exclaimed Trace, with considerable animus.

The father gave a slight laugh. "He has found it convenient to be so, no doubt. You must still ask him about this man."

Trace darted off. He thought he had got a great hold upon Mr. Henry in this strange secret, and scarcely could persuade himself to make any show of courtesy while he entered on the question of the "German terminations."

"I could show you with the book in two minutes what it might take me five to explain without it," said Mr. Henry, with his usual ready kindness. "Perhaps you will come indoors with me."

"Have you any visitor?" asked Trace, rather abruptly.

"Visitor?—no. I am quite alone."

"I—fancied—there—was a visitor at Mother Butter's," returned Trace in a hesitating manner, not being sure of his best policy, whether to speak of the visitor openly, whether not. "A friend of yours, somebody said."

"Who said it?"

"Really I cannot charge my memory with that. I saw you meet some—gentleman—in the plantation a few days ago: I thought it might be he."

"What a fine night it is!" observed Mr. Henry, courteously ignoring the suggestion, and letting his pupil see that he intended to ignore it. "It is clear and cold enough for a frost."

"Mr. Henry, would you mind telling me the name of the person you met?" resumed Trace, perceiving that if he wanted information he must ask distinctly for it.

"I cannot tell it you. I cannot tell you anything about him," was the reply. "We will quit the subject, if you please, Trace; it is neither yours nor mine."

"Where is he now? Will you tell me that? Is he in this neighbourhood?"

"Let the subject drop, Trace," reiterated Mr. Henry, with quiet authority. "I say that it is no concern of yours or of mine."

Trace felt himself checkmated; he feared he had not gone to work in a sufficiently crafty manner, which vexed him. "It may be better that you should satisfy me on this trifle," he resumed, rather scornfully. "You are in my power."

"In what manner?" quietly asked Mr. Henry.

"I know your secret. I could go to the Head Master this moment and say, 'We have a wolf in sheep's clothing amongst us; a man with a false name.' If he has glossed over other things, do you think he would gloss over that?"

"You can try him."

The equanimity of the voice was so entire, the manner so unruffled, that Trace began to feel doubtful of his grounds. "Can you deny what I say?" he asked. "I accuse you of being—not Mr. Henry, but Arthur Paradyne."

"I am Arthur Henry Paradyne: as the Head Master knows. Though I wonder how you came to find it out, Trace. In what way does the fact affect you?"

"The _contact_ has affected us," foamed Trace, giving way to temper for once in his life, for the cool tone nearly drove him wild. "Is it fitting that you, the son of—of—you know who and what—should be placed over us? I wonder you could dare to stay, knowing you were a Paradyne."

"Knowing I was a Paradyne and that you were a Trace, it has made me all the more solicitous to do my duty by you," came the low answer of emotion. "Oh, Trace! have you never marvelled why I was so uniformly lenient to you, so anxious for your advancement, so solicitous to hide your faults; always striving to do you good, to get you on, to make your life at college easy? That bitter debt my father left, the wrong on you and yours, has been ever on my mind: I have been trying to work a tithe of it off, because I am his son, Arthur Paradyne."

Trace was not in the least softened; his strong prejudices did not allow him to be so. That this long-disliked master should turn out to be Arthur Paradyne, seemed like a personal and positive insult to himself. But he thought he might turn the discovery to present account.

"You can work a portion of the debt off this instant, if you will, by disclosing to me the name of the man you met."

"That I cannot do. Ask me anything else, Trace."

"Say you will not."

"The terms are almost synonymous. I _may_ not."

"That's enough," retorted Trace, turning on his heel. "Good evening to you, Mr. Arthur Paradyne."