ORVILLE COLLEGE

A STORY.

BY

MRS. HENRY WOOD,

AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC.

COPYRIGHT EDITION.

LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1867.

The Right of Translation is reserved.

CONTENTS.

ORVILLE COLLEGE.

[CHAPTER I.]
In the Plantation.

The glowing sunset of a September evening was shining on the fair grounds around Orville College, lighting up the scene of stir and bustle invariably presented on the return of the boys to their studies after the periodical holidays. A large, comfortable-looking, and very irregular building was this college. But a moderate-sized house originally, it had been added to here, and enlarged there, and raised yonder, at different times as necessity required, and with regard to convenience only, not to uniformity of architecture. The whole was of red brick, save the little chapel jutting out at one end; that was of white brick, with black divisional strokes, as if the architect had a mind to make some distinction by way of reverence. The Head Master's house faced the lawn and the wide gravel carriage-drive that encircled it; the school apartments, ending in the chapel, were built on the house's left; the sleeping-rooms and domestic offices were on its right. It was only a private college—in fact, a school—founded many years ago by a Dr. Orville, and called after him; but it gradually became renowned in the world, and was now of the very first order of private colleges.

Situated near London, in the large and unoccupied tracts of land lying between the north and the west districts, when the college was first erected, nothing could be seen near it but green fields. It was in a degree isolated still, but time had wrought its natural changes; a few gentlemen's houses had grown up around, and a colony of small shops came with them. The latest improvement, or innovation, whichever you like to call it, had been a little brick railway station, and the rushing, thundering trains, which seemed to be always passing, would occasionally condescend to halt, and pick up or set down the Orville travellers. In want of a name, when the houses spoken of began to spring up, it had called itself Orville Green—which was as good a name for the little suburb as any other.

Dr. Brabazon, the head master, stood at the door to receive his coming guests. It had been more consistent possibly with the reserve and dignity of a head master, to have ensconced himself in a state-chair within the walls of his drawing-room or library, and given the boys a gracious bow as each introduced himself. Not so the doctor. He was the most simple-mannered man in the world—as these large-hearted and large-minded men are apt to be,—and he stood at the hall door, or went to it perpetually, with a hearty smile and outstretched hands for each fresh arrival. A portly, genial man he, of near sixty years, with an upright line of secret care on his brow that sat ill upon it, as if it had no business there.

The boys on this occasion came up, as was usual, to the front, or doctor's entrance; not to their own entrance near the chapel. The number of students altogether did not exceed a hundred. About forty of these were resident at the head master's; the rest—or nearly the rest—were accommodated at the houses of other of the masters, and a very few—eight or ten at the most—attended as outdoor pupils, their friends living near. No difference whatever was made in the education, but these last were somewhat looked down upon by the rest of the boys. They arrived variously; some driven from town in their fathers' handsome carriages, some in cabs, some used the new rail and walked from thence, some had come by omnibus. Dr. Brabazon received all alike, with the same genial smile, the same cordial grasp of the hand. He liked all to make their appearance on the eve of school, that the roll might be written and called: the actual business beginning on the morrow.

A pair of beautiful long-tailed ponies, drawing a low four-wheeled open carriage, came round the gravel sweep with a quiet dash. The driver was a well-grown youth, who had entered his eighteenth year. He had high, prominent features of an aquiline cast, and large sleepy blue eyes: a handsome face, certainly, but spoilt by its look of pride. His attention during his short drive—for they had not come far—had been absorbed by his ponies and by his own self-importance as he drove them. It was one of the senior boys, Albert Loftus. By his side sat another of the seniors, a cousin, Raymond Trace, a quiet-looking youth of no particular complexion, and his light eyes rather sunk in his head; eyes that he had a habit of screwing together when at his studies. He had been reading a book all the way, never once looking up at his cousin, or the road, or the ponies, and answering in civil monosyllables when spoken to. Behind sat another college boy, younger, Master Dick Loftus. Master Dick possessed very little pride indeed, and was a contrast to his brother. He had amused himself, coming along, with a pea-shooter, and hung out a flag behind—all to the happy ignorance of the driver and Mr. Trace. A groom in plain livery, nearly bursting with suppressed laughter, made the fourth in the pretty carriage.

"Well, Loftus, I'm very glad to see you: you're rather late, though, considering you are so close," was the doctor's greeting. "How are you, Trace? Dick, you rebel, I hope we shall have no trouble this term."

The doctor laughed as he said it. Dick, a red-faced good-humoured boy, met the hand and laugh readily. He knew he was a favourite, with all his faults.

"Sir Simon's compliments to you, sir, and he will do himself the pleasure of calling shortly," said Mr. Loftus. "Dick, take those things away."

Mr. Loftus had slightly altered the phraseology of the message: "My respects to Dr. Brabazon, and I'll give him a look in soon," was the one sent. The groom had been depositing a few things on the ground, and Dick was loading himself, when a close carriage drove in. A lady sat inside it in solitary state, and a young gentleman sat on the roof backwards.

"Halloa! It's Onions!"

The remark came from Mr. Dick Loftus. He dropped the things summarily, went out, and began a dance in honour of the new arrival. Loftus the elder seized on a square parcel done up in brown paper, and disappeared, leaving the other things to their fate. "Onions" got down by the chariot wheel, and shook hands with Dick.

They called him Onions as a sort of parody on his name, "Leek." The college was in the habit of bestowing these nicknames. Joseph Leek, at any rate, did not mind it, whatever others, thus distinguished, might do; he would as soon be called Onions as Leek, at any time. Nothing upset his temper or his equanimity. He was one of the coolest boys that ever entered a school, and was a universal favourite. His father, General Leek, was in India; his mother, Lady Sophia, whom Dr. Brabazon was now assisting from the carriage, was an invalid in the matter of nerves, and always thankful to get her son to school again the first day of term.

The pony carriage drove off; Lady Sophia Leek's carriage was not long in following; other carriages, and cabs, and flies came up and went; and there was a lull in the arrivals. Dr. Brabazon was standing at his drawing-room window (a light pretty room on the right of the hall) and was trying to call to mind how many were still absent, when he saw some one else approaching, a small black travelling-bag in one hand, and dressed from head to foot in a suit of grey.

"Who's this?" cried he to himself. "It looks too tall for Gall."

Too tall certainly for Mr. Gall, who, though the senior boy of the college, was undersized. And too old also. This gentleman looked two or three-and-twenty; a slender man of middle height, with pale, delicate features, and a sad sort of look in his pleasant dark eyes.

"It must be the new German master," thought Dr. Brabazon: and he hurried out to meet him.

The new German master it was, Mr. Henry. There was a peculiar kind of timid reticence in his manner which seemed foreign to himself, for his face was a candid, open face, his voice frank. Dr. Brabazon put it down to the natural shyness of one who has resided abroad. Mr. Henry, of English birth, had been chiefly educated in Germany. He spoke German as a native, French also: for some few years he had been a professor at the University of Heidelberg, and had come thence now, strongly recommended to Dr. Brabazon.

"I am very glad to see you," said the doctor, taking his hand in his simple, cordial manner. "Welcome to England! I have been expecting you since the morning."

"We had a bad passage, sir; the boat was late by many hours. It was due at ten this morning, but we only got in an hour or two ago."

The words were spoken without any foreign accent. Not only that: the tone was that of a refined Englishman. The fact gave satisfaction to Dr. Brabazon, who liked his pupils to be surrounded by good associations in all ways.

"Will you kindly tell me where I am to lodge?"

