CHAPTER XIV.Over the Water.The fine passenger boat was ploughing its way across the channel, receding from Folkestone, gaining on Boulogne-sur-Mer. Sir Simon Orville and his three nephews were on board. It was a fine, warm, calm day in August; and as Sir Simon Orville sat on the upper deck, steadily as he could have sat in one of his own chairs at home, he thought what a charming passage that was between the two points, and how silly he had been never to have tried it before.For—if the truth must be told—Sir Simon Orville had never made but three water trips in his life: the one to Ramsgate, from London; the other two, the short crossing to the Isle of Wight. He had called them all equally "going to sea;" and as it happened that the water had been very particularly rough on each of the three occasions, and Sir Simon terribly ill, his reminiscences on the subject were not pleasant. To find himself, therefore, gliding along as smoothly as if the channel were a sea of glass, was both unexpected and delightful.The sky was blue over head; the water was blue underneath; the slight breeze caused by the motion of the vessel was grateful on the warm day; and Sir Simon thought he was in Paradise. And now, as they were nearing the French town, there came gliding towards them the steamer that had just put off from it; her deck crowded with merry-faced passengers, congratulating themselves like Sir Simon, at the easy voyage. The vessels exchanged salutes, and passed, each on her way.And now the harbour was gained and traversed; the boat was made fast to the side, and the passengers began to land. The first thing Sir Simon did onterra firmawas to turn himself about and gaze around, perfectly bewildered with the strange scene and the strange tongue. It was so new to him: he had never been out of his own country in his life. Bertie Loftus, who knew something of the place, and prided himself on his French, consequently felt obliged to speak it as soon as he landed, drew his uncle to the custom-house through the sea of gazing faces, and said, "Par ici." That passed, and the egress gained, they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of touters, shouting out the names of their respective hotels and thrusting forward cards."Hotel du Nord," said Bertie, grandly, waving his hands to keep off the men, with an air of deprecating condescension."But what is it? What do they want? What are these cards?" reiterated Sir Simon. "My goodness me, boys, what'sthat?""That" was a string of the fishwomen in their matelotte costume, dark cloth short petticoats, red bodies, and broad webbing bracers. They were harnessed to a heavy truck of luggage, already cleared, and starting with it to one of the hotels."Uncle, we shall never get on if you stay like this," said Bertie. "That's nothing: the women do all the work here."Up came four or five more women and surrounded the party, bawling into Sir Simon's stunned ears with their shrill and shrieking voices, evidently asking something."What on earth are they saying of, Bertie?"Now Mr. Bertie's French only did for polite table life, and Anglo-French intercourse. To be set upon by a regular Frenchman with his perplexing tongue, and (as it seemed) rapid utterance, puzzled Bertie always: what must it have been then when these fishwomen attacked him with their broad patois?"Come along, uncle; they don't want anything. Allez vous en," rather wrathfully added Bertie to the ladies, which only made them talk the faster."Bertie, I shall not go along: the poor women must want something, and I should like to know what. What—do—you—want—please?" asked Sir Simon in his politeness, laying a stress upon each word. "Spake Anglish? No spake French, me."Jabber and shriek, jabber and shriek, all the five voices at once, for there were five of them. Sir Simon put up his hands and looked helplessly at Bertie; who was feeling rather helpless himself, just then."They are asking if you have any luggage, and if they may carry it to your hotel, Sir Simon," spoke a free, pleasant voice, evidently on the burst of laughter. And Sir Simon turned to behold George Paradyne, and seized his hand in gladness at being relieved from his dilemma.To hear the boy interpreting between Sir Simon and the women; to note that his French tongue was ready and fluent as theirs and with rather a more refined sound in it, was somewhat mortifying to Bertie Loftus. The women disappeared, George talking fast and laughing after them. "What brings you here? When did you come?" asked Sir Simon, keeping him by his side."We came yesterday, Sir Simon. I am with the Galls. They kindly invited me to accompany them. We are at the Hotel du Nord.""The Galls here, and at the Norde!" almost shouted Sir Simon in his delight. "I shall have somebody that I can speak English with."Yes; the Galls had made friends with George Paradyne and brought him to Boulogne with them. Mrs. Gall, a woman of the kindest and truest nature, had told her husband, told her son, that she should make the school ashamed of its prejudice against Paradyne. William Gall had not accompanied them: he was coming later. Sir Simon had known nothing of their movements: he had been a week and more from home. The Talbots were coming; the Browns were coming; Leek and his mother, Lady Sophia, were already there. As Sir Simon remarked, it seemed like an arranged party. Such, however, was not the case."What a lingo, to be sure!" cried Sir Simon, as he trotted up the hot and blazing port. "Why, actually those little street urchins are jabbering French! Halloa! stop!" he added, coming to a sudden halt opposite the goods' custom-house: "Where's Dick!"Nobody remembered to have seen Dick since the landing. "He'll turn up, sir," returned Loftus, slightly annoyed at the unequal progress they were making. "Dick won't get lost."Sir Simon did not feel so sure upon the point; he thought he might get lost himself in that helpless foreign town; becoming, as he was, more strange and bewildered every moment. But Dick came running up from behind, dragging with him a tall, square-built man with a thoughtful face and grey hair. Sir Simon nearly shook his hands off, for it was Mr. Gall."What a mercy!" said he. "I never was so glad in all my life; did not know anything of your coming. We have been a week at Chatham, staying near my poor brother Joe, the hop-dealer, who made that sad failure of it. You know him, Gall. I wanted to see how he and the wife and chicks were of, poor things, and we put up at an inn there."Dick shook hands with Paradyne. Dick listened to the news that Onions was in the town, and that Talbot was arriving, with a sort of rapture: the Browns too, major and minor. Dick would have stood on his head had there been room on the port to do it.A few days more, and the different friends and schoolmates had collected there. It was indeed as if they had premeditated the gathering. Some went grandlyviâFolkestone, some more economically by the boat from London: that little muff, Stiggings, who was fond of writing to Miss Rose, made the trip in a sailing vessel, invited to it by the captain; he was awfully sick all the way, and