_A DARK HOUR._
Silence followed; the Doctor, one hand held in front of him, the
other still behind his back, looked as one anxious to forgive yet
forced to punish. Harsh measures were against every instinct of his
nature. His was a rule of love. He would not have ruled at all had
it been necessary that his should be a rule of fear; but it was not.
Love, in general, he found all-powerful--love tempered with decision.
His was the Christ-like ideal, that love of which the apostle speaks,
which suffereth long and is kind. Had he had the sole control of
every boy committed to his charge, doubtless he would have found the
rule invariable--love always all-powerful, not generally so.
But he had not. Not every one who worked with him saw with his eyes.
All men are not cast in the same mould; there are different theories
with different men. Tutors are but men; each has his own idea of
government, and to him, for reasons of his own, that idea of
government appears to be the best. The tutor with whom Marmaduke
Tregowan had had principally to deal was, as the Doctor said, in
every sense a scholar and a gentleman. Long-suffering he certainly
had been; long-tempered he unfortunately was not. Successful as a
teacher, popular with the ordinary run of pupils, he ruled them with
an unhesitating hand. Tyrannical he was not; severity was his first
principle. He did not like to punish; on the other hand, he did not
fail to punish because he did not like it. Such an one was not the
one to govern Marmaduke Tregowan; from the very first they had
disagreed. Tregowan was unmanageable; the master's idea of making
him amenable to discipline was to heap punishment after punishment
upon his head, and he had heaped them; the result was the lad grew
worse instead of better. In the end--for he was essentially a just
man--it dawned upon him that, if the boy was to be governed with any
reasonable hope of his improvement, it could not be by him; so he had
gone to Dr. Graham and frankly told him that--for the boy's own sake,
and for his own as well--if the lad was not taken from his charge,
that charge he must resign, for they were doing each other harm
instead of good. So the Doctor, who saw perfectly well how matters
stood, and was quite aware that the lad was worse instead of better,
had taken the matter into his consideration, had communed within
himself, and had finally resolved that the best thing--indeed, it
seemed to him, the only thing--which he could do was to dismiss the
boy from Dorrincourt.
But Duke had never imagined that this would be the end of all.
Thoughtlessness was the keynote of his character. It was not that
his intentions or his principles were bad; on the contrary, they were
loftily ideal: it was in practice he fell short. He acted upon
impulse, on the spur of the moment; he never paused to think if the
consequence of word or act would be for good or evil; it was after it
was spoken, after it was done, that he thought--if, indeed, he
thought at all. By consequence--never looking forward to what the
morrow might bring forth--the possibility, nay, the probability of
expulsion never for a moment crossed his mind. His first feeling on
hearing that he--he! Marmaduke Tregowan!--was expelled, was a sudden
shock of surprise and a sudden sinking of the heart. The next moment
his pride was roused, and he woke up in a rage.
Drawing himself upright again, with an air of hauteur, which, in one
in his position, would have been ridiculous had it not been so very
real, he said--
"Dr. Graham, I will not forget what you have said to me, nor will I
forgive it either. Were I a man, you would not dare to talk to me
like that; but, as I am a boy, you can expel me. I am the first
Tregowan who was ever told that his presence not only was not
requested, but could not be permitted. I will never forgive you
while I live."
And, his head high in the air, fire flashing in his eyes, he turned,
and laid his hand upon the handle of the door.
"Stop, Tregowan," said the Doctor, as Duke was opening the door; "you
must not go like that. You speak more like a child, my lad, the more
you try to ape a man. You will not forgive me! It is my earnest
prayer, and if you are wise you will make it yours, that I may never
need to ask forgiveness of any one but God. You speak as though I
took a pleasure in expelling you--as though it were an act of mere
revenge. Boy, you are ever in my prayers. Go in what spirit you
will, I shall never be an enemy of yours; and let these be my last
words to you at Dorrincourt. Pray without ceasing; that is your
greatest want--want of communion with God; pray always, lad, with
humility--it is an old man who speaks to you--and all will yet be
well with you. Good-bye, Tregowan!"
And the Doctor put out his hand to Marmaduke. The boy stood there in
doubt, the door ajar, his right hand still upon the handle; then his
better self got hold of him. Dropping the handle, "Good-bye," he
said; and their hands were joined, the master's and the pupil's.
So for awhile they stood, Duke's head now bent, the Doctor looking
with gentle, earnest eyes into his face.
"Good-bye, my lad," he said. "God go with you wherever you may go,
and all good things. You are but very young, that you must own, but
on the threshold of your life. You are very dear to your mother and
to them all at home. You have great advantages, and great
responsibilities as well, talents above the average, wealth, an
honoured name, great possessions; use these unto the glory of the
Lord. Good-bye, Tregowan!"
