Volume Two--Chapter Nine.

Volume Two--Chapter Nine.Whom the Gods love die Young.Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?A tress of maiden’s hair,Of drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea!Kingsley.Eric and Wildney were flogged and confined to gates for a time instead of being expelled, and they both bore the punishment in a manly and penitent way, and set themselves with all their might to repair the injury which their characters had received. Eric especially seemed to be devoting himself with every energy to regain, if possible, his long-lost position, and by the altered complexion of his remaining school-life, to atone in some poor measure for its earlier sins. And he carried Wildney with him, influencing others also of his late companions in a greater or less degree. It was not Eric’s nature to do things by halves, and it became obvious to all that his exertions to resist and abandon his old temptations were strenuous and unwavering. He could no longer hope for the school distinctions, which would have once lain so easily within his reach, for the ground lost during weeks of idleness cannot be recovered by a wish; but he succeeded sufficiently, by dint of desperately hard work, to acquit himself with considerable credit, and in the Easter examination came out high enough in the upper fifth to secure his remove into the sixth-form after the holidays.He felt far happier in the endeavour to do his duty, than he had ever done during the last years of recklessness and neglect, and the change for the better in his character tended to restore unanimity and goodwill to the school. Eric no longer headed the party which made a point of ridiculing and preventing industry; and sharing as he did the sympathy of nearly all the boys, he was able quietly and unobtrusively to calm down the jealousies and allay the heart-burnings which had for so long a time brought discord and disunion into the school society. Cheerfulness and unanimity began to prevail once more at Roslyn, and Eric had the intense happiness of seeing how much good lay still within his power.So the Easter holidays commenced with promise, and the few first days glided away in innocent enjoyments. Eric was now reconciled again to Owen and Duncan, and, therefore, had a wider choice of companions more truly congenial to his higher nature than the narrow circle of his late associates.“What do you say to a boat excursion to-morrow?” asked Duncan as they chatted together one evening.“I won’t go without leave,” said Eric; “I should only get caught, and get into another mess. Besides, I feel myself pledged now to strict obedience.”“Ay, you’re quite right. We’ll get leave easily enough though, provided we agree to take Jim the boatman with us; so I vote we make up a party.”“By the bye, I forgot; I’m engaged to Wildney to-morrow.”“Never mind. Bring him with you, and Graham too, if you like.”“Most gladly,” said Eric, really pleased; for he saw by this that Duncan observed the improvement in his old friends, and was falling in with the endeavour to make all the boys really cordial to each other, and destroy all traces of the late factions.“Do you mind my bringing Montagu?”“Not at all. Why should I?” answered Eric, with a slight blush. Montagu and he had never been formally reconciled, nor had they, as yet, spoken to each other. Indeed, Duncan had purposely planned the excursion to give them an opportunity of becoming friends once more, by being thrown together. He knew well that they both earnestly wished it, although, with the natural shyness of boys, they hardly knew how to set about effecting it. Montagu hung back lest he should seem to be patronising a fallen enemy, and Eric lest he should have sinned too deeply to be forgiven.The next morning dawned gloriously, and it was agreed that they should meet at Starhaven, the point where they were to get the boat, at ten o’clock. As they had supposed, Dr Rowlands gave a ready consent to the row, on condition of their being accompanied by the experienced sailor whom the boys called Jim. The precaution was by no means unnecessary, for the various currents which ran round the island were violent at certain stages of the tide, and extremely dangerous for any who were not aware of their general course.Feeling that the day would pass off very unpleasantly if any feeling of restraint remained between him and Montagu, Eric, by a strong effort, determined to ‘make up with him’ before starting, and went into his study for that purpose after breakfast. Directly he came in, Montagu jumped up and welcomed him cordially, and when without any allusion to the past, the two shook hands with all warmth, and looked the old proud look into each other’s faces, they felt once more that their former affection was unimpaired, and that in heart they were real and loving friends. Most keenly did they both enjoy the renewed intercourse, and they found endless subjects to talk about on their way to Starhaven, where the others were already assembled when they came.With Jim’s assistance they shoved a boat into the water, and sprang into it in the highest spirits. Just as they were pushing off they saw Wright and Vernon running down to the shore towards them, and they waited to see what they wanted.“Couldn’t you take us with you?” asked Vernon, breathless with his run.“I’m afraid not, Verny,” said Montagu; “the boat won’t hold more than six, will it, Jim?”“No, sir, not safely.”“Never mind, you shall have my place, Verny,” said Eric, as he saw his brother’s disappointed look.“Then Wright shall take mine,” said Wildney.“Oh dear, no,” said Wright, “we wouldn’t turn you out for the world. Vernon and I will take an immense walk down the coast instead, and will meet you here as we come back.”“Well, good-bye, then; off we go;” and with light hearts the boaters and the pedestrians parted.Eric, Graham, Duncan, and Montagu took the first turn at the oars, while Wildney steered. Graham’s “crabs,” and Wildney’s rather crooked steering, gave plenty of opportunity for chaff, and they were full of fun, as the oar-blades splashed and sparkled in the waves. Then they made Jim sing them some of his old sailor-songs as they rowed, and joined vigorously in the choruses. They had arranged to make straight for Saint Catharine’s Head, and land somewhere near it to choose a place for their picnic. It took them nearly two hours to get there, as they rowed leisurely, and enjoyed the luxury of the vernal air. It was one of the sunniest days of early spring; the air was pure and delicious, and the calm sea-breeze, just strong enough to make the sea flame and glister in the warm sunlight, was exhilarating as new wine. Underneath them the water was transparent as crystal, and far below they could see the green and purple seaweeds rising like a many-coloured wood, through which occasionally they saw a fish, startled by their oars, dart like an arrow. The sky overhead was a cloudless blue, and as they kept not far from shore, the clearly cut outline of the coast, with its rocks and hills standing out in the vivid atmosphere, made a glowing picture, to which the golden green of the spring herbage, bathed in its morning sunlight, lent the magic of enchantment. Who could have been otherwise than happy in such a scene and at such a time? but these were boys with the long bright holiday before them, and happiness is almost too quiet a word to express the bounding exultation of heart, the royal and tingling sense of vigorous life, which made them shout and sing, as their boat rustled through the ripples, from a mere instinct of inexpressible enjoyment.They had each contributed some luxury to the picnic, and it made a very tempting display as they spread it out under a sunny pebbled cave, by Saint Catharine’s Head; although instead of anything more objectionable, they had thought it best to content themselves with ginger beer and lemonade. When they had done eating, they amused themselves on the shore; and had magnificent games among the rocks, and in every fantastic nook of the romantic promontory. And then Eric suggested a bathe to wind up with, as it was the first day when it had been quite warm enough to make bathing pleasant.“But we’ve got no towels.”“Oh! chance the towels. We can run about till we’re dry.” So they bathed, and then getting in the boat to row back again, they all agreed that it was the very jolliest day they’d ever had at Roslyn, and voted to renew the experiment before the holidays were over, and take Wright and Vernon with them in a larger boat.It was afternoon—an afternoon still warm and beautiful—when they began to row home; so they took it quietly, and kept near the land for variety’s sake, laughing, joking, and talking as merrily as ever.“I declare I think this is the prettiest, or anyhow the grandest bit of the whole coast,” said Eric, as they neared a glen through whose narrow gorge a green and garrulous little river gambolled down with noisy turbulence into the sea. He might well admire that glen; its steep and rugged sides were veiled with lichens, moss, and wild-flowers, and the sea-birds found safe refuge in its lonely windings, which were coloured with topaz and emerald by the pencillings of nature and the rich stains of time.“Yes,” answered Montagu, “Ialways stick up for Avon Glen as the finest scene we’ve got about here. But, I say, who’s that gesticulating on the rock there to the right of it? I verily believe it’s Wright, apostrophising the ocean for Vernon’s benefit. I only see one of them though.”“I bet you he’s spouting:—“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, rollTen thousand fleets, etcetera.”said Graham, laughing.“What do you say to putting in to shore there?” said Duncan. “It’s only two miles to Starhaven, and I daresay we could make shift to take them in for that distance. If Jim says anything we’ll chuck him overboard.”They rowed towards Avon Glen, and to their surprise Wright, who stood there alone (for with a pocket telescope they clearly made out that itwasWright), still continued to wave his arms and beckon them in a manner which they at first thought ridiculous, but which soon made them feel rather uneasy.Jim took an oar, and they soon got within two hundred yards of the beach. Wright had ceased to make signals, but appeared to be shouting to them, and pointing towards one corner of the glen; but though they caught the sound of his voice, they could not hear what he said.“I wonder why Vernon isn’t with him,” said Eric anxiously; “I hope—why, whatareyou looking at, Charlie?”“What’s that in the water there?” said Wildney, pointing in the direction to which Wright was also looking.Montagu snatched the telescope out of his hand and looked. “Good God!” he exclaimed, turning pale; “what can be the matter?”“Oh,dolet me look,” said Eric.“No! stop, stop, Eric; you’d better not, I think; pray don’t, it may be all a mistake. You’d better not—but it looked—nay, you reallymustn’t, Eric,” he said, and, as if accidentally, he let the telescope fall into the water, and they saw it sink down among the seaweeds at the bottom.Eric looked at him reproachfully. “What’s the fun of that, Monty? you let it drop on purpose.”“Oh, never mind; I’ll get Wildney another. I really daren’t let you look, for fear you shouldfancythe same as I did, for it must be fancy. Oh,don’tlet us put in there—at least not all of us.”Whatwasthat thing in the water?When Wright and Vernon left the others, they walked along the coast, following the direction of the boat, and agreed to amuse themselves in collecting eggs. They were very successful, and, to their great delight, managed to secure some rather rare specimens. When they had tired themselves with this pursuit, they lay on the summit of one of the cliffs which formed the sides of Avon Glen, and Wright, who was very fond of poetry, read Vernon a canto ofMarmionwith great enthusiasm.So they wiled away the morning, and when the canto was over, Vernon took a great stone and rolled it for amusement over the cliff’s edge. It thundered over the side, bounding down till it reached the strand, and a large black cormorant, startled by the reverberating echoes, rose up suddenly, and flapped its way with protruded neck to a rock on the farther side of the little bay.“I bet you that animal’s got a nest somewhere near here,” said Vernon eagerly. “Come, let’s have a look for it; a cormorant’s egg would be a jolly addition to our collection.”They got up, and looking down the face of the cliff saw, some eight feet below them, a projection half hidden by the branch of a tree on which the scattered pieces of stick clearly showed the existence of a rude nest. They could not, however, see whether it contained eggs or no.“I must bag that nest; it’s pretty sure to have eggs in it,” said Vernon, “and I can get at it easy enough.”He immediately began to descend towards the place where the nest was built, but he found it harder than he expected.“Hallo,” he said, “this is a failure. I must climb up again to reconnoitre if there isn’t a better dodge for getting at it.”He reached the top, and, looking down, saw a plan of reaching the ledge which promised more hope of success.“You’d better give it up, Verny,” said Wright. “I’m sure it’s harder than we fancied.Icouldn’t manage it, I know.”“Oh no, Wright, never say die. Look; if I get down more toward the right the way’s plain enough, and I shall have reached the nest in no time.”Again he descended in a different direction, but again he failed. The nest could only be seen from the top, and he lost the proper route.“You must keep more to the right.”“I know,” answered Vernon; “but, bother take it, I can’t manage it, now I’m so far down. I must climb upagain.”“Dogive it up, Verny, there’s a good fellow. Youcan’treach it, and really it’s dangerous.”“Oh no, not a bit of it. My head’s very steady and I feel as cool as possible. We mustn’t give up; I’ve only to get at the tree, and then I shall be able to reach the nest from it quite easily.”“Well, do take care, that’s a dear fellow.”“Never fear,” said Vernon, who was already commencing his third attempt.This time he got to the tree, and placed his foot on a part of the root, while with his hands he clung on to a clump of heather.“Hurrah!” he cried, “it’s got two eggs in it, Wright,” and he stretched downwards to take them. Just as he was doing so, he heard the root on which his foot rested give a great crack, and with a violent start he made a spring for one of the lower branches. The motion caused his whole weight to rest for an instant on his arms; unable to sustain the wrench, the heather gave way, and with a wild shriek he fell headlong down the surface of the cliff.With a wild shriek!—but silence followed it.“Vernon! Vernon!” shouted the terrified Wright, creeping close up to the edge of the precipice. “O Vernon! for Heaven’s sake, speak.”There was no answer, and leaning over, Wright saw the young boy outstretched on the stones three hundred feet below. For some minutes he was horror-struck beyond expression, and made wild attempts to descend the cliff and reach him. But he soon gave up the attempt in despair. There was a tradition in the school that the feat had once been accomplished by an adventurous and active boy, but Wright at any rate found it hopeless for himself. The only other way to reach the glen was by a circuitous route which led to the entrance of the narrow gorge, along the sides of which it was possible to make way with difficulty down the bank of the river to the place where it met the sea. But this would have taken him an hour and a half, and was far from easy when the river was swollen with high tide. There was no house within moderate distance at which assistance could be procured, and Wright, in a tumult of conflicting emotions, determined to wait where he was, on the chance of seeing the boat as it returned from Saint Catharine’s Head. It was already three o’clock, and he knew that the boys could not now be longer than an hour at most; so with eager eyes he sat watching the headland, round which he knew they would first come in sight. He watched with wild eager eyes, absorbed in the one longing desire to catch sight of them; but the leaden-footed moments crawled on like hours, and he could not help shivering with agony and fear. At last he caught a glimpse of them, and springing up, began to shout at the top of his voice, and wave his handkerchief and his arms in the hope of attracting their attention. Little thought those blithe, merry-hearted boys, in the midst of the happy laughter which they sent ringing over the waters, little they thought how terrible a tragedy awaited them.At last Wright saw that they had perceived him, and were putting inland, and now, in his fright, he hardly knew what to do; but feeling sure that they could not fail to see Vernon, he ran off as fast as he could to Starhaven, where he rapidly told the people at a farmhouse what had happened, and asked them to get a cart ready to convey the wounded boy to Roslyn School.Meanwhile the tide rolled in calmly and quietly in the rosy evening, radiant with the diamond and gold of reflected sunlight and transparent wave. Gradually, gently it crept up to the place where Vernon lay; and the little ripples fell over him wonderingly, with the low murmur of their musical laughter, and blurred and dimmed the vivid splashes and crimson streaks upon the white stone on which his head had fallen; and washed away some of the purple bells and green sprigs of heather round which his fingers were closed in the grasp of death, and played softly with his fair hair as it rose, and fell, and floated on their undulations like a leaf of golden-coloured weed, until they themselves were faintly discoloured by his blood. And then, tired with their new plaything, they passed on, until the swelling of the water was just strong enough to move rudely the boy’s light weight, and in a few moments more would have tossed it up and down with every careless wave among the boulders of the glen. And then it was that Montagu’s horror-stricken gaze had identified the object at which they had been gazing. In strange foreboding silence they urged on the boat, while Eric at the prow seemed wild with the one intense impulse to verify his horrible suspicion. The suspicion grew and grew:—itwasa boy lying in the water;—it was Vernon;—he was motionless;—he must have fallen there from the cliff.Eric could endure the suspense no longer. The instant that the boat grated on the shingle, he sprang into the water, and rushed to the spot where his brother’s body lay. With a burst of passionate affection, he flung himself on his knees beside it, and took the cold hand in his own—the little rigid hand in which the green blades of grass, and fern, and heath, so tightly clutched, were unconscious of the tale they told.“O Verny, Verny, darling Verny, speak to me!” he cried in anguish, as he tenderly lifted up the body, and marked how little blood had flowed. But the child’s head fell back heavily, and his arms hung motionlessly beside him, and with a shriek, Eric suddenly caught the look of dead fixity in his blue open eyes.The others had come up. “O God, save my brother, save him, save him from death,” cried Eric. “I cannot live without him. O God! O God! Look! look!” he continued, “he has fallen from the cliff with his head on this cursed stone,” pointing to the block of quartz, still red with blood-stained hair; “but we must get a doctor. He is not dead! no, no, hecannotbe dead. Take him quickly, and let us row home. O God! why did I ever leave him?”The boys drew round in a frightened circle, and lifted Vernon’s corpse into the boat; and then, while Eric still supported the body, and moaned, and called to him in anguish, and chafed his cold pale brow and white hands, and kept saying that he had fainted and was not dead, the others rowed home with all speed, while a feeling of terrified anxiety lay like frost upon their hearts.They reached Starhaven, and lifted the lifeless boy into the cart, and heard from Wright how the accident had taken place. Few boys were about the playground, so they got unnoticed to Roslyn, and Dr Underhay, who had been summoned, was instantly in attendance. He looked at Vernon for a moment, and then shook his head in a way that could not be mistaken.Eric saw it, and flung himself with uncontrollable agony on his brother’s corpse. “O Vernon, Vernon, my own darling brother! O God, then he is dead!” And, unable to endure the blow, he fainted away.I cannot dwell on the miserable days that followed when the very sun in heaven seemed dark to poor Eric’s wounded and crushed spirit. He hardly knew how they went by. And when they buried Vernon in the little green churchyard by Russell’s side, and the patter of the earth upon the coffin—that most terrible of all sounds—struck his ear, the iron entered into his soul, and he had but one wish as he turned away from the open grave, and that was, soon to lie beside his beloved little brother, and to be at rest.

Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?A tress of maiden’s hair,Of drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea!Kingsley.

Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?A tress of maiden’s hair,Of drownèd maiden’s hair,Above the nets at sea!Kingsley.

Eric and Wildney were flogged and confined to gates for a time instead of being expelled, and they both bore the punishment in a manly and penitent way, and set themselves with all their might to repair the injury which their characters had received. Eric especially seemed to be devoting himself with every energy to regain, if possible, his long-lost position, and by the altered complexion of his remaining school-life, to atone in some poor measure for its earlier sins. And he carried Wildney with him, influencing others also of his late companions in a greater or less degree. It was not Eric’s nature to do things by halves, and it became obvious to all that his exertions to resist and abandon his old temptations were strenuous and unwavering. He could no longer hope for the school distinctions, which would have once lain so easily within his reach, for the ground lost during weeks of idleness cannot be recovered by a wish; but he succeeded sufficiently, by dint of desperately hard work, to acquit himself with considerable credit, and in the Easter examination came out high enough in the upper fifth to secure his remove into the sixth-form after the holidays.

He felt far happier in the endeavour to do his duty, than he had ever done during the last years of recklessness and neglect, and the change for the better in his character tended to restore unanimity and goodwill to the school. Eric no longer headed the party which made a point of ridiculing and preventing industry; and sharing as he did the sympathy of nearly all the boys, he was able quietly and unobtrusively to calm down the jealousies and allay the heart-burnings which had for so long a time brought discord and disunion into the school society. Cheerfulness and unanimity began to prevail once more at Roslyn, and Eric had the intense happiness of seeing how much good lay still within his power.

So the Easter holidays commenced with promise, and the few first days glided away in innocent enjoyments. Eric was now reconciled again to Owen and Duncan, and, therefore, had a wider choice of companions more truly congenial to his higher nature than the narrow circle of his late associates.

“What do you say to a boat excursion to-morrow?” asked Duncan as they chatted together one evening.

“I won’t go without leave,” said Eric; “I should only get caught, and get into another mess. Besides, I feel myself pledged now to strict obedience.”

“Ay, you’re quite right. We’ll get leave easily enough though, provided we agree to take Jim the boatman with us; so I vote we make up a party.”

“By the bye, I forgot; I’m engaged to Wildney to-morrow.”

“Never mind. Bring him with you, and Graham too, if you like.”

“Most gladly,” said Eric, really pleased; for he saw by this that Duncan observed the improvement in his old friends, and was falling in with the endeavour to make all the boys really cordial to each other, and destroy all traces of the late factions.

“Do you mind my bringing Montagu?”

“Not at all. Why should I?” answered Eric, with a slight blush. Montagu and he had never been formally reconciled, nor had they, as yet, spoken to each other. Indeed, Duncan had purposely planned the excursion to give them an opportunity of becoming friends once more, by being thrown together. He knew well that they both earnestly wished it, although, with the natural shyness of boys, they hardly knew how to set about effecting it. Montagu hung back lest he should seem to be patronising a fallen enemy, and Eric lest he should have sinned too deeply to be forgiven.

The next morning dawned gloriously, and it was agreed that they should meet at Starhaven, the point where they were to get the boat, at ten o’clock. As they had supposed, Dr Rowlands gave a ready consent to the row, on condition of their being accompanied by the experienced sailor whom the boys called Jim. The precaution was by no means unnecessary, for the various currents which ran round the island were violent at certain stages of the tide, and extremely dangerous for any who were not aware of their general course.

Feeling that the day would pass off very unpleasantly if any feeling of restraint remained between him and Montagu, Eric, by a strong effort, determined to ‘make up with him’ before starting, and went into his study for that purpose after breakfast. Directly he came in, Montagu jumped up and welcomed him cordially, and when without any allusion to the past, the two shook hands with all warmth, and looked the old proud look into each other’s faces, they felt once more that their former affection was unimpaired, and that in heart they were real and loving friends. Most keenly did they both enjoy the renewed intercourse, and they found endless subjects to talk about on their way to Starhaven, where the others were already assembled when they came.

With Jim’s assistance they shoved a boat into the water, and sprang into it in the highest spirits. Just as they were pushing off they saw Wright and Vernon running down to the shore towards them, and they waited to see what they wanted.

“Couldn’t you take us with you?” asked Vernon, breathless with his run.

“I’m afraid not, Verny,” said Montagu; “the boat won’t hold more than six, will it, Jim?”

“No, sir, not safely.”

“Never mind, you shall have my place, Verny,” said Eric, as he saw his brother’s disappointed look.

“Then Wright shall take mine,” said Wildney.

“Oh dear, no,” said Wright, “we wouldn’t turn you out for the world. Vernon and I will take an immense walk down the coast instead, and will meet you here as we come back.”

“Well, good-bye, then; off we go;” and with light hearts the boaters and the pedestrians parted.

Eric, Graham, Duncan, and Montagu took the first turn at the oars, while Wildney steered. Graham’s “crabs,” and Wildney’s rather crooked steering, gave plenty of opportunity for chaff, and they were full of fun, as the oar-blades splashed and sparkled in the waves. Then they made Jim sing them some of his old sailor-songs as they rowed, and joined vigorously in the choruses. They had arranged to make straight for Saint Catharine’s Head, and land somewhere near it to choose a place for their picnic. It took them nearly two hours to get there, as they rowed leisurely, and enjoyed the luxury of the vernal air. It was one of the sunniest days of early spring; the air was pure and delicious, and the calm sea-breeze, just strong enough to make the sea flame and glister in the warm sunlight, was exhilarating as new wine. Underneath them the water was transparent as crystal, and far below they could see the green and purple seaweeds rising like a many-coloured wood, through which occasionally they saw a fish, startled by their oars, dart like an arrow. The sky overhead was a cloudless blue, and as they kept not far from shore, the clearly cut outline of the coast, with its rocks and hills standing out in the vivid atmosphere, made a glowing picture, to which the golden green of the spring herbage, bathed in its morning sunlight, lent the magic of enchantment. Who could have been otherwise than happy in such a scene and at such a time? but these were boys with the long bright holiday before them, and happiness is almost too quiet a word to express the bounding exultation of heart, the royal and tingling sense of vigorous life, which made them shout and sing, as their boat rustled through the ripples, from a mere instinct of inexpressible enjoyment.