landed more dead than alive. The Galls and Sir Simon's party were at the Hotel du Nord; the Talbots had small lodgings in the Rue Neuve Chaussée; the Browns took a furnished house in the open country, beyond the Rue Royale; and Lady Sophia Leek, who had no acquaintance with the rest, and made none with them, was staying at the Hotel des Bains. And the time went on.But that Sir Simon Orville was the most unsuspicious of men, he had undoubtedly not failed to detect that some ill-feeling was rife between his friend Gall's eldest son, and Bertie Loftus. For three whole days after William Gall's arrival, they did not exchange a word with each other; on the fourth, a quarrel, not loud, but bitter, took place on the sands; and those low, concentrated, bitter quarrels are worse than loud ones. People, scattered in groups at only a few yards' distance, did not hear it; but they might have seen the white faces raised on each other with an angry glare, had they been less occupied with themselves, with their gossip, with the picking up of shells. Bertie Loftus was cherishing the remembrance of his insult, and paying it off fourfold in superciliousness now.Sir Simon's mind was too agreeably filled to afford leisure for detecting feelings not on the surface: everything was new to him, everything delightful. The free and easy life in the French town; the unceremonious habits; the sociable salon, where they sat with the windows open to the street; the passing intimacy made with the rest of the guests; the sufficiently-well-appointed meals in the dining-room—the lingering breakfast at will, the chance lunch, the elaborate dinner—were what he had never before met with. Mr. Bertie Loftus considered it a state of things altogether common; but it was after the social, simple-minded man's own heart. There was the pier to walk on; with its commodious seats at the end, whence he could watch the vessels in at will, and revel in the view of the dancing waves; there was the laid-out ground before that gay building whose French name Sir Simon could not pronounce, the établissement, where he could sit in the sun or the shade, watching the croquet players, and reading his newspaper between whiles; there was the terrace beyond, with its benches; there were the sands stretching out in the distance. An upper terrace also, close at hand, where he could place himself at a small round table and call for lemonade in the summer's heat. Sir Simon would be now in one spot, now in another, hisTimesand telescope in his hand, his friend Gall not far off. And Mr. Gall was a sensible, shrewd man, looked up to in the city as the head of a wealthy wholesale business; he was not despised by his own people, however he might be by Bertie Loftus. What with the attractions out of doors and the attractions in, Sir Simon thought Boulogne was pleasant as a fabled town of enchantment."A scandal-loving, vulgar, crowded, disreputable, unsavoury place, sir!" was the judgment some new acquaintance passed upon it one day, to the intense approval of Bertie. But Sir Simon shook his head, and could not see it.Sir Simon stood at the end of the pier one afternoon, his telescope to his eye, ranging the horizon for the first appearance of the London boat. He was looking in the wrong direction for it, but that was all one to happy Sir Simon. Young Paradyne put him right. By that boat he was expecting Mr. and Mrs. Loftus. Some business having taken them unexpectedly to London, Sir Simon had written to say, "Come over here and be my guests." It suddenly struck him that the sight of the boy by his side, Paradyne, might call up unpleasant recollections to Mr. Loftus. Sir Simon had got to like the boy excessively; but that was no reason why Mr. Loftus should tolerate the intimacy.On came the good ship, "The City of Paris," pitching and tossing, for the waves were wild to-day, and Sir Simon felt thankful he was not in her. She but just saved the tide. Back down the pier he hurried, in time to see the passengers land; Dick and Raymond Trace crowding eagerly against the ropes. Dick leaped them, and had to go through the custom-house for his pains, kissing his mother between whiles. She was like her brother, Sir Simon, in features; simple once, but a little pretentious now. The tears ran down Sir Simon's cheeks when he saw that her hair was grey. Very grey indeed just at present, and her face too, with the adverse wind on deck, and the sickness. Mr. Loftus—a slender, aristocratic-looking man of courteous manners, but with a great deal of Bertie's hauteur in his pale and handsome face—had not suffered, and was ready to greet all friends in his calm, gentlemanly fashion.There are many ropes about that part of the port, as perhaps some of you know. Mr. Loftus, a very near-sighted man, with an eye-glass dangling, contrived to get his feet entangled in them; he would undoubtedly have fallen, but that some one darted to the rescue and held him up. Mr. Loftus saw a stripling nearly as tall as himself, with a frank, good-looking countenance, and open, bright, grey eyes."Thank you, young sir," he said; "I must look to my steps here, I find. Who is that nice-looking lad?" he subsequently asked of Sir Simon."Oh, never mind him," cried Sir Simon, evasively; "let us get on to the Norde"—as he always called the hotel. "Eliza looks half dead.""But where's Albert?" inquired Mr. Loftus, who had been gazing about in vain for his eldest son.Sir Simon could not tell where he was, and wondered at his absence. He little thought that Mr. Albert Loftus was detained with Gall, the two quarrelling desperately, out by Napoleon's column. Things had come to a most unpleasant pass between them.Mrs. Loftus went to lie down as soon as they reached the hotel. Mr. Loftus, declining refreshment until dinner-time, was ready to walk about with Sir Simon and be shown the lions. That goodhearted and estimable knight took him to a favourite bench of his on the green lawn—or plage, if you like to call it so—of the établissement, which seemed nearly deserted under the blaze of the afternoon sun. The sea was before them, the harbour on the left, the heights on the right. Here they sat at their ease, and the conversation fell upon Mr. Trace, Raymond's father."It is nearly a twelvemonth now since Robert Trace wrote to me," observed Sir Simon; "I can't make it out. We have never been so long before without news. Have you heard from him?""No," answered Mr. Loftus. "But my not hearing goes for nothing. I don't suppose we have exchanged letters three times since we separated in Liverpool four—nearly five—years ago.""Is there any particular cause for that?" asked Sir Simon."Well, I can hardly say there is. We did not agree in opinion about the winding-up of affairs at that unfortunate time, and I was vexed with Robert Trace; but we parted good friends.""He took too much upon himself, I have heard you say.""Yes. He would carry out his own opinions; would not listen to me, or let me have a voice; and he did it so quickly too. While I was saying such a thing ought to be done in such a manner, hedidit, and did it just the reverse. I have always thought that if