"Here, for a few days," said Dr. Brabazon. "As you were so complete a stranger, we thought you might like best to fix, yourself, upon lodgings. It is some years since you were in England, I think?"

"Nine years, sir."

"Nine years! Dear me! You have not many friends, then, I conclude, in your own country?"

Mr. Henry shook his head. "Few men are much more friendless than I am."

And the accent sounded friendless. There was something singularly attractive about this young man, in his gentle manner, his sensitive, shrinking shyness (for so it seemed), his sad, earnest brown eyes: and Dr. Brabazon's heart went out to him.

"You shall be shown your room, Mr. Henry," he said, "and then my daughter will give you some tea."

Later, Dr. Brabazon took him through the passages, on either side of which were rooms appropriated to particular studies, to the lofty hall, which was the chief schoolroom. A long room, with high windows on one side of it; the masters' desks in the angles of the room, and the long desks of the boys ranged against the sides. Dr. Brabazon's place was at the upper end, in the centre, facing the door, so that he commanded full view of all. Three masters lived in the house: the Reverend Mr. Jebb; Mr. Baker, the mathematical master, and Mr. Long, who took English generally, some of the natural sciences, and was supposed to superintend the boys out of hours. Mr. Jebb assisted Dr. Brabazon with the classics, and the latter took divinity. The other masters lived out. Dr. Brabazon introduced Mr. Henry to the clergyman and Mr. Long, and left him. Mr. Baker was not there.

The boys were renewing private friendships, telling tales of their holidays, hatching mischief for the coming term, criticising a few new-comers, and making a continuous hum. Their ages varied from ten to eighteen. On the whole, they seemed a rather superior set; for one thing, the terms were high, and that tended to keep the school select.

A sudden "Hiss-is-s," from the lips of Master Richard Loftus—or, as he was called in the school, Loftus minor—suppressed almost before it was heard, caused the group, of whom he was the centre, to look round.

"What is it, Dick?"

"Don't you see?" whispered Dick. "A nice amount of brass he must have, to show himself here again! Look at him, Onions; he looks more of a sneak than ever."

Onions lifted his eyebrows in his cool, but not ill-natured manner, as he surveyed the boy coming in. It was Edwin Lamb. His hair was of a glowing red, and his eyes had a kind of look as if they were not quite straight. Not for that did the boys dislike him, but because he had been found out in one or two dishonourable falsehoods: they brought it out short, "lies:" and was more than suspected of carrying private tales to Mr. Long. They called him "Le Monton," "the Sneak," "Jackal," and other pleasant names. In short, there was a great amount of prejudice against him; more, perhaps, than the boy really deserved.

"Don't let any fellow speak to him! Don't let's——"

"Hold your tongue, Loftus minor. Allow bygones to be bygones. Time enough to turn against Lamb when you find fresh cause."

The rebuke, spoken civilly, came from Raymond Trace, who happened to overhear the words, and who never willingly offended anybody. Not that Trace was a favourite in the college; none of them liked him much, without being able to explain why. Dick Loftus turned with a quick, scared look, wondering whether Mr. Trace had also overheard a private colloquy he had been holding with a very chosen companion, Tom Smart. He did not answer Trace; as a rule the younger fellows had to obey the seniors.

At the sound of a bell, they began to hurry into a small place, called the robing-closet, where their caps and gowns were kept. Putting on the gowns, and carrying the caps in their hands, they went to the call-room, waiting there to be marshalled into chapel. The caps, or trenchers, were used always; the gowns were worn in chapel and on what might be called state occasions, such as the examinations, also at lectures; sometimes they wore them out of doors, but not in school ordinarily, nor when they were at play. The masters' gowns, worn always in public, were of the same make as the boys': the caps were all alike in form, but the masters' were distinguished by a scarlet tassel in addition to the black one.

It was a small pretty chapel, the size of an ordinary room, the lectern slightly raised, and a standing desk for the lessons. The senior boys, meaning those of the first desk, read the lessons in turn. Part of the service was intoned, part read, part sung. Mr. Long, a good musician, took the organ to-night, and Dr. Brabazon, as was mostly usual, was in the reading desk. Mr. Loftus, as first senior present, left his place to read the first lesson. He read very well; clearly and distinctly, though somewhat coldly. Raymond Trace read the second lesson. His voice was subdued; its accent to some ears almost offensively humble—offensive because there was a ring in it of affected piety that could never be genuine. No such voice as that, no such assumption of humility, ever yet proceeded from a truly honest nature.

"That young man is a hypocrite!" involuntarily thought the new master, Mr. Henry. "Heaven forgive me!" he added, a moment after; "what am I that I should judge another?"

He did not know the name of the reader; he did not know yet the name of any one of the boys surrounding him; but he had been studying their faces, as it was natural he should do, considering that he had come to live amongst them. Instinct led Mr. Henry to study the human countenance—to be studying it always, unconsciously; and he was rarely deceived in it.

On ordinary evenings the supper was served immediately after they came out of chapel; but on this, when neither things nor scholars had shaken down into their routine, there appeared no signs of its being ready. Several of the fellows were expected yet, and the discipline, obtaining customarily, had not commenced. Two of them, at any rate, took some undue advantage of it. Going out after chapel was against the rules; perhaps Mr. Dick Loftus considered he might, on this night, break it with impunity.

Hanging up his gown in its place, he went stealing along the passages again towards the chapel, carrying a brown paper parcel, which he tried to cover with his trencher, lest curious eyes might be about. His friend Smart went stealing after him, and they turned off through a door into an open quadrangle; on three sides of which ran a covered gallery or passage, with a brick floor and Gothic pillars, called the cloisters; on the fourth side were the great gates that formed the scholars' entrance. A truck of luggage was coming in from the railway station; Dick and the other slipped past it.

Now what had these two got in that parcel, guarded with so much care? Mischief, you may be sure. It was the parcel that Loftus major had picked up on his arrival, and taken off to his room; and it contained nothing less than a pair of pistols. Mr. Loftus had recently purchased these pistols; he thought their acquisition one of the greatest feathers his cap could display, and he had not resisted the temptation to take them with him to show his compeers. Of course some secrecy had to be observed, for Dr. Brabazon would as soon have allowed him to bring a live bear into the college, and the case they lay in had been well wrapped in wadding, and otherwise disguised. Loftus minor, Mr. Dick, who was burning to finger these pistols, and had not yet obtained the ghost of a chance to do it, thought he saw it on this evening. He found out where his brother had placed them, brought them down, hid them while he went into chapel, made a confidant of Smart, and the two stole out with them. They had no particular motive in taking the pistols abroad, except that there was little opportunity for a private leisurely view indoors.

Crossing the wide road, they plunged into what was called the plantation: a large plot of ground intersected with young trees; or, rather, trees that had been young, for they were getting of a sheltering size now. A cricket-field lay to the left, beyond the chapel end-window; the station was in the distance; houses were dotted about; none, however, in the immediate vicinity. It was a beautiful moonlight night; and the boys chose an open place amid the trees, where there was a bench, and the beams were bright. There they undid the parcel, and touched the spring of the box.

Bright beams beyond doubt; but not so bright to the four admiring eyes as the pistol barrels. Never had such pistols been seen, although Loftus major—as Mr. Dick communicated in open-hearted confidence—had only given an old song for them at some pawnbroker's. They lifted, they touched, they stroked, they cocked, they took aim. The caps were on; and it was only by an amount of incomprehensible self-denial, that they did not fire. But that might have betrayed all; and Dick Loftus, though daring a great deal in a harmless sort of way, did not dare that. Dick fenced with the one, Smart with the other; they were like a couple of little children, playing with make-believe swords.