They had each contributed some luxury to the picnic, and it made a very tempting display as they spread it out under a sunny pebbled cave, by Saint Catharine’s Head; although instead of anything more objectionable, they had thought it best to content themselves with ginger beer and lemonade. When they had done eating, they amused themselves on the shore; and had magnificent games among the rocks, and in every fantastic nook of the romantic promontory. And then Eric suggested a bathe to wind up with, as it was the first day when it had been quite warm enough to make bathing pleasant.

“But we’ve got no towels.”

“Oh! chance the towels. We can run about till we’re dry.” So they bathed, and then getting in the boat to row back again, they all agreed that it was the very jolliest day they’d ever had at Roslyn, and voted to renew the experiment before the holidays were over, and take Wright and Vernon with them in a larger boat.

It was afternoon—an afternoon still warm and beautiful—when they began to row home; so they took it quietly, and kept near the land for variety’s sake, laughing, joking, and talking as merrily as ever.

“I declare I think this is the prettiest, or anyhow the grandest bit of the whole coast,” said Eric, as they neared a glen through whose narrow gorge a green and garrulous little river gambolled down with noisy turbulence into the sea. He might well admire that glen; its steep and rugged sides were veiled with lichens, moss, and wild-flowers, and the sea-birds found safe refuge in its lonely windings, which were coloured with topaz and emerald by the pencillings of nature and the rich stains of time.

“Yes,” answered Montagu, “Ialways stick up for Avon Glen as the finest scene we’ve got about here. But, I say, who’s that gesticulating on the rock there to the right of it? I verily believe it’s Wright, apostrophising the ocean for Vernon’s benefit. I only see one of them though.”

“I bet you he’s spouting:—

“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, rollTen thousand fleets, etcetera.”

“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, rollTen thousand fleets, etcetera.”

said Graham, laughing.

“What do you say to putting in to shore there?” said Duncan. “It’s only two miles to Starhaven, and I daresay we could make shift to take them in for that distance. If Jim says anything we’ll chuck him overboard.”

They rowed towards Avon Glen, and to their surprise Wright, who stood there alone (for with a pocket telescope they clearly made out that itwasWright), still continued to wave his arms and beckon them in a manner which they at first thought ridiculous, but which soon made them feel rather uneasy.

Jim took an oar, and they soon got within two hundred yards of the beach. Wright had ceased to make signals, but appeared to be shouting to them, and pointing towards one corner of the glen; but though they caught the sound of his voice, they could not hear what he said.

“I wonder why Vernon isn’t with him,” said Eric anxiously; “I hope—why, whatareyou looking at, Charlie?”

“What’s that in the water there?” said Wildney, pointing in the direction to which Wright was also looking.

Montagu snatched the telescope out of his hand and looked. “Good God!” he exclaimed, turning pale; “what can be the matter?”

“Oh,dolet me look,” said Eric.

“No! stop, stop, Eric; you’d better not, I think; pray don’t, it may be all a mistake. You’d better not—but it looked—nay, you reallymustn’t, Eric,” he said, and, as if accidentally, he let the telescope fall into the water, and they saw it sink down among the seaweeds at the bottom.

Eric looked at him reproachfully. “What’s the fun of that, Monty? you let it drop on purpose.”

“Oh, never mind; I’ll get Wildney another. I really daren’t let you look, for fear you shouldfancythe same as I did, for it must be fancy. Oh,don’tlet us put in there—at least not all of us.”

Whatwasthat thing in the water?

When Wright and Vernon left the others, they walked along the coast, following the direction of the boat, and agreed to amuse themselves in collecting eggs. They were very successful, and, to their great delight, managed to secure some rather rare specimens. When they had tired themselves with this pursuit, they lay on the summit of one of the cliffs which formed the sides of Avon Glen, and Wright, who was very fond of poetry, read Vernon a canto ofMarmionwith great enthusiasm.

So they wiled away the morning, and when the canto was over, Vernon took a great stone and rolled it for amusement over the cliff’s edge. It thundered over the side, bounding down till it reached the strand, and a large black cormorant, startled by the reverberating echoes, rose up suddenly, and flapped its way with protruded neck to a rock on the farther side of the little bay.

“I bet you that animal’s got a nest somewhere near here,” said Vernon eagerly. “Come, let’s have a look for it; a cormorant’s egg would be a jolly addition to our collection.”

They got up, and looking down the face of the cliff saw, some eight feet below them, a projection half hidden by the branch of a tree on which the scattered pieces of stick clearly showed the existence of a rude nest. They could not, however, see whether it contained eggs or no.

“I must bag that nest; it’s pretty sure to have eggs in it,” said Vernon, “and I can get at it easy enough.”

He immediately began to descend towards the place where the nest was built, but he found it harder than he expected.

“Hallo,” he said, “this is a failure. I must climb up again to reconnoitre if there isn’t a better dodge for getting at it.”

He reached the top, and, looking down, saw a plan of reaching the ledge which promised more hope of success.

“You’d better give it up, Verny,” said Wright. “I’m sure it’s harder than we fancied.Icouldn’t manage it, I know.”

“Oh no, Wright, never say die. Look; if I get down more toward the right the way’s plain enough, and I shall have reached the nest in no time.”

Again he descended in a different direction, but again he failed. The nest could only be seen from the top, and he lost the proper route.

“You must keep more to the right.”

“I know,” answered Vernon; “but, bother take it, I can’t manage it, now I’m so far down. I must climb upagain.”

“Dogive it up, Verny, there’s a good fellow. Youcan’treach it, and really it’s dangerous.”

“Oh no, not a bit of it. My head’s very steady and I feel as cool as possible. We mustn’t give up; I’ve only to get at the tree, and then I shall be able to reach the nest from it quite easily.”

“Well, do take care, that’s a dear fellow.”

“Never fear,” said Vernon, who was already commencing his third attempt.

This time he got to the tree, and placed his foot on a part of the root, while with his hands he clung on to a clump of heather.

“Hurrah!” he cried, “it’s got two eggs in it, Wright,” and he stretched downwards to take them. Just as he was doing so, he heard the root on which his foot rested give a great crack, and with a violent start he made a spring for one of the lower branches. The motion caused his whole weight to rest for an instant on his arms; unable to sustain the wrench, the heather gave way, and with a wild shriek he fell headlong down the surface of the cliff.

With a wild shriek!—but silence followed it.

“Vernon! Vernon!” shouted the terrified Wright, creeping close up to the edge of the precipice. “O Vernon! for Heaven’s sake, speak.”

There was no answer, and leaning over, Wright saw the young boy outstretched on the stones three hundred feet below. For some minutes he was horror-struck beyond expression, and made wild attempts to descend the cliff and reach him. But he soon gave up the attempt in despair. There was a tradition in the school that the feat had once been accomplished by an adventurous and active boy, but Wright at any rate found it hopeless for himself. The only other way to reach the glen was by a circuitous route which led to the entrance of the narrow gorge, along the sides of which it was possible to make way with difficulty down the bank of the river to the place where it met the sea. But this would have taken him an hour and a half, and was far from easy when the river was swollen with high tide. There was no house within moderate distance at which assistance could be procured, and Wright, in a tumult of conflicting emotions, determined to wait where he was, on the chance of seeing the boat as it returned from Saint Catharine’s Head. It was already three o’clock, and he knew that the boys could not now be longer than an hour at most; so with eager eyes he sat watching the headland, round which he knew they would first come in sight. He watched with wild eager eyes, absorbed in the one longing desire to catch sight of them; but the leaden-footed moments crawled on like hours, and he could not help shivering with agony and fear. At last he caught a glimpse of them, and springing up, began to shout at the top of his voice, and wave his handkerchief and his arms in the hope of attracting their attention. Little thought those blithe, merry-hearted boys, in the midst of the happy laughter which they sent ringing over the waters, little they thought how terrible a tragedy awaited them.

At last Wright saw that they had perceived him, and were putting inland, and now, in his fright, he hardly knew what to do; but feeling sure that they could not fail to see Vernon, he ran off as fast as he could to Starhaven, where he rapidly told the people at a farmhouse what had happened, and asked them to get a cart ready to convey the wounded boy to Roslyn School.

Meanwhile the tide rolled in calmly and quietly in the rosy evening, radiant with the diamond and gold of reflected sunlight and transparent wave. Gradually, gently it crept up to the place where Vernon lay; and the little ripples fell over him wonderingly, with the low murmur of their musical laughter, and blurred and dimmed the vivid splashes and crimson streaks upon the white stone on which his head had fallen; and washed away some of the purple bells and green sprigs of heather round which his fingers were closed in the grasp of death, and played softly with his fair hair as it rose, and fell, and floated on their undulations like a leaf of golden-coloured weed, until they themselves were faintly discoloured by his blood. And then, tired with their new plaything, they passed on, until the swelling of the water was just strong enough to move rudely the boy’s light weight, and in a few moments more would have tossed it up and down with every careless wave among the boulders of the glen. And then it was that Montagu’s horror-stricken gaze had identified the object at which they had been gazing. In strange foreboding silence they urged on the boat, while Eric at the prow seemed wild with the one intense impulse to verify his horrible suspicion. The suspicion grew and grew:—itwasa boy lying in the water;—it was Vernon;—he was motionless;—he must have fallen there from the cliff.

Eric could endure the suspense no longer. The instant that the boat grated on the shingle, he sprang into the water, and rushed to the spot where his brother’s body lay. With a burst of passionate affection, he flung himself on his knees beside it, and took the cold hand in his own—the little rigid hand in which the green blades of grass, and fern, and heath, so tightly clutched, were unconscious of the tale they told.

“O Verny, Verny, darling Verny, speak to me!” he cried in anguish, as he tenderly lifted up the body, and marked how little blood had flowed. But the child’s head fell back heavily, and his arms hung motionlessly beside him, and with a shriek, Eric suddenly caught the look of dead fixity in his blue open eyes.

The others had come up. “O God, save my brother, save him, save him from death,” cried Eric. “I cannot live without him. O God! O God! Look! look!” he continued, “he has fallen from the cliff with his head on this cursed stone,” pointing to the block of quartz, still red with blood-stained hair; “but we must get a doctor. He is not dead! no, no, hecannotbe dead. Take him quickly, and let us row home. O God! why did I ever leave him?”

The boys drew round in a frightened circle, and lifted Vernon’s corpse into the boat; and then, while Eric still supported the body, and moaned, and called to him in anguish, and chafed his cold pale brow and white hands, and kept saying that he had fainted and was not dead, the others rowed home with all speed, while a feeling of terrified anxiety lay like frost upon their hearts.

They reached Starhaven, and lifted the lifeless boy into the cart, and heard from Wright how the accident had taken place. Few boys were about the playground, so they got unnoticed to Roslyn, and Dr Underhay, who had been summoned, was instantly in attendance. He looked at Vernon for a moment, and then shook his head in a way that could not be mistaken.