Robert Trace had managed properly, we might have gone on again and redeemed ourselves. The fact is, his usually cool judgment was stunned out of him by the blow. But it is of no use speculating now on what might have been. How was he getting on when you last heard?""I don't know."The words were spoken in a peculiarly emphatic tone, and it caused Mr. Loftus to glance inquiringly at Sir Simon. The latter answered the look."He was at Boston, you know; had got together some sort of an agency there, and was doing well. In one of his letters to me, he said he was in the way to make a fortune. Some capitalists, whom he named, were establishing a great commercial enterprise, a sort of bank I fancy, and had offered the management of it to him, if he could take shares to the amount of two thousand pounds, which must be paid up. He could furnish the one from his own funds, he said, and he asked me to lend him the other. In less than a twelvemonth it should be repaid to me with interest.""And what did you do?""Lent it. I was willing to give him another help on to fortune; and Trace, as you know, was a longheaded fellow, the very last to be deluded by any trashy bubble not likely to hold water. So I despatched him the thousand pounds by return mail.""You were always too liberal, Simon.""Better be too liberal than too stingy," was the rather impulsive answer. "I should not like to remember on my death-bed that I had refused assistance to friends in need, for the sake of hoarding my gold. What good would it do me then?""And how did it prosper him?""I don't know. I got an acknowledgment from him of its receipt—just a line. I believe I can repeat the words, 'Dear Simon, my best thanks to you for what has now come safe to hand. Will write by next mail.' The next mail, however, brought me nothing, nor the next, nor the next. After that came a letter, dated New York; in it he said he had left Boston, and would give me particulars later. They have never come.""That's strange. How do you account for it?"Sir Simon did not answer for a minute. "I think the projected enterprise failed," he said at length; "and that Robert Trace lost his own money and mine too. I think he is trying to redeem his position in a measure before he writes and confesses to the failure. It is no good reason for maintaining silence; but Robert Trace always was sensitive on the subject of pecuniary losses, especially of his own. I suppose the Americans were more clever than he, and took him in, and he does not like to confess it.""What are you going to do with Raymond?" questioned Mr. Loftus."I don't know. I shall be in a dilemma over it, unless we speedily hear from his father. Should he gain the Orville prize he will go to the university; but as to what he is to be—of course it lies with his father to decide. I propose business to him—any sort he'd like; but he turns his nose up at it, just as disdainfully as Mr. Bertie could do."Mr. Loftus smiled. "Bertie wants to read for the Bar but I fear it will be up-hill work. He—there's the fine lad that saved me from stumbling," he broke off, as Paradyne and another shot across the sands. "You did not tell me who he was. He has a nice face.""I'll tell you if you like; but your prejudices will rise up in arms like so many bristles. That's young Paradyne.""Paradyne! Not Arthur Paradyne's son?""It is.""But what brings him here—with you?" returned Mr. Loftus; his voice taking a cold, haughty, reserved tone."There, I knew how it would be," said Sir Simon, with a short laugh. Turning round to make sure there were no listeners, he told the particulars to Mr. Loftus: of George Paradyne's happening to enter Orville College, of Raymond's discovery, and of the Head Master's appeal to himself. "The lad is as nice a lad as ever lived," he concluded, "and why should his father's fault be visited upon him?"A moment's pause, and Mr. Loftus's better reason asserted itself. He was of a generous nature when his pride did not stand in the way: or, as Sir Simon put it, his prejudice."Certainly. Yes. I should have said the same, had Dr. Brabazon consulted me. Let the boy have a chance. But, Simon, how does he get supported at that expensive college? The widow protested she had but the merest pittance of an income left.""I don't know how. Somebody, perhaps, has taken them by the hand: I can't tell what people of misfortune would do without. I show the boy kindness, not only because I like him, but that I promised something of the sort to Mary.""To Mrs. Trace?" exclaimed Mr. Loftus."I did," affirmed Sir Simon, to the evident surprise of his brother-in-law. "Mary Trace had been a hard, cold woman, as you know; but the light broke in upon her when she was dying. It changed her nature—as of course, or it had not been the true, blessed light from heaven—and she got anxious for others. More than once she spoke to me of the Paradynes; their fate seemed to lie like a weight upon her. 'If ever you can lend them a helping hand, Simon, do it,' she urged; 'do it for our Saviour's sake.' I can see her blue, pinched lips now, and the anxious fever in her eyes as she spoke," he added dreamily, "and I promised. But I would help the lad for his own sake, apart from this."Mr. Loftus made no comment: to confess the truth, he could not quite understand why Mrs. Trace should have done this. He raised his double eye-glass."Is not that Albert?" he asked. "There, in the distance, with one or two more young men." And Sir Simon turned his long glass in the direction to which he pointed.Close against the water they stood; three of them—Bertie, for he it was, and Gall, and Leek. The tide was nearly out, and Bertie and Gall had found their way round the point, from the heights down to the sands, a long round, wrangling all the way. Had Mr. Loftus and Sir Simon but possessed an ear-glass as well as an eye-glass, they might have heard more than was meant for them. That Bertie Loftus was bent upon aggravating Gall by every means in his power, short of vulgar blows, was indisputable; each word he spoke was an insult, a derisive taunt; and Gall, who had rebelled against this kind of treatment from Bertie, even when it was implied rather than expressed, was nearly stung into madness."Why don't you have it out, and have done with it?" he passionately cried, stopping short as they came round in view of the établissement and its frequenters. "If you keep on like this, you'll provoke me to kick you to ribbons."Bertie smiled derisively. Kickhimto ribbons! His legs were twice as long as Gall's, if it came to kicking. Not that Bertie would have played at that. "There's no chance of having it out withyou," came the coolly contemptuous answer. "The only way which gentlemen use to 'have things out,' you don't understand. And you can't be expected to."Leek espied them from a distance and came running up. It was at this moment that Mr. Loftus's glasses happened to fall upon them."Look at him, Onions," cried Bertie, indicating Gall by a sweep of the hand that was the very essence of insolent scorn. "He is asking me to go in for a game of kicking.""I am saying that I'll kickyouif you don't stop your row," cried