THE LAKE AMONG THE ROCKS.
“Now I saw in my dream, that by this time the pilgrims were
entering into the country of Beulah.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
The painful incident recorded in the last chapter had been to Ernest
one of the most instructive events of his life, and the young lord felt
that it was so. He recognized the parental care of his heavenly Father,
in openly rebuking his pride; and was now so well aware of the peculiar
dangers that attended his position, and how much they were increased
by the weak indulgence of his preceptor, that he heard almost without
regret, on the following day, that having come into some property by the
will of a relative, Mr. Sligo was about to resign his present charge.
Oh, how gladly would Fontonore have recalled his first friend, him
whose love was too sincere for flattery! This, however, was a thing
quite beyond his hopes, and the boys tried to content themselves with
the thought that they might soon have the pleasure of seeing their late
tutor. Mr. Searle had told Ernest, when he met him at the castle, that
he expected Mr. Ewart on a visit; and though the young peer knew that
the clergyman would not come to Fontonore, as such a step might be
displeasing to his uncle, he determined to go over himself to Silvermere,
as soon as he should hear that his friend had arrived there.
One bright, lovely spring morning, with this idea on his mind, Ernest
sauntered forth in the direction of Mr. Searle’s house. Very beautiful
was the scenery which lay between—so beautiful that the spot was often
visited by strangers, who came from many miles round to see it.
A small lake, so small that we might better term it a pool, lay embosomed
in high rocks, that hung over it as though to look at their rough crags
reflected in its mirror. From this beautiful little piece of water,
sleeping in their dark shadow, was fed a rapid stream, that, rushing
onward, as if weary of its tranquil repose, made its way for some short
distance through an opening in the rocks, and then flinging aloft showers
of spray, fell with a bold leap over some lower crags into a wider lake
in the valley below. There was a wooden bridge over this stream, some
way above the cascade, and on this bridge Ernest had often delighted to
take his station, where, on the right hand, he could see the quiet upper
lake, so carefully sheltered and guarded from the wind by the tall rocks
that towered around it; on the left, the wider sheet which lay outspread
far below to receive the rivulet which flowed beneath his feet. It was
a lovely spot, and a favourite haunt of one who loved to look up through
nature unto nature’s God. Ernest thought of the current of human life
as he watched the waters bursting forth from the secluded, shady pool,
rolling for some brief minutes through a narrow, darkened chasm; then, as
they emerged into the sunny light, plunging with a deep and sudden fall
to mix and lose themselves in the brighter waters that lay glittering in
the vale.
It was some time now since Ernest had visited this scene, and this
morning he felt inclined to bend his steps thither. He feared that
his constant round of occupations—his studies, even his charitable
pursuits—had made him of late too much neglect that quiet communing with
God and his own heart, which should be a pilgrim’s privilege and delight.
Ernest, therefore, did not ask even Charles to accompany him; peaceful
meditation on the highest subjects that can engage the mind is best
enjoyed, is perhaps only enjoyed, in solitude and seclusion.
Ernest was tranquilly, but deeply happy. His discovery of his infirmity
had served rather to humble than to depress him. If he had less
confidence now in himself, he had more than ever in his Saviour; and what
sweet security came with the thought that it was on no arm of flesh that
he rested! He who had loved him would love to the end. _This God is our
God for ever and ever, He will be our guide unto death._
With holy and happy thoughts for his companions, Fontonore wandered to
the little bridge. It struck him, before he set his foot upon it, that it
looked decayed and injured by the weather. He stooped down to examine the
rough timber, between the chinks of which he could see the stream flowing
darkly and rapidly by. A very brief survey strengthened his suspicion
that the bridge was in a dangerous state.
“I will not attempt to cross it,” said Ernest to himself, “though it is
the nearest way to Silvermere. I must speak to Mr. Searle, and have it
repaired. I think that the property belongs to him. The long winter has
made the wood decay; and yet, from a little distance, it looks safe and
beautiful as ever. To rest our hopes of heaven upon our works, however
fair in man’s eyes they might appear, would be like trusting our safety
to that frail timber, and first learning our danger by our fall.”
Before he quitted the spot, Ernest wished to climb to the top of the
highest crag that rose above the cataract, as he from thence would
command a view over Silvermere: perhaps he might even see Mr. Ewart
in the distance. The path which led to the height was very narrow and
winding, encumbered with thicket and difficult of access, but the
prospect from the summit more than repaid all the trouble of the ascent.
An expanse of beautiful country spread around: here cattle were grazing
in hedge-bordered fields of emerald velvet spangled with buttercups
and daisies; there stretched woods, clad in the light garb of spring,
whence the note of the cuckoo rose musical and soft; hills, blue in the
distance, were seen to the north; and pretty hamlets, or farm-houses,
embosomed in trees, with a little church spire pointing towards heaven,
gave the interest of life to the scene.
Ernest looked down from his lofty crag, clothed with shrubs and wild
rock-creepers almost to its summit, upon the fair prospect below. The
Castle of Fontonore looked so small in the distance that it was almost
hidden from view by a hovel that stood on a hill between. The banner
on the flag-staff seemed a mere blue speck which the eye could hardly
distinguish.
“’Tis thus,” thought its possessor, “that, from the heights of heaven, we
may look down upon what we most prize below. How small will our honours
appear to us then! how little all that here we most valued!” He gazed
down on the churchyard, which was not far from the rocks, and thought
how glorious a scene would that quiet green spot present, when the seeds
there sown in corruption should spring forth into life, and the Lord come
to gather in the harvest of His redeemed.