Eric saw it, and flung himself with uncontrollable agony on his brother’s corpse. “O Vernon, Vernon, my own darling brother! O God, then he is dead!” And, unable to endure the blow, he fainted away.

I cannot dwell on the miserable days that followed when the very sun in heaven seemed dark to poor Eric’s wounded and crushed spirit. He hardly knew how they went by. And when they buried Vernon in the little green churchyard by Russell’s side, and the patter of the earth upon the coffin—that most terrible of all sounds—struck his ear, the iron entered into his soul, and he had but one wish as he turned away from the open grave, and that was, soon to lie beside his beloved little brother, and to be at rest.

Volume Two--Chapter Ten.The Last Temptation.A quotation from Homer’s Iliad, ix. 505.Time, the great good angel, Time, the merciful healer, assuaged the violence of Eric’s grief, which seemed likely to settle down into a sober sadness. At first his letters to his parents and to Fairholm were almost unintelligible in their fierce abandonment of sorrow; but they grew calmer in time,—and while none of his school-fellows ever ventured in his presence to allude to Vernon, because of the emotion which the slightest mention of him excited, yet he rarely wrote any letters to his relations in which he did not refer to his brother’s death, in language which grew at length both manly and resigned.A month after, in the summer term, he was sitting alone in his study in the afternoon (for he could not summon up spirit enough to play regularly at cricket), writing a long letter to his aunt. He spoke freely and unreservedly of his past errors,—more freely than he had ever done before,—and expressed not only deep penitence, but even strong hatred of his previous unworthy courses. “I can hardly even yet realise,” he added, “that I am alone here, and that I am writing to my aunt Trevor about the death of my little brother, my noble, only brother, Vernon. Oh, how my whole soul yearns towards him. Imustbe a better boy, Iwillbe better than I have been, in the hopes of meeting him again. Indeed, indeed, dear aunt, though I have been so guilty, I am laying aside, with all my might, idleness and all bad habits, and doing my very best to redeem the lost years. I do hope that the rest of my time at Roslyn will be more worthily spent than any of it has been as yet.”He finished the sentence, and laid his pen down to think, gazing quietly on the blue hills and sunlit sea. A feeling of hope and repose stole over him;—when suddenly he saw at the door, which was ajar, the leering eyes and villainously cunning countenance of Billy.“What do you want?” he said angrily, casting at the intruder a look of intense disgust.“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, pulling his hair. “Anything in my line, sir, to-day?”“No!” answered Eric, rising up in a gust of indignation. “What business have you here? Get away instantly.”“Not had much custom from you lately, sir,” said the man.“What do you mean by having the insolence to begin talking to me? If you don’t make yourself scarce at once, I’ll—”“Oh well,” said the man; “if it comes to that, I’ve business enough. Perhaps you’ll just pay me this debt,” he continued, changing his fawning manner into a bullying swagger. “I’ve waited long enough.”Eric, greatly discomfited, took the dirty bit of paper. It purported to be a bill for various items of drink, all of which Ericknewto have been paid for, and among other things, a charge of 6 pounds for the dinner at “The Jolly Herring.”“Why, you scoundrel, these have all been paid. What! six pounds for the dinner! Why, Brigson collected the subscriptions to pay for it before it took place.”“That’s now’t to me, sir. He never paid me; and as you was the young gen’leman in the cheer, I comes to you.”NowEric knew for the first time what Brigson had meant by his threatened revenge. He saw at once that the man had been put up to act in this way by some one, and had little doubt that Brigson was the instigator. Perhaps it might be even true, as the man said, that he had never received the money. Brigson was quite wicked enough to have embezzled it for his own purposes.“Go,” he said to the man; “you shall have the money in a week.”“And mind it bean’t more nor a week. I don’t chuse to wait for my money no more,” said Billy impudently, as he retired with an undisguised chuckle, which very nearly made Eric kick him down stairs. With a heart-rending sigh Eric folded and directed his letter to Mrs Trevor, and then ran out into the fresh air to relieve the qualm of sickness which had come over him.What was to be done? To mention the subject to Owen or Montagu, who were best capable of advising him, would have been to renew the memory of unpleasant incidents, which he was most anxious to obliterate from the memory of all. He had not the moral courage to face the natural consequences of his past misconduct, and was now ashamed to speak of what he had not then been ashamed to do. He told Graham and Wildney, who were the best of his old associates, and they at once agreed that they ought to be responsible for at least a share of the debt. Still, between them they could only muster three pounds out of the six which were required, and the week had half elapsed before there seemed any prospect of extrication from the difficulty; so Eric daily grew more miserable and dejected.A happy thought struck him. He would go and explain the source of his trouble to Mr Rose, his oldest, his kindest, his wisest friend. To him he could speak without scruple and without reserve, and from him he knew that he would receive nothing but the noblest advice and the warmest sympathy.He went to him after prayers that night, and told his story.“Ah, Eric, Eric!” said Mr Rose; “you see, my boy, that sin and punishment are twins.”“Oh but, sir, I was just striving so hard to amend, and it seems cruel that I should be checked at once.”“Let it teach you a life-long lesson, dear Eric;—the lesson that when a sin is committedwemay have done withit, butithas by no means done withus. It is always so, Eric when we drink the wine it is red and sparkling, but we come afterwards to the ragged and bitter dregs.”“But what shall I do, sir?” said Eric sadly.“There is only one way that I see, Eric. You must write home for the money, and confess the truth to them honestly, as you have to me.”It was a hard course for Eric’s proud and loving heart to write and tell his aunt the full extent of his guilt. But he did it faithfully, extenuating nothing, and entreating her, as she loved him, to send the money by return of post.It came, and with it a letter full of deep and gentle affection. Mrs Trevor knew her nephew’s character, and did not add by reproaches to the bitterness which she perceived he had endured; she simply sent him the money, and told him, that in spite of his many failures, “she still had perfect confidence in the true heart of her dear boy.”Touched by the affection which all seemed to be showing him, it became more and more the passionate craving of Eric’s soul to be worthy of that love. But it is far far harder to recover a lost path than to keep in the right one all along; and by one more terrible fall the poor erring boy was to be taught for the last time the fearful strength of temptation, and the only source in earth and heaven from which deliverance can come. Theoretically he knew it, but as yet not practically. Great as his trials had been, and deeply as he had suffered, it was God’s will that he should pass through a yet fiercer flame ere he could be purified from pride and passion and self-confidence, and led to the cross of a suffering Saviour, there to fling himself down in heart-rending humility, and cast his great load of cares and sins upon Him who cared for him through all his wanderings, and was leading him back through thorny places to the green pastures and still waters, where at last he might have rest.The money came, and walking off straight to “The Jolly Herring,” he dashed it down on the table before Billy, and imperiously bade him write a receipt.The man did so, but with so unmistakable an air of cunning and triumph that Eric was both astonished and dismayed. Could the miscreant have any further plot against him? At first he fancied that Billy might attempt to extort money by a threat of telling Dr Rowlands; but this supposition he banished as unlikely, since it might expose Billy himself to very unpleasant consequences.Eric snatched the receipt, and said contemptuously, “Never come near me again; next time you come up to the studies I’ll tell Carter to turn you out.”“Ho, ho, ho!” sneered Billy. “How mighty we young gents are all of a sudden. Unless you buy of me sometimes, you shall hear of me again; never fear, young gen’leman.” He shouted out the latter words, for Eric had turned scornfully on his heel, and was already in the street.Obviously more danger was to be apprehended from this quarter. At first the thought of it was disquieting, but three weeks glided away, and Eric, now absorbed heart and soul in school work, began to remember it as a mere vague and idle threat.But one afternoon, to his horror, he again heard Billy’s step on the stairs, and again saw the hateful iniquitous face at the door.“Not much custom from you lately, sir,” said Billy mockingly. “Anything in my line to-day?”“Didn’t I tell you never to come near me again, you foul villain?” cried Eric, springing up in a flame of wrath. “Go this instant, or I’ll call Carter,” and opening the window, he prepared to put his threat into execution.“Ho, ho, ho! Better look at summat I’ve got first.” It was a printed notice to the following effect:—“Five Pounds Reward.”“Whereas some evil-disposed persons stole some pigeons on the evening of April 6th from the Reverend H Gordon’s premises; the above reward will be given for any such information as may lead to the apprehension of the offenders.”Soon after the seizure of the pigeons there had been a rumour that Gordon had offered a reward of this kind, but the matter had been forgotten, and the boys had long fancied their secret secure, though at first they had been terribly alarmed.“What do you show me that for?” he asked, reddening and then growing pale again.Billy’s only answer was to pass his finger slowly along the words, “Five pounds reward.”“Well?”“I thinks I knows who took they pigeons.”“What’s that to me?”“Ho, ho, ho! that’s a good ’un,” was Billy’s reply; and he continued to cackle as though enjoying a great joke.“Unless you gives me five pound, anyhow, I knows where to get ’em. I know who them evil-disposed persons be! So I’ll give ye another week to decide.”Billy shambled off in high spirits; but Eric sank back into his chair. Five pounds! The idea haunted him. How could he ever get them? To write home again was out of the question. The Trevors, though liberal, were not rich, and after just sending him so large a sum, it was impossible, he thought, that they should send him five pounds more at his mere request. Besides, how could he be sure that Billy would not play upon his fears to extort further sums? And to explain the matter to them fully was more than he could endure. He remembered now how easily his want of caution might have put Billy in possession of the secret, and he knew enough of the fellow’s character to feel quite sure of the use he would be inclined to make of it. Oh, how he cursed that hour of folly!Five pounds! He began to think of what money he could procure. He thought again and again, but it was no use; only one thing was clear—hehadnot the money and could not get it. Miserable boy! It was too late then? for him repentance was to be made impossible; every time he attempted it he was to be thwarted by some fresh discovery. And, leaning his head on his open palms, poor Eric sobbed like a child.Five pounds! And all this misery was to come upon him for the want of five pounds! Expulsion wascertain, wasinevitablenow, and perhaps for Wildney too as well as for himself. After all his fine promises in his letters home,—yes, that reminded him of Vernon. The grave had not closed for a month over one brother, and the other would beexpelled. Oh, misery, misery! He was sure it would break his mother’s heart. Oh, how cruel everything was to him!Five pounds! He wondered whether Montagu would lend it him, or any other boy? But then it was late in the quarter, and all the boys would have spent the money they brought with them from home. There was no chance of any one having five pounds, and to a master hedarenot apply, not even to Mr Rose. The offence was too serious to be overlooked, and if noticed at all, he fancied that, after his other delinquencies, itmust, as a matter of notoriety, be visited with expulsion. He could not face that bitter thought; he could not thus bring open disgrace upon his father’s and his brother’s name; this was the fear which kept recurring to him with dreadful iteration.Suddenly he remembered that if he had continued captain of the school eleven, he would have had easy command of the money, by being treasurer of the cricket subscriptions. But at Vernon’s death he lost all interest in cricket for a time, and had thrown up his office, to which Montagu had been elected by the general suffrage.He wondered whether there was as much as five pounds of the cricketing money left! He knew that the box which contained it was in Montagu’s study, and he also knew where the key was kept. It was merely a feeling of curiosity—he would go and look.All this passed through Eric’s mind as he sat in his study after Billy had gone. It was a sultry summer day; all the study doors were open, and all their occupants were absent in the cricket-field, or bathing. He stole into Montagu’s study, hastily got the key, and took down the box.“Oh, put it down, put it down, Eric,” said Conscience; “what business have you with it?”“Pooh! it is merely curiosity; as if I couldn’t trust myself!”“Put it down,” repeated Conscience authoritatively, deigning no longer to argue or entreat.Eric hesitated, and did put down the box; but he did not instantly leave the room. He began to look at Montagu’s books and then out of the window. The gravel playground was deserted, he noticed, for the cricket-field. Nobody was near therefore. Well, what of that? he was doing no harm.“Nonsense! Iwilljust look and see if there’s five pounds in the cricket-box.” Slowly at first he put out his hand, and then, hastily turning the key, opened the box. It contained three pounds in gold, and a quantity of silver. He began to count the silver, putting it on the table, and found that it made up three pounds ten more. “So that, altogether, there’s six pounds ten; that’s thirty shillings more than—and it won’t be wanted till next summer term, because all the bats and balls are bought now. I dare say Montagu won’t even open the box again. I know he keeps it stowed away in a corner, and hardly ever looks at it, and I can put back the five pounds the very first day of next term, and it will save me from expulsion.”Very slowly Eric took the three sovereigns and put them in his pocket, and then he took up one of the heaps of shillings and sixpences which he had counted, and dropped them also into his trousers; they fell into the pocket with a great jingle, “Eric, you are a thief!” He thought he heard his brother Vernon’s voice utter the words thrillingly distinct, but it was conscience who had borrowed the Voice, and, sick with horror, he began to shake the money out of his pockets again into the box. He was only just in time; he had barely locked the box, and put it in its place, when he heard the sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. He had no time to take out the key and put it back where he found it, and hardly time–to slip into his own study again, when the boys had reached the landing.They were Duncan and Montagu, and as they passed the door, Eric pretended to be plunged in books.“Hallo, Eric! grinding as usual,” said Duncan good-humouredly; but he only got a sickly smile in reply.“What! are you the only fellow in the studies?” asked Montagu. “I was nearly sure I heard some one moving about as we came upstairs.”“I don’t think there’s any one here but me,” said Eric, “and I’m going a walk now.”He closed his books with a bang, flew down stairs, and away through the playground towards the shore, vaulting with one hand the playground gate. But he could not so escape his thoughts. “Eric, you are a thief! Eric, you are a thief!” rang in his ear. “Yes,” he thought; “I am even a thief. Oh, good God, yes,even a thieffor Ihadactually stolen the money, until I changed my mind. What if they should have heard the jingle of money, or should discover the key in the box, knowing, that I was the only fellow up stairs? Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy!”It was a lonely place, and he flung himself down and hid his face in the coarse grass, trying to cool the wild burning of his brow. And as he lay he thrust his hand into the guilty pocket! Good heavens! there was something still there. He pulled it out; it was a sovereign. Then he was a thief, even actually. Oh, everything was against him; and starting to his feet, he flung the accursed gold over the rocks far into the sea.When he got home, he felt so inconceivably wretched, that, unable to work, he begged leave to go to bed at once. It was long before he fell asleep; but when he did, the sleep was more terrible than the haunted wakefulness. For he had no rest from tormenting and horrid dreams. Brigson and Billy, their bodies grown to gigantic proportions, and their faces fierce with demoniacal wickedness, seemed to be standing over him, and demanding five pounds on pain of death. Flights of pigeons, darkening the air, settled on him, and flapped about him. He fled from them madly through the dark midnight, but many steps pursued him. He saw Mr Rose, and running up, seized him by the hand, and implored protection. But in his dream Mr Rose turned from him with a cold look of sorrowful reproach. And then he saw Wildney, and cried out to him, “O Charlie, do speak to me!” but Charlie ran away, saying, “You, Eric! what?youa thief!” and then a chorus of voices took up that awful cry—voices of expostulation, voices of contempt, voices of indignation, voices of menace; they took up the cry, and repeated and re-echoed it; but most unendurable of all, there were voices of wailing and voices of gentleness among them, and his soul died within him as he caught, amid the confusion of condemning sounds, the voices of Russell and Vernon, and they, too, were saying to him, in tender pity and agonised astonishment, “Eric, Eric, you are a thief!”