Gall, his very lips white with passion. "And so I will.""I never did see two such fellows as you," was Leek's comment. "You can't meet without insulting each other. What's come to you both?"Bertie Loftus wheeled round on his heel in the soft sand, and confronted Gall closely, face nearly touching face. "Look here, here's a last chance—will you meet me?""Meet you?""Yes, meet me. Don't pretend to misunderstand. I have my pistols at the hotel.""Perhaps you brought them on purpose," said Gall, with an unmistakable sneer."Perhaps I did," coolly avowed Bertie. "Will you make yourself into a gentleman for once, if you can, and meet me?""Why, you don't think I should be such an idiot as to go out to fight a duel, do you?" wonderingly cried Gall, while Leek burst into a laugh. "People don't do that now, Mr. Loftus.""Gentlemen do. Ask Leek: he's one. Of course, you can't be expected to understand that. Others shelter their cowardice under plea of the law—of custom—which is so much sneaking meanness. I knew how it would be, and that's why I said nothing before. Why, if you did agree to meet me, you'd steal off by dusk, and give notice to the police.""Loftus, I am no more a coward than you; but I know what's right and what's wrong.""Just so. And shelter yourself under the 'right.' Cowards can but be true to their nature."Gall lifted his hand as if he would have struck, but let it fall again. He was by no means so cool in temper as Bertie Loftus; and a cool temper is sure to win the day in the end. It is of no use to pursue the quarrel further; the harsh and abusive words interchanged would not tend to bring edification; but the result was a very deplorable one.They separated: Bertie going one way with Leek; Gall remaining on the sands. Mr. Loftus and Sir Simon came forward to meet Bertie, and both of them thought him singularly pre-occupied.That evening Leek went into the Rue Neuve Chaussée, to call upon James Talbot, and took him out in the moonlight. "Come on the pier," he said: "it will be quiet there, and I want to speak to you. Have you seen Gall?" he asked, as they walked along."No, but I have had a note from him," answered Talbot. "He says in it he relies upon me to be his friend. I can't make it out."They went on to the quiet pier and paced it slowly, the bright moon dyeing the scene with her lovely light. An open-air concert was being held in the garden estrade, its coloured lamps flickering, its numerous listeners flirting and promenading. The garish windows of the ball-rooms flung their light abroad—what a contrast to that pure light riding in the sky! Away they pressed to the top of the deserted pier, out of sight and hearing. The tide had turned and was coming in; the wind was rising; the waves roared and leaped against the end of the pier. There Leek told his story: that Gall and Loftus were about to fight, and he had promised to be Loftus's second; Talbot was to perform that office for Gall. Talbot could not believe his ears."Fight—a—duel!" he uttered, in blank astonishment, leaving a pause between each word. "Surely they'd not be such fools.""They will, earl.""Not with my help, then. I'd put the police on the track first.""It would do no good," returned Leek, shaking his head: "they'd evade the police. Look here, Shrewsbury, when fellows are determined to go in for a thing of this sort, be assured theywillgo in for it, by hook or by crook. Loftus, it seems, has been bent on it for some time, and he has so managed to stir up Gall, that I don't know now which is the more eager for it of the two.""And suppose either of them should get killed?—or both?" debated the earl. "I say, Leek, this is an awful thing."Leek nodded gravely. A little fishing-boat lay alongside the pier in the harbour, stranded there in attempting to come in when the late tide was nearly out; she was just getting afloat now, and two men on board her were making some bustle, talking in loud tones. Leek and Talbot stood looking down upon her as if attracted to interest; in reality they were absorbed in their own thoughts."I told them it was an awful business," spoke Leek, in answer to the last remark, "but I might just as well have said it to the wind. Well, let us talk it over, old fellow. We must be men for once, and do the best we can."Talbot held out no longer. And the two paced about, settling preliminaries, planning and devising. A matter of this nature seemed to carry them beyond their years; to take them out of young men into old ones. Returning to Leek's room at the Hotel des Bains, they got out the pistols, which Loftus had resigned to Leek, and examined them preparatory to their being loaded later. By some untoward fate, while the weapons were in their hands, Brown major, making a call on Leek, burst into the room. Talbot hurried the pistols out of sight, but the gentlemen were both so confused that Brown could not help suspecting something extraordinary was in the wind, and said so. In the irresistible attraction that gossip presents, they imparted the secret to him. Mr. Brown sat down on Leek's portmanteau, while he digested the news."I'd not have believed it of Gall," he said at length."Nor I at one time," returned Talbot. "Loftus has taunted him into it."Brown major sat nursing his leg, and revolving possibilities. "Suppose bad comes of this, Shrewsbury?—what about you two?""What do you call bad?""Why, if they should get shot—killed. You might be taken up and put in prison."Of course it was not a pleasant suggestion. "They'll not give it up," said Leek, with a rueful look."Supposeyougave up, Onions; you and the earl?""They'd get other fellows for seconds, and call us cowards.""I don't like those French prisons," gloomily observed Brown major. "If once you get in, you never know when you'll get out. We knew a man who was put in one for ten years.""What had he done?""He owed some money; nothing else. When he had been in about two years, his friends in England clubbed together and got him out. My father was one. You should hear what he says of the place. They serve up the soup in a bucket.""Nice!" cried Leek."I'dnot run the risk of getting into one," resumed Brown, who was evidently of a prudent turn. "They should fight their duel without me, first. Why, Onions, what would your mother say?"Onions turned his head quickly towards the door with a somewhat scared look, as if he feared Lady Sophia might be coming in then."All you have to do, Brown, is just to hold your tongue, and respect the confidence we've given you," returned Leek. "Whatever consequences come of it, you won't be called upon to answer for them.""Right, old fellow," cheerfully answered Brown, who was really one of the last to interfere unpleasantly. "You know I'm safe; I was only thinking of you two. The thing shall go on without any interruption from me."And the thing did go on. As you will find if you read further."Somewhere on the heights out beyond Napoleon's column, I think," suggested Leek in a whisper to Talbot, as they were separating for the night. "I'll go with you to pick out a snug spot to-morrow. You'll not fail us at the last, earl!""I'll not fail you, Onions. Good night."
