He interrupted her: he never would allow a word of reflection on his mother: and began the story of George's bravery, as related to him by Leek. They did not meet a soul: the road was always lonely at night. Miss Paradyne stopped when they drew near its end, when the lighted shops were in view in the distance.
"You must not come any farther with me, Arthur. I shall run home in no time."
She withdrew her arm, but he stood yet a minute talking, holding her hand in his. Then he bent his face on hers for a farewell kiss (not a soul was about, you know), watched her away, and turned towards his home.
Mr. Trace came out of the hedge's friendly shade, trencher first, in a glow of virtuous amazement. He had seen the signs of familiar intercourse; he had certainly seen the kiss; and his indignant feelings could only relieve themselves in a burst of unstilted words that might have been more characteristic of Dick.
"Well, this is a go!"
[CHAPTER XIX.]
A Visitor for Sir Simon.
Once more the school had met, and were at work with a will. Ah, this was the real trial—that could occur but once in three full years—the competition for the great Orville prize. Masters and candidates were alike on their metal, making stern preparation for it. It was no child's play. Gall, Loftus, Trace, Savage, Brown major, Whitby, Talbot, and Paradyne, were going up for it.
Who would win? Some thought one would, some another; opinions were divided, a whisper of bets reigned. Gall openly avowed he did not expect to get it, Bertie Loftus made no secret of not really trying: they chose to go up for it as the seniors of the school, but they were regarded as virtually out of the contest. The more general impression was that the real contest would lie between Trace and Paradyne.
And none were more conscious that this was likely to prove a fact than Trace himself. He was afraid of Paradyne. In spite of Trace's large and vain self-esteem, there was a disagreeable conviction within him that in the trial Paradyne's scholarship might weigh down his own. A bitter pill of anticipation for Trace to swallow from any competitor: but from Paradyne—words could not express his angry indignation: and he felt inclined to question the divine ordering of events that should have brought that one miserable unit of creation in this offensive antagonism with him. With him, Raymond Trace!
Ten times a day he said to himself that it ought not to be. He was quite honest in thinking this: he believed he was just; for he saw things with a jaundiced eye. The son of the man who had so signally failed in his duty to the world in general, and to his father and Mr. Loftus in particular, was out of place in Orville College, the associate of honest gentlemen. It had however pleased Dr. Brabazon to keep him in it, and Trace thought himself worthy of a gold medal at least for having buried the secret of the past from the school. The far-famed duel in Boulogne had become public property, to the raging mortification of the two duellists, who were chaffed unmercifully, and grew to wish that duels had never been invented. The rescue of Dick Loftus also spread from mouth to mouth, and Paradyne was lauded as some young god descended from Olympus. All so much heart-burning for Trace. He had bitterly rebelled at the favour shown to Paradyne in Boulogne, asking what brought him there at all; what right he had there. He seemed fated to be haunted by this Paradyne everywhere: a second case of Faust and Mephistopheles. All that was bad enough, but Trace, doing violence to his own feelings, had passed it over. What, he began to ask himself now, was—ought this fellow, this waif of ill-descent, to be allowed to go in for the great Orville prize—the prize that all were burning to gain, either for the honour or the money. Trace pondered the question very seriously, and meanwhile fanned the ill-feeling against Paradyne, which had been buried, into a smouldering heat, that might burst at any moment up in a flame.