Ernest Carrington sat in the retirement of his little study, and gave
himself up to thought. His scholastic labours were over for the day, and
with a head too tired for mental occupation, and a heart too full of the
great problem of existence to find pleasure in frivolous amusements, he
sat resting his aching brow upon his hand, pondering the mighty enigma
of human life in general, and his own individual experience of it in
particular. He thought of the aspirations of his boyhood, of the bright
hopes of his later youth, and mentally compared them with the dark
reality of his manhood; he called to mind the dreams of greatness which
he had pictured to himself--not the-false and hollow greatness of mere
rank and riches, but the true greatness of living to become a benefactor
to his species; the greatness which he sought when he took upon him
the duties, and privileges, and responsibilities of his sacred calling;
greatness the praise whereof is uttered by the lips of widows and
orphans, and written on broken and contrite hearts, to be transferred
thence, by an angel’s hand, to the Book of Life. And then, for he was
young and loving-hearted, he thought of softer, brighter visions; of a
fair ideal being, with an angel’s brow and a woman’s form, who should
pass by his side through life, and, loving him more than all things else
save the GOD who gave them, to each other, should meet him again, and
be his reward in Heaven, where perfect bliss could be ensured by the
certainty that they should part no more. And in what had these bright
visions ended?--a life of solitary drudgery. Even independence, the one
thing that sweetens labour--the power of carrying out his own ideas of
right and wrong--even that, by his subordinate position, was denied to
him. And why was all this? What wrong had he committed, to deserve
so severe a punishment? Why was he condemned to this mental
prison-discipline, this alternation between psychological oakum-picking
and solitary confinement? Nay, was not his present position, the result
of his own unselfishness and liberality? If he had not given up his
patrimony for the benefit of his sisters, nor relinquished his claim
upon the entailed property, he would have possessed a fair income, on
which he could have lived comfortably until he should have met with some
ecclesiastical preferment, the duties of which would have afforded him
the opportunities he sought of devoting himself to the good of others.
If not permitted to exercise the talents committed to him to the glory
of God, why was he born into this world at all? Poor Ernest! he had yet
to learn that hardest of all lessons, to an eager, energetic spirit: he
had yet to acquire belief in the great truth, that
“------They also serve
Who stand and wait.”
But his trial was more nearly ended than he was aware of even as he sat
there late into the night, pondering on the evils of his position
but perceiving no means of escaping from them, the very fact of his
unaccustomed wakefulness constituted the first link of the chain of
events which was to bring about his deliverance. Days afterwards this
idea struck him, and taught him a useful lesson.
The great clock in the school-room had just proclaimed, for the benefit
of the blackbeetles, crickets, and mice then tenanting the apartment,
the interesting fact that it was two a.m., and Ernest, weary and
dispirited, had just determined to put himself and his troubles to bed,
when he recollected he had left some Greek exercises, which he had to
look over before the school opened the next morning, lying on his desk
in the school-room. Anxious not to disturb any one, he substituted a
pair of soft slippers for his boots; and knowing exactly the spot in
which he had left the papers, he determined to dispense with a candle.
Feeling his way cautiously, he descended the stairs and reached the
school-room without any _contretemps_--but here a difficulty arose, for
some one had moved the papers. Recollecting he had some lucifers in
his desk, he was preparing to light a taper which he kept there for
the purpose of sealing letters, when a sound, as of footsteps in the
play-ground, caught his ear:--he paused to listen;--the steps appeared
to come nearer, till at length they approached the outer door;--from
the sound it was evident that there were two or three persons. When they
reached the door, they paused and spoke to each other in a low whisper;
then Ernest became aware, from the altered nature of the sounds, that
some one was climbing into the loft over the stable; his first idea was,
that they were common pilferers, intending to steal the Doctor’s oats;
but it occurred to him that there might be some communication between
the loft and the dwelling-house, and that they were burglars attempting
to effect an entrance; desirous of obtaining a more certain knowledge
before he gave any alarm, Ernest remained motionless, listening to the
sounds without. Suddenly, a noise above him caused him to look up; as
he did so, a small window in the skylight was cautiously opened, and a
boy’s head and shoulders were thrust in;--seeing this, Ernest
stooped down so as to become hidden by the rails of the desk. Having
reconnoitred the apartment, and imagining it untenanted, the owner of
the head and shoulders noiselessly drew in the rest of his small person;
then, hanging by his hands, he allowed his legs to drop, till, with his
feet, he was enabled to reach the Doctor’s desk, which was considerably
higher than any of the others; he next closed the window, and silently
gliding down the slope of the desk, by the aid of a high stool gained
_terra firma_.