The fine passenger boat was ploughing its way across the channel, receding from Folkestone, gaining on Boulogne-sur-Mer. Sir Simon Orville and his three nephews were on board. It was a fine, warm, calm day in August; and as Sir Simon Orville sat on the upper deck, steadily as he could have sat in one of his own chairs at home, he thought what a charming passage that was between the two points, and how silly he had been never to have tried it before.
For—if the truth must be told—Sir Simon Orville had never made but three water trips in his life: the one to Ramsgate, from London; the other two, the short crossing to the Isle of Wight. He had called them all equally "going to sea;" and as it happened that the water had been very particularly rough on each of the three occasions, and Sir Simon terribly ill, his reminiscences on the subject were not pleasant. To find himself, therefore, gliding along as smoothly as if the channel were a sea of glass, was both unexpected and delightful.
The sky was blue over head; the water was blue underneath; the slight breeze caused by the motion of the vessel was grateful on the warm day; and Sir Simon thought he was in Paradise. And now, as they were nearing the French town, there came gliding towards them the steamer that had just put off from it; her deck crowded with merry-faced passengers, congratulating themselves like Sir Simon, at the easy voyage. The vessels exchanged salutes, and passed, each on her way.
And now the harbour was gained and traversed; the boat was made fast to the side, and the passengers began to land. The first thing Sir Simon did onterra firmawas to turn himself about and gaze around, perfectly bewildered with the strange scene and the strange tongue. It was so new to him: he had never been out of his own country in his life. Bertie Loftus, who knew something of the place, and prided himself on his French, consequently felt obliged to speak it as soon as he landed, drew his uncle to the custom-house through the sea of gazing faces, and said, "Par ici." That passed, and the egress gained, they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of touters, shouting out the names of their respective hotels and thrusting forward cards.
"Hotel du Nord," said Bertie, grandly, waving his hands to keep off the men, with an air of deprecating condescension.
"But what is it? What do they want? What are these cards?" reiterated Sir Simon. "My goodness me, boys, what'sthat?"
"That" was a string of the fishwomen in their matelotte costume, dark cloth short petticoats, red bodies, and broad webbing bracers. They were harnessed to a heavy truck of luggage, already cleared, and starting with it to one of the hotels.
"Uncle, we shall never get on if you stay like this," said Bertie. "That's nothing: the women do all the work here."
Up came four or five more women and surrounded the party, bawling into Sir Simon's stunned ears with their shrill and shrieking voices, evidently asking something.
"What on earth are they saying of, Bertie?"
Now Mr. Bertie's French only did for polite table life, and Anglo-French intercourse. To be set upon by a regular Frenchman with his perplexing tongue, and (as it seemed) rapid utterance, puzzled Bertie always: what must it have been then when these fishwomen attacked him with their broad patois?
"Come along, uncle; they don't want anything. Allez vous en," rather wrathfully added Bertie to the ladies, which only made them talk the faster.
"Bertie, I shall not go along: the poor women must want something, and I should like to know what. What—do—you—want—please?" asked Sir Simon in his politeness, laying a stress upon each word. "Spake Anglish? No spake French, me."
Jabber and shriek, jabber and shriek, all the five voices at once, for there were five of them. Sir Simon put up his hands and looked helplessly at Bertie; who was feeling rather helpless himself, just then.
"They are asking if you have any luggage, and if they may carry it to your hotel, Sir Simon," spoke a free, pleasant voice, evidently on the burst of laughter. And Sir Simon turned to behold George Paradyne, and seized his hand in gladness at being relieved from his dilemma.
To hear the boy interpreting between Sir Simon and the women; to note that his French tongue was ready and fluent as theirs and with rather a more refined sound in it, was somewhat mortifying to Bertie Loftus. The women disappeared, George talking fast and laughing after them. "What brings you here? When did you come?" asked Sir Simon, keeping him by his side.
"We came yesterday, Sir Simon. I am with the Galls. They kindly invited me to accompany them. We are at the Hotel du Nord."
"The Galls here, and at the Norde!" almost shouted Sir Simon in his delight. "I shall have somebody that I can speak English with."
Yes; the Galls had made friends with George Paradyne and brought him to Boulogne with them. Mrs. Gall, a woman of the kindest and truest nature, had told her husband, told her son, that she should make the school ashamed of its prejudice against Paradyne. William Gall had not accompanied them: he was coming later. Sir Simon had known nothing of their movements: he had been a week and more from home. The Talbots were coming; the Browns were coming; Leek and his mother, Lady Sophia, were already there. As Sir Simon remarked, it seemed like an arranged party. Such, however, was not the case.
"What a lingo, to be sure!" cried Sir Simon, as he trotted up the hot and blazing port. "Why, actually those little street urchins are jabbering French! Halloa! stop!" he added, coming to a sudden halt opposite the goods' custom-house: "Where's Dick!"
Nobody remembered to have seen Dick since the landing. "He'll turn up, sir," returned Loftus, slightly annoyed at the unequal progress they were making. "Dick won't get lost."
Sir Simon did not feel so sure upon the point; he thought he might get lost himself in that helpless foreign town; becoming, as he was, more strange and bewildered every moment. But Dick came running up from behind, dragging with him a tall, square-built man with a thoughtful face and grey hair. Sir Simon nearly shook his hands off, for it was Mr. Gall.
"What a mercy!" said he. "I never was so glad in all my life; did not know anything of your coming. We have been a week at Chatham, staying near my poor brother Joe, the hop-dealer, who made that sad failure of it. You know him, Gall. I wanted to see how he and the wife and chicks were of, poor things, and we put up at an inn there."
Dick shook hands with Paradyne. Dick listened to the news that Onions was in the town, and that Talbot was arriving, with a sort of rapture: the Browns too, major and minor. Dick would have stood on his head had there been room on the port to do it.
A few days more, and the different friends and schoolmates had collected there. It was indeed as if they had premeditated the gathering. Some went grandlyviâFolkestone, some more economically by the boat from London: that little muff, Stiggings, who was fond of writing to Miss Rose, made the trip in a sailing vessel, invited to it by the captain; he was awfully sick all the way, and landed more dead than alive. The Galls and Sir Simon's party were at the Hotel du Nord; the Talbots had small lodgings in the Rue Neuve Chaussée; the Browns took a furnished house in the open country, beyond the Rue Royale; and Lady Sophia Leek, who had no acquaintance with the rest, and made none with them, was staying at the Hotel des Bains. And the time went on.