Presently Ernest saw beneath him some one approaching the bridge. His
elevation, though considerable, was not so great but that he recognized
the face and figure of Jack Lawless. It would take some time to reach
him by descending the path. Ernest adopted a shorter way of warning him
of danger, and, leaning over the crag, shouted loudly and repeatedly,
“Do not try the bridge; it is not safe!” Jack could not help hearing the
voice, and looked up;—his only reply was his own audacious smile. Ernest
had warned him before of dangers of another kind: he had disregarded
the warning then, he disregarded it now. As if he wished to show that
he despised any caution given to him by one whom he hated, or, perhaps,
led only by the foolish daring of a boy, he set his foot upon the rotten
plank, and the next moment was precipitated into the water!
Ernest heard the sharp cry, saw the sudden fall; he knew that the
wretched boy could not swim, and that in a few moments he must be hurried
over the cataract, and dashed to pieces on the rocks below! Ernest never
paused to consider how slight was the chance of saving him—how great
that of losing his own life in the attempt; still less did he stop to
recollect that the miserable Lawless was one who had treated him with
insult and hate; he only saw that a fellow-creature was perishing before
him, on the brink of destruction, and _unprepared_! If he descended by
the path, his aid must come too late: Ernest took a shorter and more
perilous way. Springing from the edge of the crag, swinging himself down
by the shrubs that grew on the rock, clinging, leaping, clambering,
falling, he descended from the height as never human being had descended
before. Twice he dashed himself against the crags in his desperate
descent; a thrill of sharp agony shot across his frame, but now it was
impossible to stop. Down he plunged into the water, almost at the head of
the fall, at the moment that the current was carrying Lawless over the
edge. The left hand of Ernest still grasped the bough of a willow which
he had caught as he first struck the stream; the right, hastily extended,
grasped the hair of the drowning boy, and held him back from the fatal
brink. But the fearful effort could not last, though it was an effort
for life. Ernest felt both his strength and his senses failing him—the
exhausted fingers must relax their clasp—both must perish! No! no! there
is a loud shout heard—help is near, an eager hand is stretched out to
save—a firm hold is laid on the arm of Fontonore—he is dragged to the
shore in a senseless state, his livid hand still unconsciously wreathed
in the locks of the boy whom he has saved!
“Thank God! oh, thank God!” exclaimed Mr. Ewart, as he laid the two boys
side by side on the turf, dripping, ghastly, insensible, but living
still. He hastened for the aid which was speedily afforded. Ernest and
Lawless were removed to the nearest cottage, where every means was used
to restore them. A messenger was hastily despatched for a doctor, but
before he arrived both of the sufferers had sufficiently recovered to
be taken back to the castle. Lawless felt no further effect from his
accident than a slight chill and a sense of exhaustion; but it was far
otherwise with his youthful preserver, who had sustained very severe
injury in his dangerous descent, and who awoke to consciousness in a
state of such suffering as excited alarm in the minds of his friends.
[Illustration: THE RESCUE.]
The doctor arrived after some delay, and examined the injured boy, who
shrank from his touch in uncontrollable pain. Dr. Mansell looked grave,
and drew Mr. Hope aside.
“I should wish, for my own satisfaction,” he said, “that other advice
should be called in. The case is, I fear, of a serious nature—could not
a messenger be despatched upon horseback at once to bring Dr. Ashby?” a
surgeon of great eminence, who resided in a town at some distance.
“One shall be sent directly,” replied Mr. Hope. “You do not apprehend any
danger?” he added, speaking in a low, earnest tone.
“We will say nothing till Dr. Ashby’s opinion is given. I hope that there
is no cause for alarm;” but the manner of the medical man contradicted
his words.
Intense was the anxiety with which Charles and Mr. Ewart awaited the
coming of the surgeon. How many, alas, have known that terrible period
of waiting for the arrival of the doctor, when minutes seem lengthening
into hours—for the life of a loved one is at stake! Charles was in such
a state of feverish excitement, that Mr. Hope positively forbade his
entering the apartment where the poor sufferer lay. Long before any one
else could hear them, he caught the sound of carriage-wheels, and was
ready at the bridge to receive the surgeon, whose lips would decide the
fate of his brother.
Dr. Ashby was a stout, bald-headed man, with a quick, penetrating eye,
and a manner which inspired confidence; decided, without being harsh.
Charles could hardly have been prevented from following him into Ernest’s
room, in which Mr. Ewart and Dr. Mansell now were, but Mrs. Hope kept him
back with the words, “Stay here in the corridor, Charles; the sight of
your agitated face would be enough to kill him at once.” She entered in,
and closed the door gently behind her.
How long, oh, how long appeared the interval! With what different
feelings Charles now stood at the door of that room which he had once
entered in such grief and resentment on the day of his return from
Marshdale! He then hated the sounds which showed him where his brother
was moving through the castle; now his ear was painfully strained to
catch any accent of that brother’s voice: he was then almost inclined to
murmur at the loss of the broad lands which he had once possessed; now,
had they been his, he would have given them all to have had Ernest by his
side once more.
At length the door opened, and the two doctors came out, followed by Mrs.
Hope. Charles looked the question which his voice could not utter—his
aunt laid her finger upon her lips.
“They will consult together in another room,” she whispered; “wait here,
and I will bring you the result.”
With a sickening heart Charles leaned back on the wall opposite the door
of Ernest’s apartment: he tried to pray, but his mind could scarcely form
a prayer—the suspense seemed to paralyze all its energies. After the
lapse of some minutes, he heard the rustle of his aunt’s dress again:
she came close to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and in a low voice
uttered but one sentence: “Charles, you will be Lord of Fontonore!”