CHAPTER V.Mother Butter's Lodgings.The term had begun, as the Head Master expressed it, ungraciously. The mysterious and disagreeable accident to James Talbot was leading to endless discussion and dissension. The first desk utterly repudiated the notion that it could have been one of them, and tacitly, if not directly, accused the second; the second desk threw back the insinuation with all the insolence they dared to use. Lamb was one of these, and his name got mentioned (failing somebody else to fix it on) in connection with the charge. The suggestion spread, although Brown minor, rather a crony of Lamb's, was ready to testify that Lamb had never stirred out of the hall that night after chapel; and did testify to it, in fact, with some confirmatory words of unnecessary strength. Lamb, a tall, thin fellow, was in a terrible rage; could not have been in a worse had he been guilty. Gall, the senior boy, said little; not having returned at the time, he did not consider it was his province to interfere; but Loftus, smarting personally under the affair, made himself exceedingly busy. And it was a very unusual thing for Loftus to do.The boys, at their evening studies, sat at the low table in the well-lighted hall—a long table on trestles that ran down the middle of it, with benches around. They were ostensibly preparing their lessons for the morrow; in reality were discussing and bickering among themselves in an undertone. You heard the bell ring for them in the last chapter, when they were in the plantation with Sir Simon Orville. Mr. Long sat at his desk in a remote corner, paying no attention. Great in science, he always had his near-sighted spectacles buried in some abstruse book, and his ears also."Look here," spoke Loftus minor, who was burning to get at the offender quite as hotly as his brother Bertie, "when my uncle says he'll give a gold watch, why, hewillgive it; there's no sham; so if any of you fellows do know about this, just go in and earn it. It'll be a shame to let a watch go begging.""It's an awful shame that a gold watch, or any such bribe should be needed," called out Loftus major. "Who but a sneak would shoot a fellow, and then shrink from avowing it, letting suspicion fall on the rest indiscriminately? A sneak, I say.""Do you mean that for me, Mr. Loftus?" spluttered Lamb, who was sitting opposite to Loftus at the table. "Because if you do—""There you go, Lamb, you and your corky temper, interposed good-humoured Leek."You be quiet, Onions. I say that if he does, I'll make him prove his words."There was a smothered laugh. The notion of Lamb's making a senior prove anything, was good, especially Loftus."I don't mean it for Lamb in particular, unless he chooses to take it to himself," coolly drawled Loftus. "I have no reason for supposing he can take it."The semi-apology did not satisfy Lamb. He knew that he was called the "sneak," par excellence; he knew that he did many little underhand things to deserve it. Consequently he always strove to appear particularly white; and to have this grave suspicion thrown upon him was driving him wild."I believe that Loftus knows I was no more out last night than he was," said Lamb, giving his Virgil a passionate wrench, which tore the cover—"that you all know it.""As far as I can understand, not a soul of you went out, except Smart and Loftus minor," observed the senior boy, who really wished to heal the general discomfort. "None of you were missed.""And that's true," said Lamb. "And if it comes to that, who is to say that it was not that new fellow did it, after all? Took up the pistol and shot it off by accident, and went and said what he did to screen himself.""What new fellow? Do you mean Paradyne?" quickly asked Irby, following out some association of ideas in his mind."Paradyne, no! What could Paradyne have had to do with it? I mean the new master; that German fellow with an English name.""Nonsense, Lamb!"Lamb nodded his head oracularly. "It might have been."It was a new phase of the question, and the boys looked up. Lamb continued. "Trace says he thinks he's a regular spy.""By the way, where is Trace?" asked Gall, who had suddenly noticed that Trace, usually so punctual at studies, was not present."It couldn't have been him," said Leek, regardless of the question as to Trace. "He saw the fellow making off; he said he wore the college cap.""Your tongue is ever ready, Onions," was the rebuke of the senior boy. "It's not at all likely to have been Mr. Henry; but neither is it obliged to have been the fellow he saw making off. And if it was, the fellow might not have come out of the college; he may be an outsider. Get on with your work; there's really no cause to be worrying over it and suspecting each other."The words acted as oil on the troubled waters, and they began to settle down to their books and exercises. But it's pleasanter to gossip than to learn."Why does Trace think the German's a spy?" asked Loftus minor."He's not German; he's English. A German would have his face covered with hair; this fellow shaves.""Of course he's not German by birth," returned Dick; "anybody can see that. Onions said——""What's all that talking about?" roared out Mr. Long, suddenly becoming