A quotation from Homer’s Iliad, ix. 505.

Time, the great good angel, Time, the merciful healer, assuaged the violence of Eric’s grief, which seemed likely to settle down into a sober sadness. At first his letters to his parents and to Fairholm were almost unintelligible in their fierce abandonment of sorrow; but they grew calmer in time,—and while none of his school-fellows ever ventured in his presence to allude to Vernon, because of the emotion which the slightest mention of him excited, yet he rarely wrote any letters to his relations in which he did not refer to his brother’s death, in language which grew at length both manly and resigned.

A month after, in the summer term, he was sitting alone in his study in the afternoon (for he could not summon up spirit enough to play regularly at cricket), writing a long letter to his aunt. He spoke freely and unreservedly of his past errors,—more freely than he had ever done before,—and expressed not only deep penitence, but even strong hatred of his previous unworthy courses. “I can hardly even yet realise,” he added, “that I am alone here, and that I am writing to my aunt Trevor about the death of my little brother, my noble, only brother, Vernon. Oh, how my whole soul yearns towards him. Imustbe a better boy, Iwillbe better than I have been, in the hopes of meeting him again. Indeed, indeed, dear aunt, though I have been so guilty, I am laying aside, with all my might, idleness and all bad habits, and doing my very best to redeem the lost years. I do hope that the rest of my time at Roslyn will be more worthily spent than any of it has been as yet.”

He finished the sentence, and laid his pen down to think, gazing quietly on the blue hills and sunlit sea. A feeling of hope and repose stole over him;—when suddenly he saw at the door, which was ajar, the leering eyes and villainously cunning countenance of Billy.

“What do you want?” he said angrily, casting at the intruder a look of intense disgust.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, pulling his hair. “Anything in my line, sir, to-day?”

“No!” answered Eric, rising up in a gust of indignation. “What business have you here? Get away instantly.”

“Not had much custom from you lately, sir,” said the man.

“What do you mean by having the insolence to begin talking to me? If you don’t make yourself scarce at once, I’ll—”

“Oh well,” said the man; “if it comes to that, I’ve business enough. Perhaps you’ll just pay me this debt,” he continued, changing his fawning manner into a bullying swagger. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Eric, greatly discomfited, took the dirty bit of paper. It purported to be a bill for various items of drink, all of which Ericknewto have been paid for, and among other things, a charge of 6 pounds for the dinner at “The Jolly Herring.”

“Why, you scoundrel, these have all been paid. What! six pounds for the dinner! Why, Brigson collected the subscriptions to pay for it before it took place.”

“That’s now’t to me, sir. He never paid me; and as you was the young gen’leman in the cheer, I comes to you.”

NowEric knew for the first time what Brigson had meant by his threatened revenge. He saw at once that the man had been put up to act in this way by some one, and had little doubt that Brigson was the instigator. Perhaps it might be even true, as the man said, that he had never received the money. Brigson was quite wicked enough to have embezzled it for his own purposes.

“Go,” he said to the man; “you shall have the money in a week.”

“And mind it bean’t more nor a week. I don’t chuse to wait for my money no more,” said Billy impudently, as he retired with an undisguised chuckle, which very nearly made Eric kick him down stairs. With a heart-rending sigh Eric folded and directed his letter to Mrs Trevor, and then ran out into the fresh air to relieve the qualm of sickness which had come over him.

What was to be done? To mention the subject to Owen or Montagu, who were best capable of advising him, would have been to renew the memory of unpleasant incidents, which he was most anxious to obliterate from the memory of all. He had not the moral courage to face the natural consequences of his past misconduct, and was now ashamed to speak of what he had not then been ashamed to do. He told Graham and Wildney, who were the best of his old associates, and they at once agreed that they ought to be responsible for at least a share of the debt. Still, between them they could only muster three pounds out of the six which were required, and the week had half elapsed before there seemed any prospect of extrication from the difficulty; so Eric daily grew more miserable and dejected.

A happy thought struck him. He would go and explain the source of his trouble to Mr Rose, his oldest, his kindest, his wisest friend. To him he could speak without scruple and without reserve, and from him he knew that he would receive nothing but the noblest advice and the warmest sympathy.

He went to him after prayers that night, and told his story.

“Ah, Eric, Eric!” said Mr Rose; “you see, my boy, that sin and punishment are twins.”

“Oh but, sir, I was just striving so hard to amend, and it seems cruel that I should be checked at once.”

“Let it teach you a life-long lesson, dear Eric;—the lesson that when a sin is committedwemay have done withit, butithas by no means done withus. It is always so, Eric when we drink the wine it is red and sparkling, but we come afterwards to the ragged and bitter dregs.”

“But what shall I do, sir?” said Eric sadly.

“There is only one way that I see, Eric. You must write home for the money, and confess the truth to them honestly, as you have to me.”

It was a hard course for Eric’s proud and loving heart to write and tell his aunt the full extent of his guilt. But he did it faithfully, extenuating nothing, and entreating her, as she loved him, to send the money by return of post.

It came, and with it a letter full of deep and gentle affection. Mrs Trevor knew her nephew’s character, and did not add by reproaches to the bitterness which she perceived he had endured; she simply sent him the money, and told him, that in spite of his many failures, “she still had perfect confidence in the true heart of her dear boy.”

Touched by the affection which all seemed to be showing him, it became more and more the passionate craving of Eric’s soul to be worthy of that love. But it is far far harder to recover a lost path than to keep in the right one all along; and by one more terrible fall the poor erring boy was to be taught for the last time the fearful strength of temptation, and the only source in earth and heaven from which deliverance can come. Theoretically he knew it, but as yet not practically. Great as his trials had been, and deeply as he had suffered, it was God’s will that he should pass through a yet fiercer flame ere he could be purified from pride and passion and self-confidence, and led to the cross of a suffering Saviour, there to fling himself down in heart-rending humility, and cast his great load of cares and sins upon Him who cared for him through all his wanderings, and was leading him back through thorny places to the green pastures and still waters, where at last he might have rest.

The money came, and walking off straight to “The Jolly Herring,” he dashed it down on the table before Billy, and imperiously bade him write a receipt.

The man did so, but with so unmistakable an air of cunning and triumph that Eric was both astonished and dismayed. Could the miscreant have any further plot against him? At first he fancied that Billy might attempt to extort money by a threat of telling Dr Rowlands; but this supposition he banished as unlikely, since it might expose Billy himself to very unpleasant consequences.

Eric snatched the receipt, and said contemptuously, “Never come near me again; next time you come up to the studies I’ll tell Carter to turn you out.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” sneered Billy. “How mighty we young gents are all of a sudden. Unless you buy of me sometimes, you shall hear of me again; never fear, young gen’leman.” He shouted out the latter words, for Eric had turned scornfully on his heel, and was already in the street.

Obviously more danger was to be apprehended from this quarter. At first the thought of it was disquieting, but three weeks glided away, and Eric, now absorbed heart and soul in school work, began to remember it as a mere vague and idle threat.

But one afternoon, to his horror, he again heard Billy’s step on the stairs, and again saw the hateful iniquitous face at the door.

“Not much custom from you lately, sir,” said Billy mockingly. “Anything in my line to-day?”

“Didn’t I tell you never to come near me again, you foul villain?” cried Eric, springing up in a flame of wrath. “Go this instant, or I’ll call Carter,” and opening the window, he prepared to put his threat into execution.

“Ho, ho, ho! Better look at summat I’ve got first.” It was a printed notice to the following effect:—

“Five Pounds Reward.”“Whereas some evil-disposed persons stole some pigeons on the evening of April 6th from the Reverend H Gordon’s premises; the above reward will be given for any such information as may lead to the apprehension of the offenders.”