Ernest’s first impulse was to collar him, but on second thoughts he
determined to wait, and let the affair develop itself a little further.
Having reached the ground, Hugh (for of course the reader has long since
surmised that it was that misguided child) crept cautiously to the outer
door, and withdrew the bolt; as he did so, Ernest noiselessly crossed
the apartment, and, when the door opened, seized the first person who
attempted to enter. A short, but severe struggle ensued, which ended
in Ernest’s favour: finding himself foiled in his endeavours to free
himself from the young tutor’s grasp, Norman (for he it was) observed
quietly--
“Let me go, Mr. Carrington, you have half strangled me: I shall not
attempt to escape.”
“I’ll take good care of that,” returned Ernest drily, releasing his
grasp on his antagonist’s throat, though he still retained his hold on
his collar. “Oblige me by walking across the room,” he continued:
“I must take measures for securing your companions in this nocturnal
adventure, as well as yourself.”
So saying, he conducted Norman to the door of the schoolroom which led
to the interior of the house--this he locked--then, still retaining his
hold on the prisoner’s collar, he rang a bell which communicated with
the Doctor’s private apartments. In the meantime, perceiving farther
concealment to be impossible, Biggington, leaning on Stradwick’s arm
and Terry’s shoulder, entered considerably the worse for wear, and flung
himself doggedly on a bench. The sound of approaching footsteps soon
broke the uncomfortable silence which followed the capture of
Norman. Ernest unfastened the door, and Dr. Donkiestir, followed by a
man-servant with a lantern and a thick stick, hastily entered.
“Ha! Mr. Carrington! Norman! What is all this? What is all this?” he
exclaimed, as his eye fell upon the two most prominent figures.
In a few words, Ernest explained his own share in the matter; then
setting Norman at liberty, he crossed his arms on his breast, and,
leaning against a high desk, left the Doctor to finish the adventure.
“In the first place, who have we here?” inquired the head-master,
sternly. Receiving no answer, he took the lantern from the servant, and
held it so that the light fell in turn on the faces of the different
delinquents, remarking as he did so--“Norman! I believed you to have
been too much of a gentleman to have been mixed up in an affair of this
kind--you have disappointed me; go to your room, I shall speak to you
to-morrow. Biggington! why what is the matter with him?” throwing the
light of the lantern full upon his swollen and discoloured features, he
continued--“Why you’ve been lighting, sir, and are partly intoxicated!
Disgusting! you shall disgrace my school no longer. Stradwick! with
Biggington, of course. At all events, I am glad to perceive you are
sober--fighting is a vice I never suspected you of. Terry! have all the
pains I have taken with you led to no better result than this? but I
suppose you chose to copy Norman, even in his faults! And lastly, who
is this poor child you have suborned to aid you in your nefarious
practices? The younger Colville! your brother should have prevented
this!”
Poor Hugh, his worst fears realized, had been crouching close to Terry
(the most goodnatured of the party) in an agony of apprehension; but, at
this insinuation, all his love for Percy, together with the innate sense
of justice which was one of his best traits, rose up within him, and, at
any cost, he hastened to repel it.
“Percy knew nothing of it; knows nothing yet,” he said; “I have deceived
him; and it will serve me right if you flog me to death, sir, but do
not be angry with dear Percy!” and here a burst of tears chocked his
utterance.
The Doctor was as much affected as a school-master can be.
“Poor child!” he replied; “do not be alarmed for your brother; if he is,
as you state, ignorant of this business, he has nothing to fear. You may
all,” he added, raising his voice--“you may all depend upon my acting
with the most strict and impartial justice; and now to your dormitories
instantly. I shall investigate this affair most scrupulously to-morrow.”
So saying, the Doctor withdrew, courteously but stiffly bowing to
Ernest; leaving the man-servant, with the thick stick and the lantern,
to see the delinquents safely to bed; where it is but charitable to
desire for them a good night; a consolation we can scarcely expect them
to obtain, however much we may “wish they may get it.”