All in a moment, Dick caught sight of a trencher, poking itself gingerly through the trees, and regarding them. A master's trencher, too, for the two tassels, one over the other, were distinctly visible. With a smothered cry of warning to his companion, Dick vanished, carrying his pistol with him. Smart, nearly beside himself with terror when he comprehended the situation, vanished in Dick's wake; but in his confusion he dropped his pistol into the sheet of wadding on the bench.

The coast clear, the spy (an unintentional spy, it must be confessed) came forward. It was not a master; it was one of the boys, who, in coming out, had unwittingly caught up a master's trencher in mistake for his own. He took up the pistol and examined it—he turned over the wadding on which it lay, and the brown paper, and the case; scrutinizing all carefully in the moonlight, and coming on a written direction at last.

"Oh, indeed! 'Albert Loftus, Esquire'! What does he want with pistols? Is he thinking to shoot any one of the fellows? And Mr. Dick has stolen a march on him, and brought them out, has he?"

He took up the pistol, looked at it again, critically held it for a minute before him; then took aim, and fired it off. The answer to this was a human cry and a fall; the charge—shot or bullet, which ever it might be—had taken effect on some one but a few paces off. The culprit remained perfectly still for one minute, possibly scared at what he had done; he then quietly put the pistol on the case, crept off on tiptoe amidst the trees, and—came face to face with the new master, Mr. Henry.

Mr. Henry was on his road to the station to order his luggage to the college. He had left it on his arrival, not knowing where he was to lodge. Dr. Brabazon had offered to send a servant, but Mr. Henry coveted the walk in the cool, lovely night; he and his head were alike feverish from the effects of the sea voyage; so they directed him through the plantation, as being the nearest way.

Face to face. But only one glimpse did Mr. Henry catch of the meeting face, for the boy's hand was suddenly raised to cover it, even while he took flight. A moan or two, and then a loud shout for assistance—as if the sufferer, on second thoughts, deemed it would be better to shout than to groan—guided Mr. Henry to the spot. He was lying close by, in an intersecting path of the plantation, a boy of some sixteen years, whose trencher showed he belonged to Orville College.

"Who is it?" asked Mr. Henry.

"Talbot," shortly answered the boy. "I say, though, who are you? How came you to shoot me?"

"It was not I who did it. I heard the shot as I came up. Where are you hurt?"

"In my leg, I think. I can't move it. I only got in by this train, for I missed the one in the afternoon, and was running through here, full pelt, when somebody takes a shot at me! Cool, I must say!"

The master raised him, but the right leg seemed nearly helpless, so he laid him down again, and ran to the college for assistance. But as Mr. Henry was turning away, the white wadding on the bench caught his eye, and he found the pistol and its accessories. These he carried with him.

Dick Loftus, hiding in the distant trees, could bear the suspense no longer. Something was wrong; some untoward event had occurred; and he came forward in disregard of Smart's prayers and entreaties. Dick was of an open honourable nature, in spite of his pursuit of mischief and his impulsive thoughtlessness: he never hesitated to take his escapades on himself, when real necessity arose.

"I'm blest! Why, it's the earl!" he shouted out. "Smart! Smart! come here. It's the Earl of Shrewsbury!"

"Is that you, Dick?" exclaimed the wounded boy, looking up as Dick bent over him in the moonlight. "Did you do it?"

"No, I didn't," said Dick. "I say, old fellow, is it much! I wish his pistols had been buried before I'd brought 'em out!"

"How was it all? Whose are the pistols?" questioned Talbot. And Mr. Dick, in an ecstasy of contrition, but vowing vengeance against the shooter, whoever it might be, entered on his explanation. To do him justice, he gave it without the least reserve. And Tom Smart, shivering amid the thickest trees, at a safe distance, daring to stir neither one way nor the other, lest he should be seen, and who had not heard the salutation, wondered whether Dick would keep his word, and not mention his name in connection with the calamity.

A fine commotion arose in the college when Mr. Henry got back with the news. One of the gentlemen had been shot in the plantation!—shot by a fellow student! It was incredible. Mr. Henry, breaking away from the throng, quietly gave Dr. Brabazon an account of the whole, as far as he was cognizant of it: how that he had heard a shot quite close to him, followed by a cry, and had caught a glimpse of a youth stealing away. He gave no clue as to who the youth was; apparently did not know; and of course could not know positively that it was he who had fired; he recognized him as belonging to Orville College by the cap. It was but a hurried explanation; there was no time to waste in question and answer; Talbot must be seen to.

He was brought in on a hurdle, and a surgeon summoned. On the first day of this boy's entrance at the college, when Dr. Brabazon, the roll before him, asked his name, the answer was, "James Talbot." "James Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury?" jokingly responded the doctor, in allusion to one noted in English history; and from that hour Talbot had gone by no other name in the school. Of a good-natured, generous disposition, he was ever ready to do a kind action, and was liked immensely. Not that he had much to be generous with in one sense: his father was a banker's clerk; very poor; struggling with life; and pinching himself in all ways to keep his son at Orville.

Not during the first confusion did a suspicion, that the offending pistol could have any connection with a certain brown paper treasure-parcel upstairs, penetrate to the brain of Loftus major: not until Dick's name arose into prominence. Up to his room stepped Mr. Loftus, six stairs at a stride, pulled open a drawer, essayed to lay his hands upon the parcel, and—found it was not there. He could not believe his own eyes; he stared, he felt, he stood in a mazed sort of bewilderment. Meddle with his things! that wretched Dick, who was nearly three years his junior, and held at arm's-length accordingly!—with his new pistols, that were only brought en cachette! When Loftus major recovered his equanimity sufficiently to think, he came to the conclusion that hanging would be too good for Dick.

[CHAPTER II.]
The New Boy.

The Rev. Mr. Jebb and the new German master stood over the bed of James Talbot. The surgeon had been busy; he had extracted the shots from the leg, and pronounced the injury to be not material. Talbot must be kept quiet, he said, both in mind and body.

"It's a very strange affair," murmured the clergyman into Mr. Henry's ear. "Dr. Brabazon's opinion is, that it must have been Loftus minor, after all, who fired off the pistol."

"It never was, then," unceremoniously spoke up the patient. "When Dick Loftus says he didn't do a thing, I know he didn't."

"You are not to talk, Talbot," interrupted Mr. Jebb: and the two gentlemen moved away from the bed. Mr. Henry began to ask who Dick Loftus was.

"He is brother to the second senior of the school," was the clergyman's reply. "You may have remarked Loftus major in chapel, from the circumstance that he read the lesson."

"Which of the lessons? I noticed the readers of both."

"The first lesson. The second was read by Trace."

"Trace?" echoed Mr. Henry.

"You are thinking it an uncommon name. Raymond Trace; he is cousin to the Loftus boys. There's quite a romance attaching to their history," proceeded the clergyman, who was a bit of a gossip, and he dropped his voice as he spoke. "The two fathers were in partnership in Liverpool, stock and share brokers, quite a first-class house, and much respected. Unfortunately they took in a partner, and before two years were over he ruined them. He issued false shares, put forged bills in circulation—I hardly know what he did not do. They were quite ruined; at least, it was ruin compared to what their former wealth had been. The house was broken up; all its debts were paid; and Mr. Loftus retired to the Isle of Wight upon a small private property. He had lived there previously, never having taken a very practical part in the business. The other partner, Mr. Trace, went abroad, hoping to carve out a second fortune. I hear he is doing it."

"And these are the sons?" observed the German master, after a pause.