“Whereas some evil-disposed persons stole some pigeons on the evening of April 6th from the Reverend H Gordon’s premises; the above reward will be given for any such information as may lead to the apprehension of the offenders.”

Soon after the seizure of the pigeons there had been a rumour that Gordon had offered a reward of this kind, but the matter had been forgotten, and the boys had long fancied their secret secure, though at first they had been terribly alarmed.

“What do you show me that for?” he asked, reddening and then growing pale again.

Billy’s only answer was to pass his finger slowly along the words, “Five pounds reward.”

“Well?”

“I thinks I knows who took they pigeons.”

“What’s that to me?”

“Ho, ho, ho! that’s a good ’un,” was Billy’s reply; and he continued to cackle as though enjoying a great joke.

“Unless you gives me five pound, anyhow, I knows where to get ’em. I know who them evil-disposed persons be! So I’ll give ye another week to decide.”

Billy shambled off in high spirits; but Eric sank back into his chair. Five pounds! The idea haunted him. How could he ever get them? To write home again was out of the question. The Trevors, though liberal, were not rich, and after just sending him so large a sum, it was impossible, he thought, that they should send him five pounds more at his mere request. Besides, how could he be sure that Billy would not play upon his fears to extort further sums? And to explain the matter to them fully was more than he could endure. He remembered now how easily his want of caution might have put Billy in possession of the secret, and he knew enough of the fellow’s character to feel quite sure of the use he would be inclined to make of it. Oh, how he cursed that hour of folly!

Five pounds! He began to think of what money he could procure. He thought again and again, but it was no use; only one thing was clear—hehadnot the money and could not get it. Miserable boy! It was too late then? for him repentance was to be made impossible; every time he attempted it he was to be thwarted by some fresh discovery. And, leaning his head on his open palms, poor Eric sobbed like a child.

Five pounds! And all this misery was to come upon him for the want of five pounds! Expulsion wascertain, wasinevitablenow, and perhaps for Wildney too as well as for himself. After all his fine promises in his letters home,—yes, that reminded him of Vernon. The grave had not closed for a month over one brother, and the other would beexpelled. Oh, misery, misery! He was sure it would break his mother’s heart. Oh, how cruel everything was to him!

Five pounds! He wondered whether Montagu would lend it him, or any other boy? But then it was late in the quarter, and all the boys would have spent the money they brought with them from home. There was no chance of any one having five pounds, and to a master hedarenot apply, not even to Mr Rose. The offence was too serious to be overlooked, and if noticed at all, he fancied that, after his other delinquencies, itmust, as a matter of notoriety, be visited with expulsion. He could not face that bitter thought; he could not thus bring open disgrace upon his father’s and his brother’s name; this was the fear which kept recurring to him with dreadful iteration.

Suddenly he remembered that if he had continued captain of the school eleven, he would have had easy command of the money, by being treasurer of the cricket subscriptions. But at Vernon’s death he lost all interest in cricket for a time, and had thrown up his office, to which Montagu had been elected by the general suffrage.

He wondered whether there was as much as five pounds of the cricketing money left! He knew that the box which contained it was in Montagu’s study, and he also knew where the key was kept. It was merely a feeling of curiosity—he would go and look.

All this passed through Eric’s mind as he sat in his study after Billy had gone. It was a sultry summer day; all the study doors were open, and all their occupants were absent in the cricket-field, or bathing. He stole into Montagu’s study, hastily got the key, and took down the box.

“Oh, put it down, put it down, Eric,” said Conscience; “what business have you with it?”

“Pooh! it is merely curiosity; as if I couldn’t trust myself!”

“Put it down,” repeated Conscience authoritatively, deigning no longer to argue or entreat.

Eric hesitated, and did put down the box; but he did not instantly leave the room. He began to look at Montagu’s books and then out of the window. The gravel playground was deserted, he noticed, for the cricket-field. Nobody was near therefore. Well, what of that? he was doing no harm.

“Nonsense! Iwilljust look and see if there’s five pounds in the cricket-box.” Slowly at first he put out his hand, and then, hastily turning the key, opened the box. It contained three pounds in gold, and a quantity of silver. He began to count the silver, putting it on the table, and found that it made up three pounds ten more. “So that, altogether, there’s six pounds ten; that’s thirty shillings more than—and it won’t be wanted till next summer term, because all the bats and balls are bought now. I dare say Montagu won’t even open the box again. I know he keeps it stowed away in a corner, and hardly ever looks at it, and I can put back the five pounds the very first day of next term, and it will save me from expulsion.”

Very slowly Eric took the three sovereigns and put them in his pocket, and then he took up one of the heaps of shillings and sixpences which he had counted, and dropped them also into his trousers; they fell into the pocket with a great jingle, “Eric, you are a thief!” He thought he heard his brother Vernon’s voice utter the words thrillingly distinct, but it was conscience who had borrowed the Voice, and, sick with horror, he began to shake the money out of his pockets again into the box. He was only just in time; he had barely locked the box, and put it in its place, when he heard the sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. He had no time to take out the key and put it back where he found it, and hardly time–to slip into his own study again, when the boys had reached the landing.

They were Duncan and Montagu, and as they passed the door, Eric pretended to be plunged in books.

“Hallo, Eric! grinding as usual,” said Duncan good-humouredly; but he only got a sickly smile in reply.

“What! are you the only fellow in the studies?” asked Montagu. “I was nearly sure I heard some one moving about as we came upstairs.”

“I don’t think there’s any one here but me,” said Eric, “and I’m going a walk now.”

He closed his books with a bang, flew down stairs, and away through the playground towards the shore, vaulting with one hand the playground gate. But he could not so escape his thoughts. “Eric, you are a thief! Eric, you are a thief!” rang in his ear. “Yes,” he thought; “I am even a thief. Oh, good God, yes,even a thieffor Ihadactually stolen the money, until I changed my mind. What if they should have heard the jingle of money, or should discover the key in the box, knowing, that I was the only fellow up stairs? Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy!”

It was a lonely place, and he flung himself down and hid his face in the coarse grass, trying to cool the wild burning of his brow. And as he lay he thrust his hand into the guilty pocket! Good heavens! there was something still there. He pulled it out; it was a sovereign. Then he was a thief, even actually. Oh, everything was against him; and starting to his feet, he flung the accursed gold over the rocks far into the sea.

When he got home, he felt so inconceivably wretched, that, unable to work, he begged leave to go to bed at once. It was long before he fell asleep; but when he did, the sleep was more terrible than the haunted wakefulness. For he had no rest from tormenting and horrid dreams. Brigson and Billy, their bodies grown to gigantic proportions, and their faces fierce with demoniacal wickedness, seemed to be standing over him, and demanding five pounds on pain of death. Flights of pigeons, darkening the air, settled on him, and flapped about him. He fled from them madly through the dark midnight, but many steps pursued him. He saw Mr Rose, and running up, seized him by the hand, and implored protection. But in his dream Mr Rose turned from him with a cold look of sorrowful reproach. And then he saw Wildney, and cried out to him, “O Charlie, do speak to me!” but Charlie ran away, saying, “You, Eric! what?youa thief!” and then a chorus of voices took up that awful cry—voices of expostulation, voices of contempt, voices of indignation, voices of menace; they took up the cry, and repeated and re-echoed it; but most unendurable of all, there were voices of wailing and voices of gentleness among them, and his soul died within him as he caught, amid the confusion of condemning sounds, the voices of Russell and Vernon, and they, too, were saying to him, in tender pity and agonised astonishment, “Eric, Eric, you are a thief!”

