"Why, Tom!" he exclaimed. "Is it you?"
"Yes, it's me," answered Tom Brabazon; forgetting his grammar. "Excuse my having listened. I am not afraid of you, Sir Simon, but what are you asking questions about me for?"
"It was not about you I was asking. Is this the friend Raymond saw you speaking to?" continued Sir Simon, turning to Mr. Henry.
"Yes it is. You perceive it was not my own secret."
"Tell your friend, Sir Simon, that I've more need to run away from him than he from me," interposed Tom Brabazon. "Here I am; under a deuced cloud; tormenting Mother Butter out of her daily wits, frightening my sister at odd and even hours, worrying Mr. Henry to fiddle-strings. They are getting up a scheme of emigration for me, Emma, and the doctor, but funds run scarce with him just now, and he thinks I'm in Whitecross Street. The safest place going, he says, for me. It won't do to tell him I'm here."
"I'll contribute to the emigration, Tom," cried Sir Simon, his benevolent eyes glistening. "I'll try and make things straighter for you with the doctor. Mr. Henry has been keeping your secret, I see."
"In first-rate style, too! He has done all sorts of things for me: home with my temper when I've invaded his room at night; gone to and fro with messages for Emma; bought my smoke for me, for old Butter said she'd not, and stands to it. What a droll man that friend of yours must be, to be afraid of me!"
"But, you see, Tom, we thought it was somebody else," returned Sir Simon, who really understood less than ever his brother-in-law's anxiety. But the relief to that gentleman would no doubt be very great.
Sir Simon, ever good-natured, trotted off home to impart the welcome news, and Mr. Henry, not staying to take anything, but saying he would be back immediately, went his way to the college. His object was only to report himself back, for he intended to take his duties in the afternoon. Not until the following day should be over—the great one of the Orville examination—would he disturb Dr. Brabazon with his ailments. The sky was blue and somewhat wintry, the leaves were falling, the air seemed to strike upon him with a chill. But that sweet peace, diffusing itself within, was whispering comfort: he might be taken, but his mother—he saw it with a sure prevision—would be sheltered under the good care of God.
Not redolent of peace, certainly, were the sounds that greeted his ear as he came to the quadrangle, or the sight that met his astonished gaze. His back propped against a pillar, his honest grey eyes flashing with anger, his arms outstretched to ward off blows, was George Paradyne.