"These are the sons. Mr. Loftus has several children, Mr. Trace only this one. Mrs. Loftus and Mrs. Trace were sisters. Their brother, Sir Simon Orville, a retired city man, lives here close to the college; he is some distant relative of its founder. The three boys were placed at it two years ago, and it is thought Sir Simon pays for them. They spend their vacations generally at his house: Trace always does. He has no other home in England: Mrs. Trace is dead."

The injured boy stirred uneasily, and Mr. Henry hastened to him. "Do you feel much pain?" he kindly asked.

"Rather sharpish for that," was the answer. "I say, sir, you—you don't think I shall die?" and the bright brown eyes looked wistfully up at the master's, as the sudden anxious question was whispered. "It's my mother I am thinking of," added Talbot, by way of excuse.

"So far as I believe, there's no danger," replied Mr. Henry, bending down to him and pushing the hair off his hot brow. "Only put yourself trustingly into God's care, my boy—have you learnt to do it?—and rely upon it, all shall be for the best."

Miss Brabazon and a nurse came into the room and the gentlemen prepared to leave it. Mr. Henry went first. Talbot put out his hand and detained Mr. Jebb.

"I say, sir, who is that?"

"The new foreign master. Do you keep yourself tranquil, Talbot."

With the morning came the discipline of school rules. Talbot was going on quite favourably, and all outward excitement had subsided. The breakfast hour was half-past seven; from eight to a quarter-past the pupils from the masters' houses arrived, also those who lived altogether out of bounds, with their friends or in lodgings; slightingly called by the college, these latter, "outsiders." During this quarter of an hour the roll was called, and the boys did what they pleased: it was recreation with them. At a quarter-past eight the chapel bell called all to service.

The boys stood in groups this morning in the quadrangle, not availing themselves of their liberty to be noisy during this quarter of an hour, but discussing in an undertone the startling events of the previous night. Dick Loftus had openly avowed the whole; and somebody, not Dick, had contrived to betray Mr. Smart's share in it. Dick protested that whoever had peered at them was a master: he judged by the cap. It appeared equally certain that it could not have been a master: the only masters arrived were Mr. Jebb and Mr. Long, and they, at this very selfsame hour, had been with Dr. Brabazon in his private study. But it was easy for any one of the senior boys to have taken up a master's trencher by mistake, or to have gone out in it wilfully to mislead. Had the boy, whoever it was, purposely shot Talbot? The opinion, rejected at first, was gaining ground now; led to, possibly, by the appropriation of the master's cap. Altogether it was a very unpleasant affair, enshrouded in some mystery.

William Gall was there this morning, the senior of the school; a slight, short young man, the age of Loftus major, with an undoubted ugly face, but an honest one, and dark hair. There was not much good feeling existing between Gall and Loftus, as was well known, but it had never broken into an open explosion. Gall despised Loftus for his pride and his fopperies, his assumption of superiority and condescension; and Loftus looked down on Gall and his family as vulgar city people. The Galls lived at Orville Green, but the son was an in-door scholar. Mr. Gall was in some mysterious trade that had to do with tallow. There was plenty of money; but Loftus thought, on the whole, that it was out of the order of right things for the son of a tallow-man to be head of the college and senior over him.

Three or four new scholars came straggling in during this quarter of an hour, and they attracted the usual amount of attention and quizzing. One of them was a tall, agile, upright boy of sixteen, or rather more, with a handsome, open countenance, dark chestnut hair, and bright grey eyes. He stood looking about, as if uncertain where to go. Mr. Long went up to him.

"Are you belonging to the college?—a new student?"

"Yes."

"If you pass through that side of the cloisters and turn to the left, you will find the call-room. Mr. Baker is there with the roll, inscribing the new names as they come in, and he will add yours. What is your name?"

"Paradyne."

There was a free, frank sound in the voice, though the words spoken had been but two; and the boy lifted his hat (he would not get his cap and gown for a day or two) with somewhat of foreign courtesy as he turned away to the cloister. Mr. Henry, who had heard the name, hastened after him and overtook him in the cloister passage.

"You are George Paradyne?"

"Yes. And you are——"

"Mr. Henry."

Their hands were locked together; they gazed into each other's face. "I don't think I should have known you," said the boy.

"No? I should have known you anywhere. It is the same face, not changed; but you have grown from a little boy into a great one."

"Your face is changed. It is thinner and paler, and—somehow——"

"Well?" said Mr. Henry, for the sentence had come to a stop midway. "Speak out."

"It is a sadder sort of face than it used to he. Are you quite well?"

"Yes, I am well. I don't know that I am strong. Good-bye for now," hastily added Mr. Henry. "Mr. Long has told you where to go."

The boy continued his way up the cloister, and another ran up to Mr. Henry—a second-desk boy named Powell.

"I say, sir, do you know that new fellow?"

"I used to know him," replied Mr. Henry. "But I have not seen him for several years."

"Lamb says he thinks he is an outsider. I like the look of him. Where did you know him, Mr. Henry?"

"At the Heidelberg University. He was a young pupil there, when I was a junior master."

Mr. Powell's face grew considerably longer. "At the Heidelberg University! Does he speak German?"

"He used to speak it perfectly. I dare say he does still."

"That's blue, though," was the rejoinder. "I'm going in for the German prize: but who can stand against a fellow who has been in Germany? He's sure to be at our desk. What's his name, sir?"

"You will learn it in good time, no doubt," called back Mr. Henry, who was hastening away as if he were in a hurry. And Mr. Powell vaulted over the open cloister wall into the quadrangle: which was against rules.

A few moments, and the chapel-bell rang out. The boys got their caps and gowns, and went into the call-room. Dr. Brabazon came up in his surplice and hood, and they followed him into chapel.

Possibly it was because Mr. Trace had no duty to perform—for Gall and Loftus read the lessons—that his sight recreated itself with scanning the new scholars. Not so much the whole of them, and there were nine or ten, as one—George Paradyne. It was not a stare; Trace never stared; his eyes were drawn together so closely that even Paradyne himself could not have known he was being looked at; but nevertheless, so intent was Trace's gaze, so absorbed was he in the new face, that at the end of the Te Deum he quite forgot to sit down, and remained standing, to the amusement of his friends.

"I wonder if it is," spoke Trace to himself, as they left the chapel. And he inquired of two or three what that new fellow's name was, but could not learn it.

"He's some crony of the new master's," spoke Powell; "I saw them shaking hands like mad. It'll be an awful shame for him to be put in our class, if he is up in German."

Trace had not waited to hear the conclusion; the boys were hastening to take their places in school. On this morning, until their state of advancement could be ascertained, the fresh boys were ordered to a bench opposite the first desk. Trace, who sat next to Loftus, directed his attention to this new boy.

"Do you recognise him, Bertie?" he asked in a whisper.

"Recognise him? no," drawled Mr. Loftus, as if it were entirely beneath him to recognise any new fellow. And he could think of nothing but his pistols. Which Dr. Brabazon had taken possession of.

"Look at his face well," continued Trace. "Can you see no likeness to one you once knew?"

"Not I." And this time Mr. Loftus did not speak until he had taken a good look at the boy. "Don't know the face from Adam."

"Well, perhaps I am mistaken," mused Trace. "It's a long while since I saw the other."

But, nevertheless, in spite of this conclusion, Trace could not keep his eyes off the face, and his studies suffered. The boy went up to Dr. Brabazon for examination, as it was usual for a new scholar to do; and Trace's ears were bent to catch the sound of the voice, if haply it might hear recognition for his memory. The head master found the boy thoroughly well advanced in his studies, and a suspicion arose in the school that he would be placed at the first desk. Loftus heard somebody say it, and elevated his eyebrows in displeasure. When the school rose, Trace went up to Mr. Baker.