Volume Two--Chapter Eleven.Reaping the Whirlwind.For alas! alas! with meThe light of life is o’er;No more—no more—no more!(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,Or the stricken eagle soar!Edgar Poe.The landlord of “The Jolly Herring” had observed, during his visits to Eric, that at mid-day the studies were usually deserted, and the doors for the most part left unlocked. He very soon determined to make use of this knowledge for his own purposes, and, as he was well acquainted with the building (in which for a short time he had been a servant), he laid his plans without the least dread of discovery.There was a back entrance into Roslyn School behind the chapel, and it could be reached by a path through the fields without any chance of being seen, if a person set warily to work and watched his opportunity. By this path Billy came, two days after his last visit, and walked straight up the great staircase, armed with the excuse of business with Eric in case any one met or questioned him. But no one was about, since between twelve and one the boys were pretty sure to be amusing themselves out of doors; and after glancing into each of the studies, Billy finally settled on searching Montagu’s (which was the neatest and most tastefully furnished), to see what he could get.The very first thing which caught his experienced eye was the cricket-fund box, with the key temptingly in the lock, just where Eric had left it when the sounds of some one coming had startled him. In a moment Billy had made a descent on the promising looking booty, and opening his treasure, saw, with lively feelings of gratification, the unexpected store of silver and gold. This he instantly transferred to his own pocket, and then replacing the box where he had found it, decamped with the spoil unseen, leaving the study in all other respects exactly as he had found it.Meanwhile the unhappy Eric was tossed and agitated with apprehension and suspense. Unable to endure his misery in loneliness, he had made several boys to a greater or less degree participators in the knowledge of his difficult position; and in the sympathy which his danger excited, the general nature of his dilemma with Billy (though not its special circumstances) was soon known through the school.At the very time when the money was being stolen, Eric was sitting with Wildney and Graham under the ruin by the shore, and the sorrow which lay at his heart was sadly visible in the anxious expression of his face, and the deep dejection of his attitude and manner.The other two were trying to console him. They suggested every possible topic of hope; but it was too plain that there was nothing to be said, and that Eric had real cause to fear the worst. Yet though their arguments were futile, he keenly felt the genuineness of their affection, and it brought a little alleviation to his heavy mood.“Well, well; at leastdohope the best, Eric,” said Graham.“Yes!” urged Wildney; “only think, dear old fellow, what lots of worse scrapes we’ve been in before, and how we’ve always managed to get out of them somehow.”“No, my boy; not worse scrapes,” answered Eric. “Depend upon it this is the last for me; I shall not have the chance of getting into another atRoslyn, anyhow.”“Poor Eric! what shall I do if you leave?” said Wildney, laying his arm on Eric’s shoulder. “Besides it’s all my fault, hang it, that you got into this cursed row.”“The curse is come upon me, criedThe Lady of Shalott.“Those words keep ringing in my ears,” murmured Eric.“Well, Eric, ifyouare sent away, I know I shall get my father to take me too, and then we’ll join each other somewhere. Come, cheer up, old boy—being sent isn’t such a very frightful thing after all.”“No,” said Graham; “and besides the bagging of the pigeons was only a lark, when one comes to think of it. It wasn’t like stealing, you know;that’dbe quite a different thing.”Eric winced visibly at this remark, but his companions did not notice it. “Ah,” thought he, “there’sonepassage of my life which I never shall be able to reveal to any human soul.”“Come now, Eric,” said Wildney, “I’ve got something to propose. You shall play cricket to-day; you haven’t played for an age, and it’s high time you should. If you don’t, you’ll go mooning about the shore all day, and that’ll never do, for you’ll come back glummer than ever.”“No,” said Eric, with a heavy sigh, as the image of Vernon instantly passed through his mind; “no more cricket for me.”“Nay, but youmustplay to-day. Come, you shan’t say no. You won’t say no to me, will you, dear old fellow?” And looked up to him with that pleasant smile, and the merry light in his dark eyes, which had always been so charming to Eric’s fancy.“There’s no refusing you,” said Eric, with the ghost of a laugh, as he boxed Wildney’s ears. “Oh, you dear little rogue, Charlie, I wish I were you.”“Pooh! pooh! now you shan’t get sentimental again. As if you weren’t fifty times better than me every way. I’m sure I don’t know how I shall ever thank you enough, Eric,” he added more seriously, “for all your kindness to me.”“I’m so glad you’re going to play, though,” said Graham; “and so will everybody be, and I’m certain it’ll be good for you. The game will divert your thoughts.”So that afternoon Eric, for the first time since Verny’s death, played with the first eleven, of which he had been captain. The school cheered him vigorously as he appeared again on the field, and the sound lighted up his countenance with some gleam of its old joyousness. When one looked at him that day with his straw hat on and its neat light blue ribbon, and the cricket dress (a pink jersey, and leather belt, with a silver clasp in front), showing off his well-built and graceful figure, one little thought what an agony was gnawing like a serpent at his heart. But that day, poor boy, in the excitement of the game he half forgot it himself, and more and more as the game went on.The other side, headed by Montagu, went in first, and Eric caught out two and bowled several. Montagu was the only one who stayed in long, and when at last Eric sent his middle wicket flying with a magnificent ball, the shouts of, “Well bowled! well bowledindeed!” were universal.“Just listen to that, Eric,” said Montagu; “why, you’re out-doing everybody to-day, yourself included, and taking us by storm.”“Wait till you see me come out for a duck,” said Eric, laughing.“Not you. You’re too much in luck to come out with a duck,” answered Montagu. “You see I’ve already become the poet of your triumphs, and prophesy in rhyme.”And now it was Eric’s turn to go in. It was long since he had stood before the wicket, but now he was there, looking like a beautiful picture as the sunlight streamed over him, and made his fair hair shine like gold. In the triumph of success his sorrows were flung to the winds, and his blue eyes sparkled with interest and joy.He contented himself with blocking Duncan’s balls until his eye was in; but then, acquiring confidence, he sent them flying right and left. His score rapidly mounted, and there seemed no chance of getting him out, so that there was every probability of his carrying out his bat.“Oh,wellhit!wellhit! A three-er for Eric,” cried Wildney to the scorer; and he began to clap his hands and dance about with excitement at his friend’s success.“Oh, well hit! well hit in-deed!” shouted all the lookers on, as Eric caught the next ball half-volley, and sent it whizzing over the hedge, getting a sixer by the hit.At the next ball they heard a great crack, and he got no run, for the handle of his bat broke right off.“How unlucky!” he said, flinging down the handle with vexation. “I believe this was our best bat.”“Oh, never mind,” said Montagu; “we can soon get another; we’ve got lots of money in the box.”What had come over Eric? if there had been a sudden breath of poison in the atmosphere he could hardly have been more affected than he was by Montagu’s simple remark. Montagu could not help noticing it, but at the time merely attributed it to some unknown gust of feeling, and made no comment. But Eric, hastily borrowing another bat, took his place again quite tamely; he was trembling, and at the very next ball, he spooned a miserable catch into Graham’s hand, and the shout of triumph from the other side proclaimed that his innings was over.He walked dejectedly to the pavilion for his coat, and the boys, who were seated in crowds about it, received him, of course, after his brilliant score, with loud and continued plaudits. But the light had died away from his face and figure, and he never raised his eyes from the ground.“Eric!” said Wildney chaffingly, “you don’t acknowledge your honours.”Eric dropped his bat in the corner, put his coat across his arm, and walked away. As he passed Wildney, he stooped down and whispered again in a low voice—“The curse has come upon me, criedThe Lady of Shalott.”“Hush, Eric, nonsense,”, whispered Wildney; “you’re not going away,” he continued aloud, as Eric turned towards the school. “Why, there are only two more to go in!”“Yes, thank you, I must go.”“Oh, then, I’ll come too.”Wildney at once joined his friend. “There’s nothing more the matter, is there?” he asked anxiously, when they were out of hearing of the rest.“God only knows.”“Well, let’s change the subject. You’ve been playing brilliantly, old fellow.”“Have I?”“I should just think so, only you got out in rather a stupid way.”“Ah well! it matters very little.”Just at this moment one of the servants handed Eric a kind note from Mrs Rowlands, with whom he was a very great favourite, asking him to tea that night. He was not much surprised, for he had been asked several times lately, and the sweet womanly kindness which she always showed him caused him the greatest pleasure. Besides, she had known his mother.“Upon my word, honoursarebeing showered on you!” said Wildney. “First to getthescore of the season at cricket, and bowl out about half the other side, and then go to tea with the head-master. Upon my word! Why, any of us poor wretches would give our two ears for such distinctions. Talk of curse indeed! Fiddlestick-end!”But Eric’s sorrow lay too deep for chaff, and only answering with a sigh he went to dress for tea.Just before tea-time Duncan and Montagu strolled in together. “How splendidly Eric played,” said Duncan.“Yes, indeed. I’m so glad. By the bye, I must see about getting a new bat. I don’t know exactly how much money we’ve got, but I know there’s plenty. Let’s come and see.”They entered his study, and he looked about everywhere for the key.“Hallo,” he said, “I’m nearly sure I left it in the corner of this drawer, under some other things; but it isn’t there now. What can have become of it?”“Where’s the box?” said Duncan; “let’s see if any of my keys will fit it. Hallo! whyyou’rea nice treasurer, Monty! here’s the key in the box!”“No, is it though?” asked Montagu, looking serious. “Here, give it me; I hope nobody’s been meddling with it.”He opened it quickly, and stood in dumb and blank amazement to see it empty.“Phee-ew!” Montagu gave a long whistle.“By Jove!” was Duncan’s only comment.The boys looked at each other, but neither dared to express what was in his thoughts.“A bad, bad business! what’s to be done, Monty?”“I’ll rush straight down to tea, and ask the fellows about it. Would you mind requesting Rose not to come in for five minutes? Tell him there’s a row.”He ran down stairs hastily and entered the tea-room, where the boys were talking in high spirits about the match, and liberally praising Eric’s play.“I’ve got something unpleasant to say,” he announced, raising his voice.“Hush! hush! hush! what’s the row?” asked half a dozen at once.“The whole of the cricket-money, some six pounds at least, has vanished from the box in my study!”For an instant the whole room was silent; Wildney and Graham interchanged anxious glances.“Does any fellow know anything about this?”All, or most, had a vague suspicion, but no one spoke.“Where is Williams?” asked one of the sixth-form casually.“He’s taking tea with the Doctor,” said Wildney.Mr Rose came in, and there was no opportunity for more to be said, except in confidential whispers.Duncan went up with Owen and Montagu to their study. “What’s to be done?” was the general question.“I think we’ve all had a lesson once before not to suspect, too hastily. Still, in a matter like this,” said Montagu, “onemusttake notice of apparent cues.” “I know what you’re thinking of, Monty,” said Duncan.“Well, then, did you hear anything when you and I surprised Eric suddenly two days ago?”“I heard some one moving about in your study, as I thought.”“I heard more, though at the time it didn’t strike me particularly. I distinctly heard the jingle of money.”“Well, it’s no good counting up suspicious circumstances; we mustaskhim about it and act accordingly.”“Will he come up to the studies again to-night?”“I think not,” said Owen; “I notice he generally goes straight to bed after he has been out to tea; that’s to say, directly after prayers.”The three sat there till prayer-time, taciturn and thoughtful. Their books were open, but they did little work, and it was evident that Montagu was filled with the most touching grief. During the evening he drew out a little likeness which Eric had given him, and looked at it long and earnestly. “Is it possible?” he thought. “O Eric, Eric! can that face be the face of a thief?”The prayer-bell dispelled his reverie. Eric entered with the Rowlandses, and sat in his accustomed place. He had spent a pleasant, quiet evening, and, little knowing what had happened, felt far more cheerful and hopeful than he had done before, although he was still ignorant how to escape the difficulty which threatened him.He couldn’t help observing that as he entered he was the object of general attention; but he attributed it either to his playing that day, or to the circumstances in which he was placed by Billy’s treachery, of which he knew that many boys were now aware. But when prayers were over, and he saw that every one shunned him, or looked and spoke in the coldest manner, his most terrible fears revived.He went off to his dormitory, and began to undress. As he sat half abstracted on his bed doing nothing, Montagu and Duncan entered, and he started to see them, for they were evidently the bearers of some serious intelligence.“Eric,” said Duncan, “do you know that some one has stolen all the cricket-money?”“Stolen—what—all?” he cried, leaping up as if he had been shot. “Oh, what new retribution is this?” and he hid his face, which had turned ashy pale, in his hands.“To cut matters short, Eric, do you know anything about it?”“If it is all gone, it is not I who stole it,” he said, not lifting his head.“Do you know anything about it?”“No!” he sobbed convulsively. “No, no, no! Yet stop; don’t let me add a lie—Let me think. No, Duncan!” he said, looking up, “I donotknow who stole it.”They stood silent, and the tears were stealing down Montagu’s averted face.“O Duncan, Monty, be merciful, be merciful,” said Eric. “Don’t yet condemn me. I am guilty, not ofthis, but of something as bad. I admit I was tempted; but if the money really is all gone, it isnotI who am the thief.”“You must know, Eric, that the suspicion against you is very strong, and rests on some definite facts.”“Yes, I know it must. Yet, oh, do be merciful, and don’t yet condemn me. I have denied it. Whatever else I am, am I a liar, Monty? O Monty, Monty, believe me in this!”But the boys still stood silent.“Well then,” he said, “I will tell you all. But I can only tell it to you, Monty. Duncan, indeed, you mustn’t be angry; you are my friend, but not so much as Monty. I can tell him, and him only.”Duncan left the room, and Montagu sat down beside Eric on the bed, and put his arm round him to support him, for he shook violently. There, with deep and wild emotion, and many interruptions of passionate silence, Eric told to Montagu his miserable tale. “I am the most wretched fellow living,” he said; “there must be some fiend that hates me, and drives me to ruin. But let it all come: I care nothing, nothing, what happens to me now. Only, dear, dear Monty, forgive me, and love me still.”“O Eric, it is not for one like me to talk of forgiveness; you were sorely tempted. Yet God will forgive you if you ask Him. Won’t you pray to Him to-night? I love you, Eric, still, with all my heart, and do you think God can be less kind than man? AndI, too, will pray for you, Eric. Good-night, and God bless you.” He gently disengaged himself—for Eric clung to him, and seemed unwilling to lose sight of him—and a moment after he was gone.Eric felt terribly alone. He knelt down and tried to pray, but somehow it didn’t seem as if the prayer came from his heart, and his thoughts began instantly to wander far away. Still he knelt—knelt even until his candle had gone out, and he had nearly fallen asleep, thought-wearied, on his knees. And then he got into bed still dressed. He had been making up his mind that he could bear it no longer, and would run away to sea that night.He waited till eleven, when Dr Rowlands took his rounds. The Doctor had been told all the circumstances of suspicion, and they amounted in his mind to certainty. It made him very sad, and he stopped to look at the boy from whom he had parted on such friendly terms so short a time before. Eric did not pretend to be asleep, but opened his eyes, and looked at the head-master. Very sorrowfully Dr Rowlands shook his head, and went away. Eric never saw him again.The moment he was gone Eric got up. He meant to go to his study, collect the few presents, which were his dearest mementos of Russell, Wildney, and his other friends—above all, Vernon’s likeness—and then make his escape from the building, using for the last time the broken pane and loosened bar in the corridor, with which past temptations had made him so familiar.He turned the handle of the door and pushed, but it did not yield. Half contemplating the possibility of such an intention on Eric’s part, Dr Rowlands had locked it behind him when he went out.“Ha!” thought the boy, “then he too knows and suspects. Never mind. I must give up my treasures—yes, even poor Verny’s picture; perhaps it is best I should, for I’m only disgracing his dear memory. But they shan’t prevent me from running away.”Once more he deliberated. Yes, there could be no doubt about the decision. Hecouldnot endure another public expulsion, or even another birching; hecouldnot endure the cold faces of even his best friends. No, no! hecouldnot face the horrible phantom of detection, and exposure, and shame. But worse than all this, he could not endurehimself; he must fly away from the sense thathe, Eric Williams, the brother of Vernon, the friend of Edwin Russell, was sunk in all degradation. Could it really, really be, thathe, once the soul of chivalrous honour, who once would have felt a stain like a wound,—was it possible that he should have been a thief? It was too dreadful a thought. Escape he must.After using all his strength in long-continued efforts, he succeeded in loosening the bar of his bedroom window. He then took his two sheets, tied them together in a firm knot, wound one end tightly round the remaining bar, and let the other fall down the side of the building. He took one more glance round his little room, and then let himself down by the sheet, hand under hand, until he could drop to the ground. Once safe, he ran towards Starhaven as fast as he could, and felt as if he were flying for his life. But when he got to the end of the playground he could not help stopping to take one more longing, lingering look at the scenes he was leaving for ever. It was a chilly and overclouded night, and by the gleams of struggling moonlight, he saw the whole buildings standing out black in the night air. The past lay behind him like a painting. Many and many unhappy or guilty hours had he spent in that home, and yet those last four years had not gone by without their own wealth of life and joy. He remembered how he had first walked across that playground, hand in hand with his father, a little boy of twelve. He remembered his first troubles with Barker, and how his father had at last delivered him from the annoyances of his old enemy. He remembered how often he and Russell had sat there, looking at the sea, in pleasant talk, especially the evening when he had got his first prize and head-remove in the lower-fourth; and how, on the night of Russell’s death, he had gazed over that playground from the sick-room window. He remembered how often he had got cheered there for his feats at cricket and football, and how often he and Upton, in old days, and he and Wildney afterwards, had walked there on Sundays, arm in arm. Then the stroll to Fort Island, and Barker’s plot against him, and the evening at the Stack, passed through his mind; and the dinner at “The Jolly Herring,” and, above all, Vernon’s death. Oh! how awful it seemed to him now, as he looked through the darkness at the very road along which they had brought Verny’s dead body. Then his thoughts turned to the theft of the pigeons, his own drunkenness, and then his last cruel, cruel experiences, and this dreadful end of the day which, for an hour or two, had seemed so bright on that very spot where he stood. Could it be that this (oh, how little he had ever dreamed of it)—that this was to be the conclusion of his schooldays?Yes, in those rooms, of which the windows fronted him, there they lay, all his school-fellows—Montagu, and Wildney, and Duncan, and all whom he cared for best. And there was Mr Rose’s light still burning in the library window; and he was leaving the school and those who had been with him there so long, in the dark night, by stealth, penniless, and broken-hearted, with the shameful character of a thief.Suddenly Mr Rose’s light moved, and fearing discovery or interception, he roused himself from the bitter reverie and fled to Starhaven through the darkness. There was still a light in the little sailors’ tavern, and, entering, he asked the woman who kept it, “if she knew of any ship which was going to sail next morning?”“Why, your’n is, bean’t it, Maister Davey?” she asked, turning to a rough-looking sailor who sat smoking in the bar.“Ees,” grunted the man.“Will you take me on board?” said Eric.“You be a runaway, I’m thinking?”“Never mind. I’ll come as cabin-boy—anything.”The sailor glanced at his striking appearance and neat dress. “Hardly in the cabin-boy line, I should say.”“Will you take me?” said Eric. “You’ll find me strong and willing enough.”“Well—if the skipper don’t say no. Come along.”They went down to a boat, and “Maister Davey” rowed to a schooner in the harbour, and took Eric on board.“There,” he said, “you may sleep there for to-night,” and he pointed to a great heap of sailcloth beside the mast.Weary to death, Eric flung himself down, and slept deep and sound till the morning, on board theStormy Petrel.

