Chapter V: 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.