"I beg your pardon, sir; would you allow me to look for one minute at the roll?"

"At the roll?—what for?" returned Mr. Baker, who was a little man with a bald head.

"I think I know one of the new boys, sir. I want to see his name."

There was no rule against showing the roll, and Mr. Baker took it out of his desk. Trace ran his finger down the new names—which were entered at the end until their places should be allotted—and it halted at one.

"George Paradyne!" he mentally read. "Thank you, sir," he said aloud, with the quiet civility characteristic of him: and Mr. Baker locked up the roll again.

For once in his college life, a burning spot of emotion might have been seen on Raymond Trace's cheek. A foul injury, as he regarded it, had been done to his family and fortune by the father of George Paradyne; and he deemed that the son had no more right to be receiving his education with honest men's sons, as their equal and associate, than darkness has to be made hail-fellow-well-met with light. He went in search of Loftus. Loftus was leaning over the open wall, his legs in the cloisters, his head in the quadrangle, and his arm round a huge pillar, ruminating bitterly on the wrongs dealt out to himself, on Dick's wickedness, and the ignominy of possessing pistols that one can't get at.

"I thought I was not mistaken in the fellow," began Trace. "It is George Paradyne."

"Who?" cried Loftus, starting round, aroused by the name.

"George Paradyne: Paradyne's son."

"No! Do you mean that fellow you asked about? It can't be."

"It is. I knew him, I tell you; and I've been looking at the name on the roll. Your memory must be a bad one, Loftus, not to have recognised the face also."

Loftus drew a deep breath, as if unable to take in the full sense of the words. But he never displayed much surprise at anything.

"I don't suppose I saw the fellow three times in my life," he presently said. "We did not live on the spot, as you did; and it is so long ago."

"What's to be done? He can't be allowed to stay here."

Loftus shrugged his shoulders, French fashion, having no answer at hand. "Brabazon is not aware of who he is, I suppose?"

"Impossible; or he'd never have admitted him. One can overlook some things in a fellow's antecedents; but forgery—that's rather too strong. If the rest of the college chose to tolerate him, you and I and Dick could not."

Mr. Loftus threw up his condemning nose at the latter addition. Dick, indeed! Dick seemed to be going in for something too bad on his own score, to be fastidious as to the society he kept.

"What's the matter?" inquired one of the first-class boys, Irby, coming up to them from the middle of the quadrangle, and leaning his arms on the cloister wall, to talk face to face.

"That new fellow, Paradyne—do you know which of them he is?" broke off Trace.

Irby nodded. "A good-looking chap, don't you mean? Well up in his classics."

"Well up in them by the help of stolen money, I suppose," spoke Trace, an angry light for a moment gleaming in his eye. "You have heard, Irby, of that dreadful business of ours at Liverpool, some four years ago, when Loftus & Trace, the best and richest and most respected firm in the town, were ruined through a man they had taken in as partner?"

"I've heard something of it," said Irby, wondering.

"This new fellow, Paradyne, is the man's son."

Irby gave a low whistle. "Let's hear the particulars, Trace."

And Trace proceeded to give them. Irby was a great friend of his, and there were no other ears in view. Loftus drew himself up against the pillar, and stood there with his arms folded, listening in silence; all of them unconscious that Mr. Henry was on the other side of the pillar, taking a sketch of the quadrangle and the door of the chapel.

You heard something of the tale, reader, from Mr. Jebb last night, and there's not much more to be told. Trace, speaking quietly, as he always did, enlarged upon the wrongs dealt out to his father and Mr. Loftus, by the man Paradyne. It was the most miserable business that ever came out to the world, he said, blighting all their prospects for life; never a rogue, so great, went unhung.

"And he had only been with them a couple of years," he wound up with; "only a couple of years! The marvel was, that he could have done so much mischief in so short a time—"

"The marvel was, that he could have done it at all without being detected," interposed Loftus, speaking for the first time.

"Yes," corrected Trace; "people could not understand how he contrived to hoodwink my father. But that came of over-confidence: he had such blind trust in Paradyne."

"Why did they take him in partner at all?" asked Irby.

"Ah, why indeed!" responded Trace, pushing his trencher up with a petulant jerk, as if the past transaction were a present and personal wrong. "But the business had grown too large for one head, and Mr. Loftus was almost a sleeping partner. Who was to suppose it would turn out so? If we could only foresee the end of things at the beginning!"

"Let it drop, Trace," said Loftus. "It's not so pleasant a thing to recall."

"The fellow called himself Captain Paradyne; he came introduced to them grandly," resumed Trace, in utter disregard of the interruption. "Of course he dropped the 'Captain' when he joined them."

"Was the man hung?" questioned Irby.

"Neither hung nor transported; he saved himself. On the evening of his first examination before the magistrates," continued Trace, "after he was put back in the cell, he took poison."

Irby's eyes grew round with awe. "What a wicked simpleton he must have been to do that! Poor fellow, though," he added, a feeling of compassion stealing over him, "I dare say he—"

"When you undertake to relate a history, gentlemen, you should confine yourselves to the truth. Mr. Paradyne did not take poison. He died of heart disease, brought on by excitement."

The interruption was Mr. Henry's. He quietly put his head round the pillar, and then came into full view, with his sketch-book and pencil.

"How do you know anything about it?" demanded Trace, recovering from his surprise.

"I do happen to know about it," was the calm answer. "The case was bad enough, as Heaven knew; but you need not make it worse."

"It was reported that he took poison," persisted Trace.

"Only at the first moment. When he was found dead, people naturally leaped to that conclusion, and the newspapers published it as a fact. But on the inquest it was proved by the medical men that he had died from natural causes. I think," added Mr. Henry, in a dreamy kind of tone, "that that report arose in mercy."

The three boys stared at him questioningly.

"To his friends the business of itself was cruel enough—the discovery that he, whom they had so respected as the soul of honour, was unworthy," pursued the master. "Then followed the worse report of his self-destruction, and in that shock of horror the other was lost—was as nothing. But when the truth came to light on the following day—that he had not laid guilty hands on himself, but that God had taken him,—why, the revulsion of feeling, the thankfulness, was so great as to seem like a very boon from Heaven. It enabled them to bear the disgrace as a lesser evil: the blow had lost its sting."

"Did you know him?" questioned Trace.

"I knew him in Germany. And these particulars, when they occurred, were written over to me."

"Perhaps you respected him in Germany?" cynically added Trace, who could not speak or think coldly of the unfortunate Captain Paradyne with his usual degree of equable temper.

"I never respected any one so much," avowed Mr. Henry, a scarlet spot of hectic arising in his pale cheeks.

Trace made no rejoinder. To contend was not his habit. It was impossible he could think worse of any one than of the unhappy man in question, and nothing had ever convinced Trace fully that the death was a natural one.

"He has been dead four years," gently suggested Mr. Henry, as if bespeaking their mercy for his memory. "As to his son, it must be a question for Dr. Brabazon of course whether or not he remains here; but I would ask you what he, the boy, has done, that you should visit the past upon him? Can you not imagine that the calamity itself is a sufficient blight on his life? Be generous, and do not proclaim him to the school."

"It would be more generous not to do it," candidly avowed Irby, who had a good-natured, ready tongue. "Of course it was not the boy's fault; we shall lose nothing by it."

"Lose!" repeated Mr. Henry. "If you only knew the gain! There's not a kind action that we ever do, but insures its own reward; there's not a word of ill-nature, a secret deed of malice, but comes home to us fourfold, sooner or later. Look out carefully as you go through life, and see whether I do not tell you truth."