awake to the noise. "Is that the way you do your lessons?" And for a few moments, at any rate, silence supervened.Where was Trace? I think I shall have to tell you. After digesting Sir Simon Orville's words in the plantation, he set off quickly, to be in time for the evening study, which was the preparation of lessons for the next day, and rarely lasted more than an hour. Running full pelt into the cloisters, he ran against one of the masters."I beg your pardon, sir," he said, thinking it was Mr. Baker; for the cloisters were in almost total darkness.It was Mr. Henry; and when Trace became aware of the fact, his spirit rose up in rebellion at having called him "sir." A feeling of dislike to this new master was rife within him, having its source no doubt in the past friendship the stranger had avowed for the unfortunate Captain Paradyne, and in his present evident intention to befriend the boy, and defend him against surreptitious lance-shafts. Trace was apt to be so prejudiced."Is it you, Trace?" cried Mr. Henry, recognizing the voice. "I would say a word to you.""Be quick, if you please, then," was the half-discourteous answer. "We have only one hour to prepare everything, and I am late as it is.""You have heard probably that George Paradyne is to stay here," began Mr. Henry, leading the way into the open quadrangle, where it was lighter, and there could be no danger of eaves-droppers."Yes; and I am surprised at Dr. Brabazon. My uncle, Sir Simon Orville, sanctions it too. He—he—"Trace stopped. The generally cool voice seemed overflowing with passion; and Mr. Henry looked at him in the light of the rising moon."You do not like the decision!""Likeit!" repeated Trace; "I think it is an infamous thing. And we are put upon our honour not to tell! It is the first time I ever knew it was right to conceal crime.""The boy has committed no crime, if you allude to him.”"His father did.""And his father expiated it with his life. Should not this be sufficient for you?"Trace answered by a gesture of contempt. Mr. Henry threw his luminous eyes on him, their sad expression, so namelessly attractive, conspicuous even in the subdued light."I have had a great deal of trouble of one sort or another," said the master, in a low tone. "It has taught me some things: and, amidst them,neverto add, by act of mine, to the grief of others. Oh, Trace! if you did but know the true, tender compassion we feel for them, when dire trouble has fallen on ourselves! if you could but see how cruel their life is, without additional reproach!""And did Paradyne—the man—bring no trouble upon us?" burst out Trace. "Did he not ruin my father, and drive him into exile, and break up our home, and kill my mother? She died here; here at my uncle's; and you may see her gravestone in the churchyard hard by. Trouble! Did the man not bring enough upon us?""Heaven knows he did," was the sad answer. "I do not seek to depreciate it; but the boy is innocent. He does not deserve to have it visited upon him.""Doesn't he!" retorted Trace, utterly angered out of his usual civility."Why no, of course he does not," rather sharply resumed Mr. Henry, feeling now how hard must be this contending nature. "Look at the thing dispassionately; imagine for a moment the case reversed: that your father was the guilty man, and Paradyne's the one on whom the blow fell: should you not think it cruelly unjust and unjustifiable if he pursued revenge on you?"Trace became half-speechless with indignation. "I cannot imagine anything of the sort, sir," he haughtily said, using the "sir" as he might have used it to an offending footman. "I think you are forgetting yourself: we are gentlemen at this college.""I did not wish to offend you; only to put the matter in the light that it should, as I think, be looked at. What had young Paradyne done—a lad of twelve, then—to invoke this evil on himself? He was not responsible for his father's actions; he could not hinder them.""It appears to me that we have had enough of this," observed Trace. "Perhaps you will tell me why you are detaining me from my studies to say it?""To bespeak your kindness for the boy,—your silence, in fact; that he may be allowed to pursue his course here unmolested. It will be repaid to you many-fold.""Then you can make yourself easy; I am not going to betray him. Dr. Brabazon has put us on our honour."The acknowledgment was not graciously expressed, but Mr. Henry saw he should get nothing better. "And now, Trace," he continued, "I have a question to ask you on a different subject. When that pistol went off in the plantation last night, I met a boy, supposed to be one of the seniors, stealing away. Was it you?"There had been many little points in the interview not palatable to Mr. Trace; but all put together were as nothing compared to this. His complexion was peculiar, apt to turn of a salmon-colour on occasions of rare provocation, as it did now; but his reply was cold and calm."You had better take care what you say, Mr. Henry!Iin the plantation at the time! stealing away! No, I was not. It is against rules to go out after prayers, and I am not in the habit of breaking them. I wish I had been there! and dropped upon those two juniors who