He pressed his hand again, then let it go, crossed the room, and went
out through a door on the other side, and Duke was left alone--alone
with his own thoughts.
There for a while where the Doctor left him he remained--there, by
the half-open door, with head bent down; and, if it had not been
Duke, one would have said that those were tears within his eyes. But
since Duke it was, and since he was such a manly man--he never
cried--the thing of course was quite impossible. But sigh certainly
he did; and then he lifted up his head and glanced, half covertly,
round the room. It was the last time, perhaps, that he might ever
see it; it was not strange that he should desire to carry a picture
of it in his mind's eye; and then he sighed again and turned to go.
But when he was outside, being in no cheerful mood, lo! two friends
of his fell in with him, who desired nothing better than to cheer his
solitude. These were none other than Lionel Pollyon and Noel
Penharden. Those young gentlemen, it will be borne in mind, acting
on Lionel's suggestion, had resolved to remain behind after their
fellows had severally wended their ways home, for the purpose of
sustaining Marmaduke Tregowan while he laboured under the severe
infliction of the Doctor's anger.
It may be frankly said that long ere this one of them at least had
cordially regretted that, in allowing his friendship to triumph over
his convenience, he had ever been so foolish as to fall in with
Pollyon's suggestion. This was of course Penharden. Majestic
theories were one thing, resolving them into practice was quite
another. He had no desire to martyrise himself for Marmaduke, or,
however truly theoretically he might aspire to the martyr's crown,
for any one. He felt that he had made a martyr of himself for
Tregowan's sake, and the feeling, instead of comforting him, made him
particularly sore.
They had not had a pleasant time together, these self-sacrificing
friends; far otherwise. Noel was in no pleasant temper, to begin
with, and when his temper was unpleasant, it was about as unpleasant
as a temper well could be. The "Prisoner of Chillon," fine though as
a poem it may be, is not a piece calculated to raise one's spirits
when one is alone in a cheerless schoolroom on a cold winter's day.
True, Noel was not alone, but to all practical intents and purposes
he might have been, for Pollyon had hold of some deeply interesting
work, in whose perusal he was so earnestly engaged that he paid not
the least heed to Penharden's remarks. Now Noel was blessed with a
good memory, and, since there was nothing else to do, concluded to
liven the proceedings, for his own amusement entirely, by repeating
the lines in which Lord Byron depicts the rigours of the castle by
Chillon--
"'Alas! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing,
In any shape, in any mood.'"
Thus Penharden, as, with arms folded upon his chest and frowning
brow, he looked out upon the falling snow.
"Look here!" exclaimed Pollyon, who being in the middle of a
thrilling chapter of intensest interest, was anything but inclined to
listen to his companion's specimens of elocution. "I'll trouble you
not to make so much noise. How do you suppose a fellow's going to
read while you're going on like that?"
"'I've seen it rushing forth in blood,"
went on Penharden, paying no heed to Lionel's remonstrances;
"'I've seen it on the breaking ocean,
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion;'"
and he throw back his arms and clenched his fists to express this
swoln convulsive motion.
"Do you hear what I say?" stormed Lionel, with little sympathy for
the fine poetic frenzy of Penharden's mood. "How do you suppose I'm
going to read while you go on like that?"
"I am not aware that I am bound to know how you are going to read,"
rejoined Noel philosophically; and then continued--
"'I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin, delirious with its dread:
But these were horrors, this was woe,
Unmixed with such, but sure and slow.'"
But Pollyon interrupted him. Rising to the occasion, he stood up in
his place, and said--
"Then I'll tell you what. If you think I'm going to stand that sort
of thing, you're wrong, my boy. What a conceited ass you are! What
do you call that din? If you had a voice a little less like the
scraping of a rusty file, it might be worth while listening to. As
it is, if you take my advice, you'll just keep still."
"Thank you; I'm much obliged to you for your advice," returned the
other. "It was quite unasked for. When I or any other sane person
ask for it, then you may set me down as mad, but not till then. In
the meantime, if I were you, I would keep the article which you call
'your advice'"--this with the supremest scorn--"in your own empty
head.
'He faded, but so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak.'"
"Oh, go on! go on!" broke in Pollyon. "'He faded!' Yes, I should
think he did after a dose or two of that sort of thing from you!
Faded! Yes, yes, poor thing! Anything else happen to the miserable
wretch who was doomed to listen to your row?" And he surveyed
Penharden with, a contempt which did not tend to encourage him to
persevere in the paths of purely poetic elocution.
"If we were not here, Pollyon"---- began Penharden.
"If you were not here, I should say it was extremely probable that
you were locked up in jail or in an asylum."