But that Sir Simon Orville was the most unsuspicious of men, he had undoubtedly not failed to detect that some ill-feeling was rife between his friend Gall's eldest son, and Bertie Loftus. For three whole days after William Gall's arrival, they did not exchange a word with each other; on the fourth, a quarrel, not loud, but bitter, took place on the sands; and those low, concentrated, bitter quarrels are worse than loud ones. People, scattered in groups at only a few yards' distance, did not hear it; but they might have seen the white faces raised on each other with an angry glare, had they been less occupied with themselves, with their gossip, with the picking up of shells. Bertie Loftus was cherishing the remembrance of his insult, and paying it off fourfold in superciliousness now.
Sir Simon's mind was too agreeably filled to afford leisure for detecting feelings not on the surface: everything was new to him, everything delightful. The free and easy life in the French town; the unceremonious habits; the sociable salon, where they sat with the windows open to the street; the passing intimacy made with the rest of the guests; the sufficiently-well-appointed meals in the dining-room—the lingering breakfast at will, the chance lunch, the elaborate dinner—were what he had never before met with. Mr. Bertie Loftus considered it a state of things altogether common; but it was after the social, simple-minded man's own heart. There was the pier to walk on; with its commodious seats at the end, whence he could watch the vessels in at will, and revel in the view of the dancing waves; there was the laid-out ground before that gay building whose French name Sir Simon could not pronounce, the établissement, where he could sit in the sun or the shade, watching the croquet players, and reading his newspaper between whiles; there was the terrace beyond, with its benches; there were the sands stretching out in the distance. An upper terrace also, close at hand, where he could place himself at a small round table and call for lemonade in the summer's heat. Sir Simon would be now in one spot, now in another, hisTimesand telescope in his hand, his friend Gall not far off. And Mr. Gall was a sensible, shrewd man, looked up to in the city as the head of a wealthy wholesale business; he was not despised by his own people, however he might be by Bertie Loftus. What with the attractions out of doors and the attractions in, Sir Simon thought Boulogne was pleasant as a fabled town of enchantment.
"A scandal-loving, vulgar, crowded, disreputable, unsavoury place, sir!" was the judgment some new acquaintance passed upon it one day, to the intense approval of Bertie. But Sir Simon shook his head, and could not see it.
Sir Simon stood at the end of the pier one afternoon, his telescope to his eye, ranging the horizon for the first appearance of the London boat. He was looking in the wrong direction for it, but that was all one to happy Sir Simon. Young Paradyne put him right. By that boat he was expecting Mr. and Mrs. Loftus. Some business having taken them unexpectedly to London, Sir Simon had written to say, "Come over here and be my guests." It suddenly struck him that the sight of the boy by his side, Paradyne, might call up unpleasant recollections to Mr. Loftus. Sir Simon had got to like the boy excessively; but that was no reason why Mr. Loftus should tolerate the intimacy.
On came the good ship, "The City of Paris," pitching and tossing, for the waves were wild to-day, and Sir Simon felt thankful he was not in her. She but just saved the tide. Back down the pier he hurried, in time to see the passengers land; Dick and Raymond Trace crowding eagerly against the ropes. Dick leaped them, and had to go through the custom-house for his pains, kissing his mother between whiles. She was like her brother, Sir Simon, in features; simple once, but a little pretentious now. The tears ran down Sir Simon's cheeks when he saw that her hair was grey. Very grey indeed just at present, and her face too, with the adverse wind on deck, and the sickness. Mr. Loftus—a slender, aristocratic-looking man of courteous manners, but with a great deal of Bertie's hauteur in his pale and handsome face—had not suffered, and was ready to greet all friends in his calm, gentlemanly fashion.
There are many ropes about that part of the port, as perhaps some of you know. Mr. Loftus, a very near-sighted man, with an eye-glass dangling, contrived to get his feet entangled in them; he would undoubtedly have fallen, but that some one darted to the rescue and held him up. Mr. Loftus saw a stripling nearly as tall as himself, with a frank, good-looking countenance, and open, bright, grey eyes.
"Thank you, young sir," he said; "I must look to my steps here, I find. Who is that nice-looking lad?" he subsequently asked of Sir Simon.
"Oh, never mind him," cried Sir Simon, evasively; "let us get on to the Norde"—as he always called the hotel. "Eliza looks half dead."
"But where's Albert?" inquired Mr. Loftus, who had been gazing about in vain for his eldest son.
Sir Simon could not tell where he was, and wondered at his absence. He little thought that Mr. Albert Loftus was detained with Gall, the two quarrelling desperately, out by Napoleon's column. Things had come to a most unpleasant pass between them.
Mrs. Loftus went to lie down as soon as they reached the hotel. Mr. Loftus, declining refreshment until dinner-time, was ready to walk about with Sir Simon and be shown the lions. That goodhearted and estimable knight took him to a favourite bench of his on the green lawn—or plage, if you like to call it so—of the établissement, which seemed nearly deserted under the blaze of the afternoon sun. The sea was before them, the harbour on the left, the heights on the right. Here they sat at their ease, and the conversation fell upon Mr. Trace, Raymond's father.
"It is nearly a twelvemonth now since Robert Trace wrote to me," observed Sir Simon; "I can't make it out. We have never been so long before without news. Have you heard from him?"
"No," answered Mr. Loftus. "But my not hearing goes for nothing. I don't suppose we have exchanged letters three times since we separated in Liverpool four—nearly five—years ago."
"Is there any particular cause for that?" asked Sir Simon.
"Well, I can hardly say there is. We did not agree in opinion about the winding-up of affairs at that unfortunate time, and I was vexed with Robert Trace; but we parted good friends."
"He took too much upon himself, I have heard you say."
"Yes. He would carry out his own opinions; would not listen to me, or let me have a voice; and he did it so quickly too. While I was saying such a thing ought to be done in such a manner, hedidit, and did it just the reverse. I have always thought that if Robert Trace had managed properly, we might have gone on again and redeemed ourselves. The fact is, his usually cool judgment was stunned out of him by the blow. But it is of no use speculating now on what might have been. How was he getting on when you last heard?"