were fools enough to take out a loaded pistol.""Hush, that's enough: I would not do you an injury for the world," said Mr. Henry, in the gentlest and kindest tone. "I did think it was you; but I kept it to myself, as you perceived.""Thank you," said Trace, half in allusion to the wish, half ironically. "I suppose I may go in now.""Yes," said Mr. Henry, "that is all. Good night, Trace."He went out at the great gates as he spoke. But Trace, instead of hastening in to his studies, that he seemed so anxious over, came to the conclusion to delay them yet a little longer. He had a mind to track Mr. Henry.Following him at a safe distance, keeping under cover of any bit of shade cast by the moon, he saw him pass the front of the college, and make for some houses round by the shops. Mr. Henry was looking about him as if uncertain of his geography; finally he paused before a row of small "genteel" dwellings, and entered one of them."Number five!" exclaimed Trace, taking his observations. "I'm blest if that's not the place where the Paradynes live!" he continued with sudden conviction, for he had been gathering a little information for himself in the course of the afternoon. "A nice lot to know! Birds of a feather. I shouldn't wonder but he had a share of the spoil in Liverpool! He confesses to having known them well. If ever a fire brand came into a school, it's this same German master. I'll look after him a bit."And, having so far set operations afloat, Mr. Trace galloped back to school as fast as his legs would carry him.Skirting the playground at the back of the college, nearly opposite the large bay window of the master's study, and of the boys' dormitories above it, was a small dwelling-house of rough stone, known amidst the boys as "Mother Butter's." Mother Butter, a tall spare angular lady of fifty, kept a cow and a donkey, and a good many fowls. She sold a little butter, she sold poultry and fresh eggs; she sold choice herbs, mushroom ketchup; lavender, and other sweet dried flowers to scent drawers. Formerly she used to make "bullseyes" for the junior college boys; small square delectable tablets, composed of butter, treacle, and peppermint, and did in this a roaring trade. But differences arose, beginning at first with long credit, and going on to open rupture, and one day last term she flung her treacle saucepan amidst the crew, vowing she would make no more. The saucepan struck Gall's trencher, denting it in and blackening his ear, nearly stunning him besides. Smarting under the infliction, he issued on the spot a general order that no more bullseyes were to be consumed of Mother Butter's, though she "made them till she was blue." Since then there had been open and perpetual warfare. Mrs. Butter carried tales of them to the masters: the boys entered on a system of petty annoyance: their palates suffering under the deprivation of those choice sweetmeats, it was not likely they would spare her. They painted her cow green; they cut off the plume of a handsome cock, the pride of the whole poultry; they tied a bell to the donkey's tail when it was charged with two panniers of eggs, thereby causing the startled animal to smash the lot; and they laid a huge tin plate across the top of her low kitchen chimney. Nearly all these miseries were securely effected at night; and as Mrs. Butter watched vigilantly and detected nothing, her surprise equalled her rage. Dr. Brabazon had levied a contribution for the value of the eggs; but that did not stop the fun.It was a pretty place to look at, this dwelling-house of Mrs. Butter's, with the clematis on its stone walls, the bright flowers before it, and the little paddock behind; and it so happened that Mr. Henry, seeking for lodgings, heard there were some to let here. He found a neat plain sitting-room, and a closet opening from it which just held the bed and washhand stand, with space for his portmanteau, if he put the chair out. Mrs. Butter said she would cook and wait upon him; the rent asked was low, and he made the bargain, unconscious man, offhand. The previous occupant had been an outdoor servant of the college, and you may imagine the effect Mr. Henry's choice produced on the school. Not until he moved into it was he aware of the contemptuous feeling it excited, and then not of its extent. "It suits me," said he, quietly and decisively.He saw no reason why it should not suit him. It had been done up nicely afresh, and was convenient for the college. He might have thought it good enough, even though he had not been obliged to look at every sixpence that he spent. The boys might have thought it good enough, but for its being in the house of the obnoxious Mother Butter, and for a servant's previous occupation of it.You know the old saying, my friends: "One man must not look at a horse, while another may leap over the hedge." Just so was it here. Had somebody great and grand—a duke, let us say, for example—taken a fancy to that room, and come and occupied it, the boys would have been seized with a sudden sense of its desirability as a lodging, had its photograph taken as a model of beauty, and extolled it abroad; they might even have relaxed a little in their polite attentions to Mother