"I will not bandy words with you. He who bandies words with reptiles
is unconscious of the dignity of man. I'm not accustomed to talk to
idiots."
"Perhaps not! There are not many of your stamp to be found in this
locality."
"If it were not that I promised to stay with you to see Tregowan
through his scrape, I'd punch your head for you."
"Oh, pray don't let that stand in your way. Punch it at once."
And in this cheerful way these bosom friends went on. No wonder that
when, in course of time, they bethought themselves of their mission,
and went in search of Duke, they were hardly in a frame of mind to
comfort each other, still less to offer consolation to a third. On
his part, Duke, when he fell in with them outside the Doctor's study,
was at a loss to understand their appearance there. On the whole, it
was an awkward minute, not at all the sort of thing they had proposed
it should have been.
"I say, Duke," began Pollyon, anxious to break a somewhat
uncomfortable pause, "I'm awfully sorry"----
"What are you two fellows doing here?" inquired Tregowan, in anything
but the most genial of tones, unceremoniously cutting Pollyon short.
"I thought you were to have gone by this morning's train."
"So we were; but we couldn't bear the thought, old man, of your going
home in the mopes alone, after a wigging from that beast in there,"
pointing over his shoulder towards the Doctor's study; "so we stopped
to keep you company."
It was Pollyon spoke. By the expression on Tregowan's face gratitude
was not the predominant feeling which occupied his breast. Haughtier
than ever, in his iciest and most unpleasant tones, he said--
"Thank you; but it was quite unnecessary. Strange though it may
appear to you, I prefer going home in the mopes alone; and, stranger
still, am not desirous of the pleasure of your company."
And, without another word, head high in the air, he marched on, and
left them standing there. Like statues they remained, their eyes
following the ungrateful Duke with a look in them of complete
bewilderment. He passed round the corner from their sight. Then
slowly they turned their faces towards each other. Noel was the
first to speak.
"That was a pretty slap in the face for you," he said, in homely
phraseology.
"For me! What do you mean by for me?" retorted Pollyon savagely, a
fierce look in his eyes. "And for you as well, I think.
Ill-mannered brute! impudent snob! I'll pay him out for this. Don't
stand gaping there. If it hadn't been for you, I would have made him
beg my pardon on the spot."
"Would you?" retorted Penharden, wholly forgetful of his fine phrases
for a time. "I'd like to see you at it. You make him beg your
pardon! I tell you what, Pollyon, you don't think small beer of
yourself by any means--other people do, you know."
"Take that, you insolent young brat!" and out went Pollyon's fist in
the direction of Penharden's nose. Considering Noel was at least as
tall as himself, and certainly not more than three or four months
younger, to call him a "young brat" was to stand upon the dignity of
his age indeed.
Fortunately Penharden threw back his head in time to escape the full
force of the other's blow, or his nose would very probably have
suffered; as it was, Lionel's fist came quite close enough to make
the matter pleasant; so in a pretty fume Noel struck wildly back
again, and, in less time than it takes to write it, a very
comfortable combat was raging outside the Doctor's study-door. How
long it might have been prolonged it is impossible to say, for, as
fortune had it, a third person suddenly appeared upon the scene in
the shape of Jenkins, the Doctor's servant. That individual having
been sent by the Doctor on an errand to his study, hearing unusual
sounds outside, looked out to see from whence they came.
"Excuse me, young gents," he said, coming out into the passage, "but
this ain't quite the sort of thing, you know. Sorry to interrupt
you, but really, don't you know, it ain't to be supposed we can have
them carrying on out here."
And he surveyed the disputants with his most cheerful grin.
"He hit me first," began Penharden.
"I know I did, and I'll do it again," retorted Pollyon.
"Jes' so, jes' so," replied the affable Mr. Jenkins, "and right you
are, no doubt, and very pretty sport it is for them as likes it; but
if I was you, if have it out you must--and it ain't for me to say you
shouldn't--I'd have it out by yourselves alone, where no one couldn't
come."
"When I ask your advice I'll let you know," said Pollyon, trying to
look as haughty as he could--the attempt, however, owing to the
condition of heat which he was in, being somewhat of a failure. With
such dignity as he could muster he turned upon his heels and strode
off through the corridor.
"Listen to me, Jenkins," said Penharden, left with that gentleman
alone, striving to arrange his necktie, and smooth down his hair,
"you're an impertinent beggar, and if I were your master"----
"Yes, it is a pity that you ain't," said Jenkins.
"I'd sack you on the spot," continued Noel, eyeing the interrupter
with a stony glare. "So now you understand me fully; and I only
trust that when I return next time--if I should return"----
"Sorry to lose you, sir," said Jenkins, still with his sweetest
smile, "you are such a very pleasant gent."