"Young Paradyne is free for me," said Loftus, speaking up frankly. And Irby nodded his head in acquiescence.

"Thank you greatly; I shall take it as a kindness shown myself," said Mr. Henry. He turned and looked at Trace.

"Of course, if Mr. Henry wishes the thing to be hushed up, and Dr. Brabazon to be left in ignorance——"

"Stay," said the master, interrupting Trace's words. "You heard me say a moment ago that it must be a question for Dr. Brabazon whether or not Paradyne remains here. But I think that Dr. Brabazon would, in either event, counsel you not to denounce the boy publicly."

"I am not given to denounce my companions publicly; or privately either: as you perhaps will find when you are used to us," was Trace's rejoinder, delivered with civility. "If the doctor condones the past, why, let it be condoned; I can't say more. But the sooner the question is decided, the better."

"Undoubtedly."

Mr. Henry turned round with the last word, and applied himself to his drawing. Loftus and Irby strolled away, and Trace besought an interview with Dr. Brabazon. It was at once accorded; and he told him who Paradyne was. To do Trace justice, he spoke without prejudice; not alluding minutely to past facts, but simply saying that the new scholar, George Paradyne, was the son of the man who had committed all sorts of ill, and ruined his father and Mr. Loftus.

"And you and Loftus think you can't study with him!" observed the doctor, when he had listened, and asked a few questions.

"I did not say that, sir: it is for you to decide. We shall get over the unpleasantness by degrees, no doubt, if he does stay on."

"Very well, Trace; I'll consider of it. Keep a strictly silent tongue about it in the college."

The interview did not last many minutes. Soon after its termination, an authoritative cry was heard down the cloisters for Loftus major.

"Here," shouted Loftus from the other end of the quadrangle.

"You are to go in to the Head Master."

Away went Loftus in his indolent fashion; he rarely hurried himself for anything. Dr. Brabazon met him at his study door: he put into his hands a parcel tied with string, and sealed at the ends with the doctor's seal.

"Your pistols, Loftus. I shall have something to say to you later, in regard to them and the calamity you have most unjustifiably been the means of causing. Take them back at once; and make my compliments to Sir Simon, and say I particularly wish to see him. Perhaps he will oblige me by coming over: to-day, if possible. You'll be back to dinner, if you put your best foot foremost."

Mr. Loftus flung on his gown and cap, and went away with the parcel in an access of private rage. It was so mortifying! it was the very acme of humiliation!—a dog with a burnt tail could feel jolly, in comparison. Some of the middle-school boys, leaping over the road from the plantation, came right upon him. That incorrigible Dick was one of them, and he recognized the parcel.

"It's the pistols," proclaimed Dick. "Brabazon has turned them out. I say, Bertie, though, that's not so bad; we had bets that he'd confiscate them."

"A pity but he could confiscate you," was the scornful retort thrown back.

Dick laughed. The throng echoed it. But Mr. Loftus went on his way, and made no further sign, his fine figure drawn to its full height, and his nose held in the air.

[CHAPTER III.]
Hard and Obstinate as Nails.

Dr. Brabazon sat at his desk-table, birch in hand. Not often were the whole of the boys assembled in hall as on this afternoon; there were smaller rooms appropriated to particular branches of study. A huge birch, apparently made out of ten besoms. The stump rested on the table, the pointed end with its tickling twigs, tapered aloft in the air. This formidable weapon, meant to inspire wholesome awe, had never been used within memory. Very rarely was it taken from its receptacle to be held in terrorem, as now, over the different desks, running down the side walls of the long room, and along the end of it.

The shooting of James Talbot the previous night in the plantation: was it an accident, or was it done of deliberation? This was what the Head Master wanted to get at: and he very particularly wanted to get at the gentleman who did it. Dick Loftus had made a clean breast of it, offhand; for it was in Dick's nature so to do. But, in spite of all the questioning; private, individual, and collective;—in spite of putting the school upon its honour;—in spite of the offered promise that the boy, if an accident, should be held harmless, nobody came forward to confess; the whole lot remained, as the Doctor in his vexation expressed it, "hard and obstinate as nails." So then the birch was got out.

"Gentlemen, I feel sure it was a pure accident, and I could extend my free forgiveness to the offender if he will only come forward in honour and avow himself. Talbot is going on well; will be amidst us again, I hope, in a few days; there's no earthly reason for his refusing to acknowledge himself. Mrs. Talbot, sitting now with her son, says she forgives him heartily. She is a Christian woman, gentlemen, and she is sorry for the boy, instead of angry with him, because she knows how sorry he must be himself for this. 'Accidents and moments of thoughtlessness happen to us all,' she has just remarked to me: and so they do. Come! I hope there's some honour left amidst us yet."

The appeal elicited no response. And yet, that one of the boys present had been guilty, there could be little doubt; or that he had gone out in a master's cap by accident or design. In the confusion of the news the previous night, when a rush was made to the robing closet, the caps of the two masters, then arrived, were found hanging there. Upon the boys being mustered, all who were known to have returned to school answered to their names. There was no confusion, no sign of guilt observable in any one of the responders: nevertheless, the offender must have made a run, as if for his life, sneaked in, replaced the cap, and mingled with the others.

"Won't you speak?" reiterated the Doctor, casting his eyes around in anger.

But not one answered.

Up went the birch, and came down again on its hard end. Dr. Brabazon was by no means a choleric man; but he could be so when greatly provoked.

"Mr. Henry—no, don't rise, don't quit your place—of what height was the boy you saw running away?"

The Doctor's voice—a sonorous voice at all times—went rolling down the spacious room to the opposite corner, where Mr. Henry sat behind his desk. The latter hesitated in his reply, and the boys turned their eyes from the Head Master to him.

"I cannot say positively, sir," was the foreign master's answer. "It was so momentary a glimpse that I caught."

"Yet you met him—as I am given to understand—face to face!"

"I did; but he glided aside at once amidst the trees. He was of a good height."

"Tall enough for a senior boy?"

"Yes, certainly: I think so."

The birch agitated itself gently, as if the Doctor's hand shook a little, and he looked full at the first desk, regarding those seated at it in individual turn.

"I thought I could have trusted you all; I deemed there was not one of you that I might not have relied upon. Gall, did you do this? I ask you chiefly for form's sake, for you had not come back to college. Did you fire, by accident or design, this pistol off in the plantation last night?"

"No, sir, I did not," replied Gall, slightly rising in his place to answer.

"Did you, Loftus major?"

The exceeding satire of the question, as addressed to him, the wronged owner of the abstracted weapon, nearly struck Loftus major dumb.

"Of course I did not, sir," he said, after a pause.

"Did you go out of college after prayers?"

"No."

"Trace, did you go out of college after prayers, and fire off this pistol?"

"No, sir." And Trace's usual civility of tone was marked by a dash of remonstrance at being asked. Suspect him, Mr. Trace, the model fellow of the school! What next?

"Irby, did you?"

"I, sir! No, sir. It wasn't me, sir."

"Fullarton, did you?"

"I did not get back until this morning, sir."

"True. Brown major, did you do it?"

Brown Major, a simple fellow in most things, but with a rare capacity for Latin and Greek, opened his eyes in pure wonder. "Please, sir, I never fired off a pistol in my life, sir. I shouldn't know how to do it, sir."

And so on. Not a boy at the first desk acknowledged it; and they numbered twelve. The Doctor glanced at the second desk; some tall boys were there; but he said no more. Perhaps he thought suspicion did not lie with them; perhaps he would not afford them opportunity of telling a falsehood.