Butter; but as one whom they were half-way prepared to regard as an enemy entered upon it, the case was different. In truth, a strong feeling, independent of this, was setting in against the foreign master.The declining sun shone full on Mr. Henry, as he sat at the window of his room. He had taken possession of it some days now, and things were settling down into ordinary routine. James Talbot was nearly well again, and the commotion had subsided; but the affair remained in the same doubt, none of the boys had confessed, and suspicion was partially diverting itself from them. This room of Mr. Henry's faced the college and playground, and he liked to draw his table to the window. He was dotting down on a piece of paper his probable expenses; was calculating how little it would be possible for him to live upon, and how much save out of his hundred and twenty pounds a year salary. He had applied to a house in Paternoster Row for some translation to do: his idea had been to get private teaching in his free hours, but he found Orville Green too small a place to admit of the probability of much. The answer from the Paternoster Row house had just come in: they would give him the translation of a scientific German work; but the terms offered with it were very poor indeed. He intended to accept them; he said to himself that he had no other resource but to accept them, and they were being put down in his pencilled calculation.Lodgings, food, laundress, clothes, and sundries. The lodging and laundress must be paid, the sundries must be found, those hundred and one trifles that arise one knows not how; in the clothes he could not stint himself, for he must appear as a gentleman: indeed, it would have been against Mr. Henry's natural instincts not to do so. But the food!—ah! he could deny himself there as much as he pleased; and the "much" seemed to be unlimited. To a young man these self-denials in prospective seem so easy.He laid down his pencil, and leaned his head upon his hand. In his face, as he looked upwards; in his sad dark eyes fixed on the blue of the sky, but seeing it not, there was an expression that seemed to speak of utter friendlessness. A great care was upon him that evening; care of one sort was always upon him, but a different one had suddenly arisen to make itself heard.Was his health giving way?Doubts of it had occurred now and again in the past few weeks and been driven away without much notice; but since crossing over to England, his strength was as a mere reed. What if the capability to work were taken from him? Certain words came into his mind,—"Cut it down, why cumbereth it the ground?" Washedestined to be one of these useless trees, bearing no fruit? doing no good in his generation? The hot tears came into his eyes, and he breathed a silent word to One who was seated beyond that bright blue sky.George Paradyne dashed in. "I say, Mr. Henry," began he, without preliminary ceremony of any description, "I shan't like this Orville College.""Why not?" asked Mr. Henry, putting his paper into a drawer, and his pencil into his pocket."There's something up against me. The fellows won't let me join in their play.""Oh, nonsense, George.""But it isn't nonsense. They were at a fault just now for one to make up a game—it's that noisy one, you know, that takes eighteen fellows, nine on a side, and they had only seventeen. 'Oh, here comes another,' I heard some one say as I ran up; but when they saw it was me, there was a sudden silence, and every one of the lot turned away.""I should say, 'When they saw it was I,' George," observed Mr. Henry, not really to correct his grammar, but to divert his thoughts from the subject."Oh, bother," answered George, his large, bright, grey eyes laughing. "But, I say, I wonder what can be the reason?""Some little prejudice, perhaps," carelessly replied Mr. Henry. "There exists something of the sort, I fancy, against the outdoor pupils. Be brave, and hold on your right course; you will live it down.""I'm not afraid of that," answered George. "I should like to know, though, what it is the boys have got in their heads. When are you coming to see us again?" he halted to say, as he was hastening away as unceremoniously as he had come in. "Mamma says she has something to ask you that she forgot the other night.""Does she? I will come one of these first evenings."George Paradyne vaulted away, and Mr. Henry sat on alone. His jealous eyes—jealous for the welfare of another—had not failed to detect the feeling against George Paradyne; but this confirmation of it fell upon him with a sort of shock, and he was as certain in his own mind that the origination of it was Raymond Trace, as that it existed.He was right. Mr. Raymond Trace, in his bitter resentment against the Paradynes, was breaking his word of honour in the spirit, if not in the letter. He did not speak of the past, it is true; but by dint of whispers, of insinuations, he was setting the school against George Paradyne, and contriving it in such a way that none could have suspected him to be the originator. He was also fanning the flame against Mr. Henry; and in his self-righteousness he thought he was doing the most natural and justifiable thing.