"I hope that you will not be here;" and with that Noel went after
Lionel.
"Ah!" soliloquised Mr. Jenkins, rubbing his hands together and
smiling sweetly to himself, "there's nothing in the world like boys.
I wish I had 'em all to keep; I'd drown 'em in a lump."
But Marmaduke, meanwhile, was fighting out his battle by himself. It
was his dark hour. Arrived at his own little room--his for the last
time to-day--he shut the door and turned the key inside the lock.
How dark it was! how gloomy was the time! The fire in the grate was
out; there was not a spark to warm the room or to cheer its occupant;
everything was in disorder. How that disorder jarred upon him now!
Indeed, all things jarred upon him now; he was at variance with
everything--with the weather, the place, himself, the world. It
seemed to him that the world, with all its occupants, and he were out
of joint. He leaned against the fireplace, his hands thrust deep
down into his trousers' pockets, kicking the ashes idly in the grate.
Yes, like the fire, he too was out--it was with him the time of
ashes. His meeting with Pollyon and his friend had momentarily stung
him back to anger, and the angry fit was on him still. He was
enraged with every one--with himself, with Dr. Graham, with Noel, and
Pollyon. How dare they sympathise with him? How dare they thrust
themselves on his society? How dare they interfere in his affairs at
all? And he kicked the ashes fiercely at the thought of it.
But his angry mood soon passed away. It was a curiously undecided
state of mind that which followed, one difficult to analyse. He sat
down at the table; he drew a sheet of paper towards him; he even
began to write a letter to his mother, to say that he would go out
into the world, that he would not come back to her to shame her, and
to be a cause to her for sorrow. He had been a trouble to her all
through his life. Yes, he owned it now, and would have put it down
on paper and sent it to her through the post; but all at once his
mind was changed.
Why should he write in such a strain? This, with clenched fists and
frowning brow, he asked himself. Was he not still Marmaduke
Tregowan, and was not Marmaduke Tregowan a most important personage?
Certainly! He was none the worse because he chanced to be expelled.
What was expulsion, after all? Nothing--nothing at all! nothing but
rank partiality and self-evident injustice. That was what expulsion
was, at any rate, so far as it had anything to do with him. He saw
it clearly now, and got up and paced up and down the room
indignantly. It was nothing--nothing at all!
But it would not do; it was a part which he could not sustain for
long. That it was something, that it was very much deep down in his
heart, he knew. He was expelled! The fact alone was bad enough; the
cause of it was worse. Oh, what would he not have given to undo the
past! The dead ashes stared at him, the litter seemed to mock at
him, the wind outside howled bitterly. It was a gloomy time. All at
once he heard a sound--a sound familiar to his ear. He turned and
looked. It was a little mouse come from its hole to visit him. He
knew it well. They had known each other for so long that they were
old familiar friends. He stooped down: the mouse came running
towards him; it came into his hand. He lifted it and raised it to
his face. Its keen little eyes seemed wondering why the well-known
smile, the merry glance, was not where it had been of old.
"Sad-hearted! Why so?" it seemed to say; but Duke made no reply. He
sat down by the table, the mouse still in one hand, and leaned his
head upon the other; and so for awhile they stayed, the mouse and he;
but the little creature perceiving that, for some cause or other, he
was in no mood for gambols or for merry tricks, wearied in time, and
all at once, as if in sudden fright, escaped from Duke's hand and ran
across the floor out of his sight. So once more he was alone.
Alone! and his loneliness weighed on him heavily; bub a new thought
came to his mind. Again he drew a sheet of paper towards him; but
this time he took a pen, and fairly set himself to writing. And this
was what he wrote, with infinite pains and trouble, rest assured;
for, after all, it was a very boyish letter.
"Dear Dr. Graham"--he hesitated some time how he should begin, but
finally decided on this opening--"Dear Dr. Graham,--I am sorry that
you have expelled me, for I am very fond of Dorrincourt, and I have
so many friends; but I know how often I have troubled you, and how
many things I have done wrong. I hope you will forgive me for saying
that I would not forgive you, and I hope that, as you were the friend
of my father, you will not cease to be my friend because of this. I
should like all the friends of my father to be my friends as well. I
hope you will excuse my writing this; but I did not like to go away
without asking your forgiveness. I am, your affectionate friend"--he
put "pupil" first, but scratched it out, and put "friend"
instead--"Marmaduke Tregowan."
This he read through and through in search of errors, and was
doubtful after all if there were any. Then he enclosed it in an
envelope, and addressing it in his largest handwriting, "Dr. Graham,"
put it on the mantle-shelf, in a position in which no one entering
the room could fail to see it. It was a great and a new thing for
Marmaduke Tregowan to act the penitent; but in some way it was as
though he felt better when it was done.