CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH ERNEST THORNTON INTRODUCES HIMSELF.
"Ernest Thornton!" called Mr. Parasyte, the principal of the ParkvilleLiberal Institute, in a tone so stern and severe that it wasimpossible to mistake his meaning, or not to understand that a tempestwas brewing. "Ernest Thornton!"
As that was my name, I replied to the summons by rising, andexhibiting my full length to all the boys assembled in theschool-room--about one hundred in number.
"Ernest Thornton!" repeated Mr. Parasyte, not satisfied with thedemonstration I had made.
"Sir!" I replied, in a round, full, square tone, which was intended toconvince the principal that I was ready to "face the music."
"Ernest Thornton, I am informed that you have been engaged in afight," he continued, in a tone a little less sharp than that withwhich he had pronounced my name; and I had the vanity to believe thatthe square tone in which I had uttered the single word I had beencalled upon to speak had produced a salutary impression upon him.
"I haven't been engaged in any fight, sir," I replied, with all thedignity becoming a boy of fourteen.
"Sir! what do you mean by denying it?" added Mr. Parasyte, workinghimself up into a magnificent mood, which was intended to crush me byits very majesty--but it didn't.
"I have not engaged in any fight, sir," I repeated, with as muchdecision as the case seemed to require.
"Didn't you strike William Poodles?" demanded he, fiercely.
"Yes, sir, I did. Bill Poodles hit me in the head, and I knocked himover in self-defence--that was all, sir."
"Don't you call that a fight, sir?" said Mr. Parasyte, knitting hisbrows, and looking savage enough to swallow me.
"No, sir; I do not. I couldn't stand still and let him pound me."
"You irritated him in the beginning, and provoked him to strike theblow. I hold you responsible for the fight."
"I had no intention to irritate him, and I did not wish to provokehim."
"I hold you responsible for the fight, Thornton," said the principalagain.
I supposed he would, for Poodles was the son of a very wealthy andaristocratic merchant in the city of New York, while I belonged towhat the principal regarded as an inferior order of society. At leasttwenty boys in the Parkville Liberal Institute came upon therecommendation of Poodle's father, while not a single one had beenlured into these classic shades by the influence of my family--if Icould be said to belong to any family. Besides, I was but a dayscholar, and my uncle paid only tuition bills for me, while most ofthe pupils were boarders at the Institute.
I am writing of events which took place years ago, but I have seen noreason to change the opinion then formed, that Mr. Parasyte, theprincipal, was a "toady" of the first water; that he was anarrow-minded, partial man, in whom the principle of justice had neverbeen developed. He was a good teacher, an excellent teacher; by whichI mean only to say that he had a rare skill and tact for impartingknowledge, the mere dry bones of art, science, and philosophy. He wasa capital scholar himself, and a capital teacher; but that is the mostthat can be said of him.
I have no hesitation in saying that his influence upon the boys wasbad, as that of every narrow-minded, partial, and unjust man must be;and if I had any boys to send away to a boarding school, they shouldgo to a good and true man, even if I knew him to be, intellectually,an inferior teacher, rather than to such a person as Mr. Parasyte. He"toadied" to the rich boys, and oppressed the poorer ones. Poodleswas the most important boy in the school, and he was never punishedfor his faults, which were not few, nor compelled to learn hislessons, as other boys were. But I think Poodles hated the magnate ofthe Parkville Liberal Institute as much as any other boy.
Parkville is situated on Lake Adieno, a beautiful sheet of water,twenty miles in length, in the very heart of the State of New York.The town was a thriving place of four thousand inhabitants, at which asteamboat stopped twice every day in her trip around the lake. Theacademy was located at the western verge of the town, while my homewas about a mile beyond the eastern line of the village.
I lived with my uncle, Amos Thornton. His residence was a vine-cladcottage, built in the Swiss style, on the border of the lake, the lawnin front of it extending down to the water's edge. My uncle was astrange man. He had erected this cottage ten years before the time atwhich my story opens, when I was a mere child. He had employed in thebeginning, before the house was completed, a man and his wife asgardener and housekeeper, and they had been residents in the cottageever since.
I said that my uncle was a strange man; and so he was. He hardly everspoke a word to any one, and never unless it was absolutely necessaryto do so. He was not one of the talking kind; and old Jerry, thegardener, and old Betsey, the housekeeper, seemed to have been cast inthe same mould. I never heard them talking to each other, and theycertainly never spoke to me unless I asked them a question, and thenonly in the briefest manner.