The term had begun, as the Head Master expressed it, ungraciously. The mysterious and disagreeable accident to James Talbot was leading to endless discussion and dissension. The first desk utterly repudiated the notion that it could have been one of them, and tacitly, if not directly, accused the second; the second desk threw back the insinuation with all the insolence they dared to use. Lamb was one of these, and his name got mentioned (failing somebody else to fix it on) in connection with the charge. The suggestion spread, although Brown minor, rather a crony of Lamb's, was ready to testify that Lamb had never stirred out of the hall that night after chapel; and did testify to it, in fact, with some confirmatory words of unnecessary strength. Lamb, a tall, thin fellow, was in a terrible rage; could not have been in a worse had he been guilty. Gall, the senior boy, said little; not having returned at the time, he did not consider it was his province to interfere; but Loftus, smarting personally under the affair, made himself exceedingly busy. And it was a very unusual thing for Loftus to do.
The boys, at their evening studies, sat at the low table in the well-lighted hall—a long table on trestles that ran down the middle of it, with benches around. They were ostensibly preparing their lessons for the morrow; in reality were discussing and bickering among themselves in an undertone. You heard the bell ring for them in the last chapter, when they were in the plantation with Sir Simon Orville. Mr. Long sat at his desk in a remote corner, paying no attention. Great in science, he always had his near-sighted spectacles buried in some abstruse book, and his ears also.
"Look here," spoke Loftus minor, who was burning to get at the offender quite as hotly as his brother Bertie, "when my uncle says he'll give a gold watch, why, hewillgive it; there's no sham; so if any of you fellows do know about this, just go in and earn it. It'll be a shame to let a watch go begging."
"It's an awful shame that a gold watch, or any such bribe should be needed," called out Loftus major. "Who but a sneak would shoot a fellow, and then shrink from avowing it, letting suspicion fall on the rest indiscriminately? A sneak, I say."
"Do you mean that for me, Mr. Loftus?" spluttered Lamb, who was sitting opposite to Loftus at the table. "Because if you do—"
"There you go, Lamb, you and your corky temper, interposed good-humoured Leek.
"You be quiet, Onions. I say that if he does, I'll make him prove his words."
There was a smothered laugh. The notion of Lamb's making a senior prove anything, was good, especially Loftus.
"I don't mean it for Lamb in particular, unless he chooses to take it to himself," coolly drawled Loftus. "I have no reason for supposing he can take it."
The semi-apology did not satisfy Lamb. He knew that he was called the "sneak," par excellence; he knew that he did many little underhand things to deserve it. Consequently he always strove to appear particularly white; and to have this grave suspicion thrown upon him was driving him wild.
"I believe that Loftus knows I was no more out last night than he was," said Lamb, giving his Virgil a passionate wrench, which tore the cover—"that you all know it."
"As far as I can understand, not a soul of you went out, except Smart and Loftus minor," observed the senior boy, who really wished to heal the general discomfort. "None of you were missed."
"And that's true," said Lamb. "And if it comes to that, who is to say that it was not that new fellow did it, after all? Took up the pistol and shot it off by accident, and went and said what he did to screen himself."
"What new fellow? Do you mean Paradyne?" quickly asked Irby, following out some association of ideas in his mind.
"Paradyne, no! What could Paradyne have had to do with it? I mean the new master; that German fellow with an English name."
"Nonsense, Lamb!"
Lamb nodded his head oracularly. "It might have been."
It was a new phase of the question, and the boys looked up. Lamb continued. "Trace says he thinks he's a regular spy."
"By the way, where is Trace?" asked Gall, who had suddenly noticed that Trace, usually so punctual at studies, was not present.
"It couldn't have been him," said Leek, regardless of the question as to Trace. "He saw the fellow making off; he said he wore the college cap."
"Your tongue is ever ready, Onions," was the rebuke of the senior boy. "It's not at all likely to have been Mr. Henry; but neither is it obliged to have been the fellow he saw making off. And if it was, the fellow might not have come out of the college; he may be an outsider. Get on with your work; there's really no cause to be worrying over it and suspecting each other."
The words acted as oil on the troubled waters, and they began to settle down to their books and exercises. But it's pleasanter to gossip than to learn.
"Why does Trace think the German's a spy?" asked Loftus minor.
"He's not German; he's English. A German would have his face covered with hair; this fellow shaves."
"Of course he's not German by birth," returned Dick; "anybody can see that. Onions said——"
"What's all that talking about?" roared out Mr. Long, suddenly becoming awake to the noise. "Is that the way you do your lessons?" And for a few moments, at any rate, silence supervened.