"It seems, then, I am not to be told. Well,"—and he turned particularly to the seniors—"I must believe that some mystery attaches to this affair, and that not one of you is guilty. I will trust you still, as I have ever done: only—do not let it come to my knowledge later that my trust is a mistaken one."

He flung up the lower compartment of his table, put in the birch, and shut it down with a bang. An uncomfortable feeling was on the Head Master that day.

A thirteenth boy had been added to the first desk, in George Paradyne. Mr. Baker had directed him to take his place at it after morning school, in accordance with some words let fall by the Head Master, of the boy's proficiency. The first desk was a very exclusive desk, not to be invaded lightly by a new-comer, and the decision, an unusual one, did not find favour. Paradyne was greeted with a stare of surprise, and the desk turned its back upon him.

The afternoon studies proceeded as on other afternoons; but neither masters nor boys felt at ease. Trace, especially, was in a state of inward commotion, calm as he appeared outwardly. He supposed that Dr. Brabazon had decided to retain Paradyne in the college, and he resented it utterly. Mr. Trace had also one or two private matters of his own troubling him, that it would not be convenient to speak of.

Loftus, as you perceive, was back in his place. He had walked on to his uncle's before dinner, when despatched by the Head Master, carrying the banished pistols in all the ignominy of the position. Sir Simon Orville's residence was about half a mile from the college. Pond Place it was called; an appellation that was supposed to have originated from a large pond in the vicinity, and was excessively distasteful to Mr. Loftus. A lovely spot, whatever it might be called, with the brightest and rarest flowers clustering on the green slope before the low white house. Sir Simon happened to be tending some of these flowers, as it was his delight to do, when Loftus entered, and that young gentleman was a little disconcerted at the encounter. In his present frame of mind, he really did not want the additional humiliation of having to explain to his uncle.

"Halloa!" cried Sir Simon, in surprise. "What brings you here?"

He was a little round man, with a red, kind face, shaped not unlike the head of a codfish, and light hair that stuck up in a high point above his forehead: one of the most unpretending, outspeaking men ever known, who could not conceal that he had been "born nobody," imperfectly educated, and had made his fortune laboriously and honestly by the work of his hands. Now and then he burst out with these revelations before the schoolboys, to whom he was fond of declaring his sentiments, to the intense chagrin of Loftus major and the dancing delight of Dick. Sir Simon, an old bachelor, was very kind and good, hospitable to everybody, and making much of his nephews. He was fond of Albert Loftus, distinguishing the really good qualities of the boy's nature, though ridiculing his pride and self-assumption. "He'll get it taken out of him," Sir Simon would say: and to do the knight justice, he spared no opportunity of helping on the process of extermination.

Twitching at his grey garden coat, which caught, with the suddenness of his turning, in a beautiful shrub that bore white flowers, Sir Simon looked in his nephew's face: not quite so lofty a face as usual.

"What's the matter, Bertie? What's in that parcel?"

So Bertie Loftus had to explain: he had taken a brace of pistols to school, and the Doctor had despatched them back again. Sir Simon enjoyed the information immensely; that is the "despatching back" portion of it. He knew very little about pistols himself; could not remember, like Brown major, to have handled one in his life; and regarded them rather in the light of a dangerous animal that you were never sure of.

"I should have buried them in the ground, had I been the Doctor, instead of giving them back to you. You'll come to some mischief, Mr. Albert, if you meddle with edged tools."

"I'd as soon he had buried them, as sent me back with them in the face of the school," avowed Loftus, in his subdued spirit. Very subdued just now, for there was more behind. Too honourable not to tell the whole, he went on to disclose the calamity that the pistols had caused. Sir Simon was horror-struck.

"Albert! You have shot a boy?"

"It was that miserable Dick," returned Loftus, looking as chapfallen as it was possible for him, with his naturally proud face, to look. "I'm very sorry, of course; I'd rather have been shot myself. But it was not my fault, and Dick ought to be punished."

"No; you ought to be punished for taking the things to school," rebuked Sir Simon. "It would be punishment enough for my whole life, sir, if I had been the means of putting a fellow-creature's life in danger. Here, stop! Where are you going now?"

"To put the pistols away," answered Loftus, who was turning to the house.

"Are they loaded?"

"No, sir; not now."

"I'd not permit a loaded pistol to come inside my house, look you, Albert. You'll shoot yourself, sir; that's what you'll do. And it's poor Talbot, is it? I knew his father when I lived in Bermondsey."

Away went Loftus, feeling no security that the pistols were not going to be confiscated here. He locked them up in the room he occupied when staying at his uncle's, and came forth again directly, delivering the Head Master's message as he passed Sir Simon.

"Very well; I'll come, tell Dr. Brabazon. I suppose he is going to complain of this underhanded act of yours."

Mr. Loftus supposed so too: had supposed nothing else since the message was given him.

"Here; stop a bit; don't stride off like that. I suppose you must eat, though you have done your best to kill a boy. Will you have some dinner? There's a beautiful couple of ducks."

"I can't stay, Uncle Simon: the Head Master ordered me back at once. Thank you all the same."

Sir Simon nodded, and Bertie set off back again; leaving Pond Place behind him, and the cherished pistols that had come altogether to grief.

Sir Simon Orville knew the hours at the college, and he timed his visit so as to catch Dr. Brabazon at the rising of afternoon school. The Doctor took him into his study: a pleasant room, with a large bay window at the back of the house, partially overlooking the boys' playground, with its gymnastic poles. The middle compartment of the window opened to the ground, French fashion.

Sir Simon spoke at once of the unhappy accident that his nephews had been the means of causing; asking what he could do, how he could help the poor boy, and insisting that all charges should be made his. He then found it was not on that business Dr. Brabazon had sent for him, but on the other annoying matter relating to George Paradyne. The doctor stated the circumstances to him: that one of the new scholars, entered that day, had been recognized by Trace to be the son of the defaulting man, Paradyne.

"It vexed me greatly," observed the master, when he had concluded his recital. "Somehow the term seems to have begun ungraciously. I suppose there's no doubt that the boy is the same?"

"I daresay not," replied Sir Simon, standing up by the window. "Raymond ought to know him."

"Ay. Well, it is a very vexatious matter, and one difficult to deal with. Just at first, while Trace was speaking, I thought there could be only one course—that of putting Paradyne away. But the cruel injustice of this on the boy struck me immediately, and I could not help asking myself why we should visit on children the sins of their fathers, any more than—than—" Dr. Brabazon seemed to hesitate strangely, and came to a long pause—"any more than we visit the sins of children on their parents."

Sir Simon brought down his stick with a couple of thumps. It was a thick stick of carved walnut-wood, that he was rarely seen without, and he had a habit of enforcing his arguments with it in this manner. Dr. Brabazon understood this as meant to enforce his.

"And so I decided to do nothing until I had seen you. I would not have assigned him his place in the school, but Mr. Baker did so before I could stop it. But for your nephews being here, I should not think of taking notice of the matter; I should let the boy remain on. As it is, I must leave it to you, Sir Simon. If you consider he ought not to be in the same establishment as your nephews—their companion and associate—I'll put him away. Or, if you think it would be very objectionable to themselves—"

"Objectionable to them!" cried Sir Simon, bringing down his stick again in wrath. "I can only tell you this, doctor, that if my nephews were mean enough and ill-natured enough to carry out those old scores upon the boy, I'd disown 'em."

"Trace, I am sure, will not like the boy to stay, though he may silently put up with it. I saw that."