"I don't know."
The words were spoken in a peculiarly emphatic tone, and it caused Mr. Loftus to glance inquiringly at Sir Simon. The latter answered the look.
"He was at Boston, you know; had got together some sort of an agency there, and was doing well. In one of his letters to me, he said he was in the way to make a fortune. Some capitalists, whom he named, were establishing a great commercial enterprise, a sort of bank I fancy, and had offered the management of it to him, if he could take shares to the amount of two thousand pounds, which must be paid up. He could furnish the one from his own funds, he said, and he asked me to lend him the other. In less than a twelvemonth it should be repaid to me with interest."
"And what did you do?"
"Lent it. I was willing to give him another help on to fortune; and Trace, as you know, was a longheaded fellow, the very last to be deluded by any trashy bubble not likely to hold water. So I despatched him the thousand pounds by return mail."
"You were always too liberal, Simon."
"Better be too liberal than too stingy," was the rather impulsive answer. "I should not like to remember on my death-bed that I had refused assistance to friends in need, for the sake of hoarding my gold. What good would it do me then?"
"And how did it prosper him?"
"I don't know. I got an acknowledgment from him of its receipt—just a line. I believe I can repeat the words, 'Dear Simon, my best thanks to you for what has now come safe to hand. Will write by next mail.' The next mail, however, brought me nothing, nor the next, nor the next. After that came a letter, dated New York; in it he said he had left Boston, and would give me particulars later. They have never come."
"That's strange. How do you account for it?"
Sir Simon did not answer for a minute. "I think the projected enterprise failed," he said at length; "and that Robert Trace lost his own money and mine too. I think he is trying to redeem his position in a measure before he writes and confesses to the failure. It is no good reason for maintaining silence; but Robert Trace always was sensitive on the subject of pecuniary losses, especially of his own. I suppose the Americans were more clever than he, and took him in, and he does not like to confess it."
"What are you going to do with Raymond?" questioned Mr. Loftus.
"I don't know. I shall be in a dilemma over it, unless we speedily hear from his father. Should he gain the Orville prize he will go to the university; but as to what he is to be—of course it lies with his father to decide. I propose business to him—any sort he'd like; but he turns his nose up at it, just as disdainfully as Mr. Bertie could do."
Mr. Loftus smiled. "Bertie wants to read for the Bar but I fear it will be up-hill work. He—there's the fine lad that saved me from stumbling," he broke off, as Paradyne and another shot across the sands. "You did not tell me who he was. He has a nice face."
"I'll tell you if you like; but your prejudices will rise up in arms like so many bristles. That's young Paradyne."
"Paradyne! Not Arthur Paradyne's son?"
"It is."
"But what brings him here—with you?" returned Mr. Loftus; his voice taking a cold, haughty, reserved tone.
"There, I knew how it would be," said Sir Simon, with a short laugh. Turning round to make sure there were no listeners, he told the particulars to Mr. Loftus: of George Paradyne's happening to enter Orville College, of Raymond's discovery, and of the Head Master's appeal to himself. "The lad is as nice a lad as ever lived," he concluded, "and why should his father's fault be visited upon him?"
A moment's pause, and Mr. Loftus's better reason asserted itself. He was of a generous nature when his pride did not stand in the way: or, as Sir Simon put it, his prejudice.
"Certainly. Yes. I should have said the same, had Dr. Brabazon consulted me. Let the boy have a chance. But, Simon, how does he get supported at that expensive college? The widow protested she had but the merest pittance of an income left."
"I don't know how. Somebody, perhaps, has taken them by the hand: I can't tell what people of misfortune would do without. I show the boy kindness, not only because I like him, but that I promised something of the sort to Mary."
"To Mrs. Trace?" exclaimed Mr. Loftus.
"I did," affirmed Sir Simon, to the evident surprise of his brother-in-law. "Mary Trace had been a hard, cold woman, as you know; but the light broke in upon her when she was dying. It changed her nature—as of course, or it had not been the true, blessed light from heaven—and she got anxious for others. More than once she spoke to me of the Paradynes; their fate seemed to lie like a weight upon her. 'If ever you can lend them a helping hand, Simon, do it,' she urged; 'do it for our Saviour's sake.' I can see her blue, pinched lips now, and the anxious fever in her eyes as she spoke," he added dreamily, "and I promised. But I would help the lad for his own sake, apart from this."
Mr. Loftus made no comment: to confess the truth, he could not quite understand why Mrs. Trace should have done this. He raised his double eye-glass.
"Is not that Albert?" he asked. "There, in the distance, with one or two more young men." And Sir Simon turned his long glass in the direction to which he pointed.
Close against the water they stood; three of them—Bertie, for he it was, and Gall, and Leek. The tide was nearly out, and Bertie and Gall had found their way round the point, from the heights down to the sands, a long round, wrangling all the way. Had Mr. Loftus and Sir Simon but possessed an ear-glass as well as an eye-glass, they might have heard more than was meant for them. That Bertie Loftus was bent upon aggravating Gall by every means in his power, short of vulgar blows, was indisputable; each word he spoke was an insult, a derisive taunt; and Gall, who had rebelled against this kind of treatment from Bertie, even when it was implied rather than expressed, was nearly stung into madness.
"Why don't you have it out, and have done with it?" he passionately cried, stopping short as they came round in view of the établissement and its frequenters. "If you keep on like this, you'll provoke me to kick you to ribbons."
Bertie smiled derisively. Kickhimto ribbons! His legs were twice as long as Gall's, if it came to kicking. Not that Bertie would have played at that. "There's no chance of having it out withyou," came the coolly contemptuous answer. "The only way which gentlemen use to 'have things out,' you don't understand. And you can't be expected to."
Leek espied them from a distance and came running up. It was at this moment that Mr. Loftus's glasses happened to fall upon them.
"Look at him, Onions," cried Bertie, indicating Gall by a sweep of the hand that was the very essence of insolent scorn. "He is asking me to go in for a game of kicking."
"I am saying that I'll kickyouif you don't stop your row," cried Gall, his very lips white with passion. "And so I will."
"I never did see two such fellows as you," was Leek's comment. "You can't meet without insulting each other. What's come to you both?"