Where was Trace? I think I shall have to tell you. After digesting Sir Simon Orville's words in the plantation, he set off quickly, to be in time for the evening study, which was the preparation of lessons for the next day, and rarely lasted more than an hour. Running full pelt into the cloisters, he ran against one of the masters.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, thinking it was Mr. Baker; for the cloisters were in almost total darkness.
It was Mr. Henry; and when Trace became aware of the fact, his spirit rose up in rebellion at having called him "sir." A feeling of dislike to this new master was rife within him, having its source no doubt in the past friendship the stranger had avowed for the unfortunate Captain Paradyne, and in his present evident intention to befriend the boy, and defend him against surreptitious lance-shafts. Trace was apt to be so prejudiced.
"Is it you, Trace?" cried Mr. Henry, recognizing the voice. "I would say a word to you."
"Be quick, if you please, then," was the half-discourteous answer. "We have only one hour to prepare everything, and I am late as it is."
"You have heard probably that George Paradyne is to stay here," began Mr. Henry, leading the way into the open quadrangle, where it was lighter, and there could be no danger of eaves-droppers.
"Yes; and I am surprised at Dr. Brabazon. My uncle, Sir Simon Orville, sanctions it too. He—he—"
Trace stopped. The generally cool voice seemed overflowing with passion; and Mr. Henry looked at him in the light of the rising moon.
"You do not like the decision!"
"Likeit!" repeated Trace; "I think it is an infamous thing. And we are put upon our honour not to tell! It is the first time I ever knew it was right to conceal crime."
"The boy has committed no crime, if you allude to him.”
"His father did."
"And his father expiated it with his life. Should not this be sufficient for you?"
Trace answered by a gesture of contempt. Mr. Henry threw his luminous eyes on him, their sad expression, so namelessly attractive, conspicuous even in the subdued light.
"I have had a great deal of trouble of one sort or another," said the master, in a low tone. "It has taught me some things: and, amidst them,neverto add, by act of mine, to the grief of others. Oh, Trace! if you did but know the true, tender compassion we feel for them, when dire trouble has fallen on ourselves! if you could but see how cruel their life is, without additional reproach!"
"And did Paradyne—the man—bring no trouble upon us?" burst out Trace. "Did he not ruin my father, and drive him into exile, and break up our home, and kill my mother? She died here; here at my uncle's; and you may see her gravestone in the churchyard hard by. Trouble! Did the man not bring enough upon us?"
"Heaven knows he did," was the sad answer. "I do not seek to depreciate it; but the boy is innocent. He does not deserve to have it visited upon him."
"Doesn't he!" retorted Trace, utterly angered out of his usual civility.
"Why no, of course he does not," rather sharply resumed Mr. Henry, feeling now how hard must be this contending nature. "Look at the thing dispassionately; imagine for a moment the case reversed: that your father was the guilty man, and Paradyne's the one on whom the blow fell: should you not think it cruelly unjust and unjustifiable if he pursued revenge on you?"
Trace became half-speechless with indignation. "I cannot imagine anything of the sort, sir," he haughtily said, using the "sir" as he might have used it to an offending footman. "I think you are forgetting yourself: we are gentlemen at this college."
"I did not wish to offend you; only to put the matter in the light that it should, as I think, be looked at. What had young Paradyne done—a lad of twelve, then—to invoke this evil on himself? He was not responsible for his father's actions; he could not hinder them."
"It appears to me that we have had enough of this," observed Trace. "Perhaps you will tell me why you are detaining me from my studies to say it?"
"To bespeak your kindness for the boy,—your silence, in fact; that he may be allowed to pursue his course here unmolested. It will be repaid to you many-fold."
"Then you can make yourself easy; I am not going to betray him. Dr. Brabazon has put us on our honour."
The acknowledgment was not graciously expressed, but Mr. Henry saw he should get nothing better. "And now, Trace," he continued, "I have a question to ask you on a different subject. When that pistol went off in the plantation last night, I met a boy, supposed to be one of the seniors, stealing away. Was it you?"
There had been many little points in the interview not palatable to Mr. Trace; but all put together were as nothing compared to this. His complexion was peculiar, apt to turn of a salmon-colour on occasions of rare provocation, as it did now; but his reply was cold and calm.