"Trace has got his silent crotchets just as much as anybody else," cried Sir Simon, a shade of deeper anger in his tone. "I'll talk to him; I'll talk to the three. Treat Paradyne as you do the rest, Dr. Brabazon; I would ask it of you as a personal favour. I turn the boy away! I've just as much right to do it as he has to turn me out of Pond Place. Deprive the lad of an education; of the means by which he'll have to make his bread? No; a hundred times over, no," concluded Sir Simon, in an explosive tone, the stick descending again.

"Very well; he shall stay. And if circumstances force me to put him away later,—that is, if the facts become known to the school, and the boy's life is thereby rendered unhappy, why—but time enough to talk of that," broke off the speaker. "It might happen, however, Sir Simon; and there's no knowing how soon."

Sir Simon saw that it might. "Who knows of it?" he asked.

"Your two nephews and John Irby. I have strictly charged them, on their honour, not to speak of this: I called them in before afternoon school. Dick does not appear to have heard the name yet: but I shall speak to him. It is unfortunate the name should be so peculiar—Paradyne."

Sir Simon nodded. "What an odd thing it is the boy should have come to this particular school," he exclaimed. "Is he one of your boarders?"

"No; he is an out-pupil; not in any master's house at all. About five weeks ago," pursued the head master, in explanation, "I received a letter from the country, from a lady signing herself Paradyne—I remember thinking it an uncommon name at the time—asking if there was a vacancy in the college for a well-advanced outdoor pupil, and inquiring the terms. There happened to be a vacancy, and I said so, and sent the terms; in a few days she wrote again, saying her son would enter. She has come up to live here. I asked Paradyne this morning where he was going to live, and he said close by, with his mother."

"They never much liked her, I remember," observed Sir Simon, who was casting his thoughts back. "Mrs. Trace used to say she spent too much."

"I suppose they lived beyond their means, these Paradynes."

"No; it did not appear so; and the mystery never was cleared up where the abstracted sums (enormous sums they were!) had gone, or what they had gone in. Mrs. Trace, my poor sister Mary, was of so very quiet a disposition herself caring nothing for dress or show; and Mrs. Paradyne, I suppose, did care for it. I remember my brother-in-law, Robert Trace, observed to me after the explosion, how glad he was that he and his wife had lived quietly; that no blame on that score could attach to him. The Loftus's were different; they spent all before them; not, however, more than they had a right to spend. I suppose you know the particulars, doctor?"

"Not at all. I never heard them."

"Then I'll tell you the story, from beginning to end, in a few brief words. My brother-in-law, Robert Trace, who was always up to his eyes in business—for Loftus would not attend to it—had some matters to transact for a Captain Arthur Paradyne,—the selling out of shares, or the buying in of shares, I forget which; and an intimacy grew up between him and his client. Paradyne had come into some money through the death of an aunt in Liverpool; previous to that he had lived in Germany, on a very small income, as I understood. He seemed a thorough gentleman, and, I should have said, an honest, open-dealing man. In an unlucky hour Robert Trace—who had been hankering after a third partner for some time, though Loftus could not see what they wanted with one, as they kept efficient clerks—proposed to Captain Paradyne to invest his money—two or three thousand pounds I think it was—in their concern, and take a share. Paradyne consented. Mr. Loftus murmured at first, but at last he consented; and the firm became Loftus, Trace, & Paradyne. Things went on smoothly for two years, or thereabouts, though Paradyne proved an utter novice in business matters, as your military men, gentlemen by birth and habit, often do; and Trace grumbled awfully. Not publicly, you know; only in private to me, whenever I was down at Liverpool. Then came the crash. Paradyne was discovered to have played up Old Harry with everything; the money of the firm, the shares of customers, all he could lay his hands on. Strange to say, it was Loftus, the unbusiness man, who was the one to make the first discovery. Only think of that!"

Dr. Brabazon merely nodded. He was listening attentively.

"Mr. Loftus had gone to Liverpool for a few days. Something struck him in looking over the books, and he called Robert Trace's attention to it. That night in private they went into the thing together, and saw that some roguery was being played. The next day it was all out, and ruin stared them in the face. On the following morning Mr. Loftus caused Paradyne to be arrested, and telegraphed for me. When I got down at night, the man was dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Dr. Brabazon.

"He was dead, that poor Arthur Paradyne. Ah! when Loftus met me with the news, it was a shock. He had been taken before the magistrates for examination, was remanded, and put in a cell in the lock-up, or whatever they call the place. One of the clerks, a young man named Hopper, was allowed to have an interview with him; half an hour afterwards Paradyne was found dead in his cell. Of course it was assumed that he had taken poison, and the report found its way to the newspapers. But when the doctors made the examination, they found he had died of disease of the heart;—a natural sequence to the events of the day, for one whose heart was not sound."

"It was very shocking altogether."

"Ay, it was. And with his death ended the investigation. 'Why pursue it?' Trace asked; 'let it drop, for the wife and children's sake.' Robert Trace was a hard man in general; but I must say he behaved leniently in this case. It did not, so far, touch his pocket, you see; for all the investigation in the world would not have brought back the wasted money, or undone the work. The concern was wound up; Mr. Loftus had to move into a small house, and otherwise reduce his expenses; Robert Trace went to America with a little money I lent him; and Mrs. Paradyne disappeared."

"It was a dreadful thing for her," spoke Dr. Brabazon.

"Very. People, in their indignation against Paradyne, could not think of her; but I did, and I went to see her. She was very bitter against her husband; I could see it, though she said little."

"Did she tell you how the money had gone?"

"She did not know. The discovery that he had been using it came upon her with the same shock of astonishment that it had upon the rest of us. One thing she could swear to, she said to me—that it had never been brought home, or used in any way for her or his children. I can't quite recollect about the children," broke off Sir Simon: "there was one, I know, for I saw him—a fine boy; I suppose the one now come here; but I have an impression there were more."

"Had she nothing left—the mother?"

"I asked her the question. She told me she had a small income, nothing like enough to keep her. I wonder how they have lived?" continued Sir Simon, after a pause.

"The son has been to a thorough good school," observed Dr. Brabazon. "Did Mr. Paradyne acknowledge his guilt?"

"He denied it utterly, so Loftus told me; made believe at first to think they were accusing him in joke."

A sudden light, something like hope, appeared in Dr. Brabazon's eyes as he raised them to Sir Simon.

"Is it possible that he could have been innocent?" he eagerly asked.

"No, it is not possible; there was no one else who could have had access to the shares and things," was the avowal. But Sir Simon looked grieved, and was grieved, to have to make it.

And so it was decided that George Paradyne should remain.

[CHAPTER IV.]
Sir Simon Orville's offered Reward.

In the comfortable apartment which was made the family sitting-room, where Miss Brabazon might usually be found by anybody who wanted her, sat a young lady on this same afternoon. A laughing, saucy, wilful girl of thirteen, with short petticoats, and wavy brown hair hanging down. It was Miss Rose Brabazon. Dr. Brabazon had married two wives and lost them both: he had several older children, all out in the world now, but this was the only young one, and spoilt accordingly. That is, all out in the world save his eldest daughter, whom you will see presently. Miss Rose was supposed to be at her studies. Sundry exercise-books were before her on the square table, covered with its handsome green cloth, in the middle of the room; in point of fact, she was inditing a private letter, and taking recreative trips to the window between whiles,—a large, pleasant window, looking out on the gymnasium-ground, with a view of the Hampstead and Highgate hills in the far distance. At least seventeen of the boys were madly in love with Miss Rose, and Miss Rose reciprocated the compliment to a large proportion of them.