Bertie Loftus wheeled round on his heel in the soft sand, and confronted Gall closely, face nearly touching face. "Look here, here's a last chance—will you meet me?"
"Meet you?"
"Yes, meet me. Don't pretend to misunderstand. I have my pistols at the hotel."
"Perhaps you brought them on purpose," said Gall, with an unmistakable sneer.
"Perhaps I did," coolly avowed Bertie. "Will you make yourself into a gentleman for once, if you can, and meet me?"
"Why, you don't think I should be such an idiot as to go out to fight a duel, do you?" wonderingly cried Gall, while Leek burst into a laugh. "People don't do that now, Mr. Loftus."
"Gentlemen do. Ask Leek: he's one. Of course, you can't be expected to understand that. Others shelter their cowardice under plea of the law—of custom—which is so much sneaking meanness. I knew how it would be, and that's why I said nothing before. Why, if you did agree to meet me, you'd steal off by dusk, and give notice to the police."
"Loftus, I am no more a coward than you; but I know what's right and what's wrong."
"Just so. And shelter yourself under the 'right.' Cowards can but be true to their nature."
Gall lifted his hand as if he would have struck, but let it fall again. He was by no means so cool in temper as Bertie Loftus; and a cool temper is sure to win the day in the end. It is of no use to pursue the quarrel further; the harsh and abusive words interchanged would not tend to bring edification; but the result was a very deplorable one.
They separated: Bertie going one way with Leek; Gall remaining on the sands. Mr. Loftus and Sir Simon came forward to meet Bertie, and both of them thought him singularly pre-occupied.
That evening Leek went into the Rue Neuve Chaussée, to call upon James Talbot, and took him out in the moonlight. "Come on the pier," he said: "it will be quiet there, and I want to speak to you. Have you seen Gall?" he asked, as they walked along.
"No, but I have had a note from him," answered Talbot. "He says in it he relies upon me to be his friend. I can't make it out."
They went on to the quiet pier and paced it slowly, the bright moon dyeing the scene with her lovely light. An open-air concert was being held in the garden estrade, its coloured lamps flickering, its numerous listeners flirting and promenading. The garish windows of the ball-rooms flung their light abroad—what a contrast to that pure light riding in the sky! Away they pressed to the top of the deserted pier, out of sight and hearing. The tide had turned and was coming in; the wind was rising; the waves roared and leaped against the end of the pier. There Leek told his story: that Gall and Loftus were about to fight, and he had promised to be Loftus's second; Talbot was to perform that office for Gall. Talbot could not believe his ears.
"Fight—a—duel!" he uttered, in blank astonishment, leaving a pause between each word. "Surely they'd not be such fools."
"They will, earl."
"Not with my help, then. I'd put the police on the track first."
"It would do no good," returned Leek, shaking his head: "they'd evade the police. Look here, Shrewsbury, when fellows are determined to go in for a thing of this sort, be assured theywillgo in for it, by hook or by crook. Loftus, it seems, has been bent on it for some time, and he has so managed to stir up Gall, that I don't know now which is the more eager for it of the two."
"And suppose either of them should get killed?—or both?" debated the earl. "I say, Leek, this is an awful thing."
Leek nodded gravely. A little fishing-boat lay alongside the pier in the harbour, stranded there in attempting to come in when the late tide was nearly out; she was just getting afloat now, and two men on board her were making some bustle, talking in loud tones. Leek and Talbot stood looking down upon her as if attracted to interest; in reality they were absorbed in their own thoughts.
"I told them it was an awful business," spoke Leek, in answer to the last remark, "but I might just as well have said it to the wind. Well, let us talk it over, old fellow. We must be men for once, and do the best we can."
Talbot held out no longer. And the two paced about, settling preliminaries, planning and devising. A matter of this nature seemed to carry them beyond their years; to take them out of young men into old ones. Returning to Leek's room at the Hotel des Bains, they got out the pistols, which Loftus had resigned to Leek, and examined them preparatory to their being loaded later. By some untoward fate, while the weapons were in their hands, Brown major, making a call on Leek, burst into the room. Talbot hurried the pistols out of sight, but the gentlemen were both so confused that Brown could not help suspecting something extraordinary was in the wind, and said so. In the irresistible attraction that gossip presents, they imparted the secret to him. Mr. Brown sat down on Leek's portmanteau, while he digested the news.
"I'd not have believed it of Gall," he said at length.
"Nor I at one time," returned Talbot. "Loftus has taunted him into it."
Brown major sat nursing his leg, and revolving possibilities. "Suppose bad comes of this, Shrewsbury?—what about you two?"
"What do you call bad?"
"Why, if they should get shot—killed. You might be taken up and put in prison."
Of course it was not a pleasant suggestion. "They'll not give it up," said Leek, with a rueful look.
"Supposeyougave up, Onions; you and the earl?"
"They'd get other fellows for seconds, and call us cowards."
"I don't like those French prisons," gloomily observed Brown major. "If once you get in, you never know when you'll get out. We knew a man who was put in one for ten years."
"What had he done?"
"He owed some money; nothing else. When he had been in about two years, his friends in England clubbed together and got him out. My father was one. You should hear what he says of the place. They serve up the soup in a bucket."
"Nice!" cried Leek.
"I'dnot run the risk of getting into one," resumed Brown, who was evidently of a prudent turn. "They should fight their duel without me, first. Why, Onions, what would your mother say?"
Onions turned his head quickly towards the door with a somewhat scared look, as if he feared Lady Sophia might be coming in then.
"All you have to do, Brown, is just to hold your tongue, and respect the confidence we've given you," returned Leek. "Whatever consequences come of it, you won't be called upon to answer for them."
"Right, old fellow," cheerfully answered Brown, who was really one of the last to interfere unpleasantly. "You know I'm safe; I was only thinking of you two. The thing shall go on without any interruption from me."
And the thing did go on. As you will find if you read further.
"Somewhere on the heights out beyond Napoleon's column, I think," suggested Leek in a whisper to Talbot, as they were separating for the night. "I'll go with you to pick out a snug spot to-morrow. You'll not fail us at the last, earl!"
"I'll not fail you, Onions. Good night."