"You had better take care what you say, Mr. Henry!Iin the plantation at the time! stealing away! No, I was not. It is against rules to go out after prayers, and I am not in the habit of breaking them. I wish I had been there! and dropped upon those two juniors who were fools enough to take out a loaded pistol."
"Hush, that's enough: I would not do you an injury for the world," said Mr. Henry, in the gentlest and kindest tone. "I did think it was you; but I kept it to myself, as you perceived."
"Thank you," said Trace, half in allusion to the wish, half ironically. "I suppose I may go in now."
"Yes," said Mr. Henry, "that is all. Good night, Trace."
He went out at the great gates as he spoke. But Trace, instead of hastening in to his studies, that he seemed so anxious over, came to the conclusion to delay them yet a little longer. He had a mind to track Mr. Henry.
Following him at a safe distance, keeping under cover of any bit of shade cast by the moon, he saw him pass the front of the college, and make for some houses round by the shops. Mr. Henry was looking about him as if uncertain of his geography; finally he paused before a row of small "genteel" dwellings, and entered one of them.
"Number five!" exclaimed Trace, taking his observations. "I'm blest if that's not the place where the Paradynes live!" he continued with sudden conviction, for he had been gathering a little information for himself in the course of the afternoon. "A nice lot to know! Birds of a feather. I shouldn't wonder but he had a share of the spoil in Liverpool! He confesses to having known them well. If ever a fire brand came into a school, it's this same German master. I'll look after him a bit."
And, having so far set operations afloat, Mr. Trace galloped back to school as fast as his legs would carry him.
Skirting the playground at the back of the college, nearly opposite the large bay window of the master's study, and of the boys' dormitories above it, was a small dwelling-house of rough stone, known amidst the boys as "Mother Butter's." Mother Butter, a tall spare angular lady of fifty, kept a cow and a donkey, and a good many fowls. She sold a little butter, she sold poultry and fresh eggs; she sold choice herbs, mushroom ketchup; lavender, and other sweet dried flowers to scent drawers. Formerly she used to make "bullseyes" for the junior college boys; small square delectable tablets, composed of butter, treacle, and peppermint, and did in this a roaring trade. But differences arose, beginning at first with long credit, and going on to open rupture, and one day last term she flung her treacle saucepan amidst the crew, vowing she would make no more. The saucepan struck Gall's trencher, denting it in and blackening his ear, nearly stunning him besides. Smarting under the infliction, he issued on the spot a general order that no more bullseyes were to be consumed of Mother Butter's, though she "made them till she was blue." Since then there had been open and perpetual warfare. Mrs. Butter carried tales of them to the masters: the boys entered on a system of petty annoyance: their palates suffering under the deprivation of those choice sweetmeats, it was not likely they would spare her. They painted her cow green; they cut off the plume of a handsome cock, the pride of the whole poultry; they tied a bell to the donkey's tail when it was charged with two panniers of eggs, thereby causing the startled animal to smash the lot; and they laid a huge tin plate across the top of her low kitchen chimney. Nearly all these miseries were securely effected at night; and as Mrs. Butter watched vigilantly and detected nothing, her surprise equalled her rage. Dr. Brabazon had levied a contribution for the value of the eggs; but that did not stop the fun.
It was a pretty place to look at, this dwelling-house of Mrs. Butter's, with the clematis on its stone walls, the bright flowers before it, and the little paddock behind; and it so happened that Mr. Henry, seeking for lodgings, heard there were some to let here. He found a neat plain sitting-room, and a closet opening from it which just held the bed and washhand stand, with space for his portmanteau, if he put the chair out. Mrs. Butter said she would cook and wait upon him; the rent asked was low, and he made the bargain, unconscious man, offhand. The previous occupant had been an outdoor servant of the college, and you may imagine the effect Mr. Henry's choice produced on the school. Not until he moved into it was he aware of the contemptuous feeling it excited, and then not of its extent. "It suits me," said he, quietly and decisively.
He saw no reason why it should not suit him. It had been done up nicely afresh, and was convenient for the college. He might have thought it good enough, even though he had not been obliged to look at every sixpence that he spent. The boys might have thought it good enough, but for its being in the house of the obnoxious Mother Butter, and for a servant's previous occupation of it.
