Orville College: A Story

by Mrs. Henry Wood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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