I never knew what to make of my uncle Amos. He had a little room,which he called his library, in one corner of the house, which couldbe entered only by passing through his bedroom. In this apartment hespent most of his time, though he went out to walk every day, while Iwas at school; but, if he saw me coming, he always retreated to thehouse. He was gloomy and misanthropic; he never went to churchhimself, though he always compelled me to go, and also to attend theSunday school. He did not go into society, and had little or nothingto do with, or to say to, the people of Parkville. He never troubledthem, and they were content to let him alone.
As may well be supposed, my life at the cottage was not thepleasantest that could be imagined. It was hardly a home, only astopping-place to me. It was gloom and silence there, and my uncle wasthe lord of the silent land. Such a life was not to my taste, and Ienvied the boys and girls of my acquaintance in Parkville, as I sawthem talking and laughing with their fathers and mothers, theirbrothers and sisters, or gathered in the social circle around thewinter fire. It seemed to me that their cup of joy was full, whilemine was empty. I longed for friends and companions to share with methe cares and the pleasures of life.
Of myself I knew little or nothing. My memory hardly reached fartherback than the advent of my uncle at Lake Adieno, and all my earlyassociations were connected with the cottage and its surroundings. Ihad a glimmering and indistinct idea of something before our coming toParkville. It seemed to me that I had once known a motherly lady witha sweet and lovely expression on her face; and I had a faintrecollection of looking out upon a dreary waste of waters; but I couldnot fix the idea distinctly in my mind. I supposed that the lady wasmy mother. I made several vain efforts to induce my uncle to tell mesomething about her; if he knew anything, he would not tell me.
Old Jerry and his wife evidently had no knowledge whatever in regardto me before my uncle brought me to Parkville. They could not tell meanything, and my uncle would not. Though I was a boy of only fourteen,this concealment of my birth and parentage troubled me. I was toldthat my father was dead; and this was all the information I couldobtain. Where he had lived, when and where he died, I was notpermitted to know. If I asked a question, my uncle turned on his heeland left me, with no reply.
The vision of the motherly lady, distant and indistinct as it was,haunted me like a familiar melody. If the person was my mother, whyshould her very name be kept from me? If she was still living, whycould I not go to her? If she was dead, why might I not water thegreen sod above her grave with my tears, and plant the sweetestflowers by her tombstone? I was dissatisfied with my lot, and I wasdetermined, at no distant day, to wring from my silent uncle theparticulars of my early history. I was so eager to get this knowledgethat I was almost ready to take him by the throat, if need be, andforce out the truth from between his closed lips.
I never had an opportunity to speak with him; but I could make theopportunity. He took no notice of me; he avoided me; he seemed hardlyto be conscious of my existence. Yet he was not a hard man, in thecommon sense of the word. He clothed me as well as the best boys inthe Institut
e. If I wanted anything for the table, old Jerry wasordered to procure it. When I was ten years old a little row-boat wasfurnished for me; but before I was fourteen I wanted something better,and told my uncle so. He made me no reply; but on my next birthday asplendid sail-boat floated on the lake before the house, which Jerrysaid had been built for me. I told my silent lord that I was muchobliged to him for his very acceptable present, when I happened tocatch him on the lawn. He turned on his heel, and fled as though I hadstung him with the sting of ingratitude.
If I wanted anything, I had only to mention it; and no one criticisedmy conduct, whatever I did. I was free to go and come when I pleased;and though in vacation I was absent three days at once in my boat, noone asked me where I had been, or what I had done. Neither my unclenor his silent satellites ever expressed a fear that I might bedrowned in my voyages in night and storm on the lake; and I came tothe conclusion that no one would care if I were lost.
I do not know how, under such a home government, I ever became adecent fellow. I do not know why I am not now a pirate, a freebooter,a pickpocket, or a nuisance to myself and the world in some othercapacity. I have come to believe since that my inherited goodqualities saved me under such an utter neglect of all home influences.It is a marvel to me that I was not ruined before I was twenty-one;and from the deepest depths of my heart I thank God for his mercy insparing me from the fate which generally and naturally overtakes sucha neglected child.
At the age of twelve, after I had passed through the common school ofthe town, I was admitted to the Parkville Liberal Institute, which Iwished to attend because a friend of mine in the town was there. Myuncle did not object--he never objected to anything. Without pride orvanity I may say that I was a good scholar, and I took the highestrank at the academy. When I was about twelve years old, someinstructions which I received in the Sunday school produced a strongimpression on my mind, and led me to take my stand for life. I triedto be true to God and myself, to be just and manly in all things.Whatever the world may sneeringly say of goodness and truth, I am surethat I owe my popularity among the boys of the Parkville LiberalInstitute to these endeavors--not always successful--to do right.