You know the old saying, my friends: "One man must not look at a horse, while another may leap over the hedge." Just so was it here. Had somebody great and grand—a duke, let us say, for example—taken a fancy to that room, and come and occupied it, the boys would have been seized with a sudden sense of its desirability as a lodging, had its photograph taken as a model of beauty, and extolled it abroad; they might even have relaxed a little in their polite attentions to Mother Butter; but as one whom they were half-way prepared to regard as an enemy entered upon it, the case was different. In truth, a strong feeling, independent of this, was setting in against the foreign master.
The declining sun shone full on Mr. Henry, as he sat at the window of his room. He had taken possession of it some days now, and things were settling down into ordinary routine. James Talbot was nearly well again, and the commotion had subsided; but the affair remained in the same doubt, none of the boys had confessed, and suspicion was partially diverting itself from them. This room of Mr. Henry's faced the college and playground, and he liked to draw his table to the window. He was dotting down on a piece of paper his probable expenses; was calculating how little it would be possible for him to live upon, and how much save out of his hundred and twenty pounds a year salary. He had applied to a house in Paternoster Row for some translation to do: his idea had been to get private teaching in his free hours, but he found Orville Green too small a place to admit of the probability of much. The answer from the Paternoster Row house had just come in: they would give him the translation of a scientific German work; but the terms offered with it were very poor indeed. He intended to accept them; he said to himself that he had no other resource but to accept them, and they were being put down in his pencilled calculation.
Lodgings, food, laundress, clothes, and sundries. The lodging and laundress must be paid, the sundries must be found, those hundred and one trifles that arise one knows not how; in the clothes he could not stint himself, for he must appear as a gentleman: indeed, it would have been against Mr. Henry's natural instincts not to do so. But the food!—ah! he could deny himself there as much as he pleased; and the "much" seemed to be unlimited. To a young man these self-denials in prospective seem so easy.
He laid down his pencil, and leaned his head upon his hand. In his face, as he looked upwards; in his sad dark eyes fixed on the blue of the sky, but seeing it not, there was an expression that seemed to speak of utter friendlessness. A great care was upon him that evening; care of one sort was always upon him, but a different one had suddenly arisen to make itself heard.Was his health giving way?Doubts of it had occurred now and again in the past few weeks and been driven away without much notice; but since crossing over to England, his strength was as a mere reed. What if the capability to work were taken from him? Certain words came into his mind,—"Cut it down, why cumbereth it the ground?" Washedestined to be one of these useless trees, bearing no fruit? doing no good in his generation? The hot tears came into his eyes, and he breathed a silent word to One who was seated beyond that bright blue sky.
George Paradyne dashed in. "I say, Mr. Henry," began he, without preliminary ceremony of any description, "I shan't like this Orville College."
"Why not?" asked Mr. Henry, putting his paper into a drawer, and his pencil into his pocket.
"There's something up against me. The fellows won't let me join in their play."
"Oh, nonsense, George."
"But it isn't nonsense. They were at a fault just now for one to make up a game—it's that noisy one, you know, that takes eighteen fellows, nine on a side, and they had only seventeen. 'Oh, here comes another,' I heard some one say as I ran up; but when they saw it was me, there was a sudden silence, and every one of the lot turned away."
"I should say, 'When they saw it was I,' George," observed Mr. Henry, not really to correct his grammar, but to divert his thoughts from the subject.
"Oh, bother," answered George, his large, bright, grey eyes laughing. "But, I say, I wonder what can be the reason?"
"Some little prejudice, perhaps," carelessly replied Mr. Henry. "There exists something of the sort, I fancy, against the outdoor pupils. Be brave, and hold on your right course; you will live it down."
"I'm not afraid of that," answered George. "I should like to know, though, what it is the boys have got in their heads. When are you coming to see us again?" he halted to say, as he was hastening away as unceremoniously as he had come in. "Mamma says she has something to ask you that she forgot the other night."
"Does she? I will come one of these first evenings."
George Paradyne vaulted away, and Mr. Henry sat on alone. His jealous eyes—jealous for the welfare of another—had not failed to detect the feeling against George Paradyne; but this confirmation of it fell upon him with a sort of shock, and he was as certain in his own mind that the origination of it was Raymond Trace, as that it existed.
He was right. Mr. Raymond Trace, in his bitter resentment against the Paradynes, was breaking his word of honour in the spirit, if not in the letter. He did not speak of the past, it is true; but by dint of whispers, of insinuations, he was setting the school against George Paradyne, and contriving it in such a way that none could have suspected him to be the originator. He was also fanning the flame against Mr. Henry; and in his self-righteousness he thought he was doing the most natural and justifiable thing.