For alas! alas! with meThe light of life is o’er;No more—no more—no more!(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,Or the stricken eagle soar!Edgar Poe.

For alas! alas! with meThe light of life is o’er;No more—no more—no more!(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,Or the stricken eagle soar!Edgar Poe.

The landlord of “The Jolly Herring” had observed, during his visits to Eric, that at mid-day the studies were usually deserted, and the doors for the most part left unlocked. He very soon determined to make use of this knowledge for his own purposes, and, as he was well acquainted with the building (in which for a short time he had been a servant), he laid his plans without the least dread of discovery.

There was a back entrance into Roslyn School behind the chapel, and it could be reached by a path through the fields without any chance of being seen, if a person set warily to work and watched his opportunity. By this path Billy came, two days after his last visit, and walked straight up the great staircase, armed with the excuse of business with Eric in case any one met or questioned him. But no one was about, since between twelve and one the boys were pretty sure to be amusing themselves out of doors; and after glancing into each of the studies, Billy finally settled on searching Montagu’s (which was the neatest and most tastefully furnished), to see what he could get.

The very first thing which caught his experienced eye was the cricket-fund box, with the key temptingly in the lock, just where Eric had left it when the sounds of some one coming had startled him. In a moment Billy had made a descent on the promising looking booty, and opening his treasure, saw, with lively feelings of gratification, the unexpected store of silver and gold. This he instantly transferred to his own pocket, and then replacing the box where he had found it, decamped with the spoil unseen, leaving the study in all other respects exactly as he had found it.

Meanwhile the unhappy Eric was tossed and agitated with apprehension and suspense. Unable to endure his misery in loneliness, he had made several boys to a greater or less degree participators in the knowledge of his difficult position; and in the sympathy which his danger excited, the general nature of his dilemma with Billy (though not its special circumstances) was soon known through the school.

At the very time when the money was being stolen, Eric was sitting with Wildney and Graham under the ruin by the shore, and the sorrow which lay at his heart was sadly visible in the anxious expression of his face, and the deep dejection of his attitude and manner.

The other two were trying to console him. They suggested every possible topic of hope; but it was too plain that there was nothing to be said, and that Eric had real cause to fear the worst. Yet though their arguments were futile, he keenly felt the genuineness of their affection, and it brought a little alleviation to his heavy mood.

“Well, well; at leastdohope the best, Eric,” said Graham.

“Yes!” urged Wildney; “only think, dear old fellow, what lots of worse scrapes we’ve been in before, and how we’ve always managed to get out of them somehow.”

“No, my boy; not worse scrapes,” answered Eric. “Depend upon it this is the last for me; I shall not have the chance of getting into another atRoslyn, anyhow.”

“Poor Eric! what shall I do if you leave?” said Wildney, laying his arm on Eric’s shoulder. “Besides it’s all my fault, hang it, that you got into this cursed row.”

“The curse is come upon me, criedThe Lady of Shalott.

“The curse is come upon me, criedThe Lady of Shalott.

“Those words keep ringing in my ears,” murmured Eric.

“Well, Eric, ifyouare sent away, I know I shall get my father to take me too, and then we’ll join each other somewhere. Come, cheer up, old boy—being sent isn’t such a very frightful thing after all.”

“No,” said Graham; “and besides the bagging of the pigeons was only a lark, when one comes to think of it. It wasn’t like stealing, you know;that’dbe quite a different thing.”

Eric winced visibly at this remark, but his companions did not notice it. “Ah,” thought he, “there’sonepassage of my life which I never shall be able to reveal to any human soul.”

“Come now, Eric,” said Wildney, “I’ve got something to propose. You shall play cricket to-day; you haven’t played for an age, and it’s high time you should. If you don’t, you’ll go mooning about the shore all day, and that’ll never do, for you’ll come back glummer than ever.”

“No,” said Eric, with a heavy sigh, as the image of Vernon instantly passed through his mind; “no more cricket for me.”

“Nay, but youmustplay to-day. Come, you shan’t say no. You won’t say no to me, will you, dear old fellow?” And looked up to him with that pleasant smile, and the merry light in his dark eyes, which had always been so charming to Eric’s fancy.

“There’s no refusing you,” said Eric, with the ghost of a laugh, as he boxed Wildney’s ears. “Oh, you dear little rogue, Charlie, I wish I were you.”

“Pooh! pooh! now you shan’t get sentimental again. As if you weren’t fifty times better than me every way. I’m sure I don’t know how I shall ever thank you enough, Eric,” he added more seriously, “for all your kindness to me.”

“I’m so glad you’re going to play, though,” said Graham; “and so will everybody be, and I’m certain it’ll be good for you. The game will divert your thoughts.”

So that afternoon Eric, for the first time since Verny’s death, played with the first eleven, of which he had been captain. The school cheered him vigorously as he appeared again on the field, and the sound lighted up his countenance with some gleam of its old joyousness. When one looked at him that day with his straw hat on and its neat light blue ribbon, and the cricket dress (a pink jersey, and leather belt, with a silver clasp in front), showing off his well-built and graceful figure, one little thought what an agony was gnawing like a serpent at his heart. But that day, poor boy, in the excitement of the game he half forgot it himself, and more and more as the game went on.

The other side, headed by Montagu, went in first, and Eric caught out two and bowled several. Montagu was the only one who stayed in long, and when at last Eric sent his middle wicket flying with a magnificent ball, the shouts of, “Well bowled! well bowledindeed!” were universal.

“Just listen to that, Eric,” said Montagu; “why, you’re out-doing everybody to-day, yourself included, and taking us by storm.”

“Wait till you see me come out for a duck,” said Eric, laughing.

“Not you. You’re too much in luck to come out with a duck,” answered Montagu. “You see I’ve already become the poet of your triumphs, and prophesy in rhyme.”

And now it was Eric’s turn to go in. It was long since he had stood before the wicket, but now he was there, looking like a beautiful picture as the sunlight streamed over him, and made his fair hair shine like gold. In the triumph of success his sorrows were flung to the winds, and his blue eyes sparkled with interest and joy.

He contented himself with blocking Duncan’s balls until his eye was in; but then, acquiring confidence, he sent them flying right and left. His score rapidly mounted, and there seemed no chance of getting him out, so that there was every probability of his carrying out his bat.

“Oh,wellhit!wellhit! A three-er for Eric,” cried Wildney to the scorer; and he began to clap his hands and dance about with excitement at his friend’s success.

“Oh, well hit! well hit in-deed!” shouted all the lookers on, as Eric caught the next ball half-volley, and sent it whizzing over the hedge, getting a sixer by the hit.

At the next ball they heard a great crack, and he got no run, for the handle of his bat broke right off.

“How unlucky!” he said, flinging down the handle with vexation. “I believe this was our best bat.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Montagu; “we can soon get another; we’ve got lots of money in the box.”

What had come over Eric? if there had been a sudden breath of poison in the atmosphere he could hardly have been more affected than he was by Montagu’s simple remark. Montagu could not help noticing it, but at the time merely attributed it to some unknown gust of feeling, and made no comment. But Eric, hastily borrowing another bat, took his place again quite tamely; he was trembling, and at the very next ball, he spooned a miserable catch into Graham’s hand, and the shout of triumph from the other side proclaimed that his innings was over.

He walked dejectedly to the pavilion for his coat, and the boys, who were seated in crowds about it, received him, of course, after his brilliant score, with loud and continued plaudits. But the light had died away from his face and figure, and he never raised his eyes from the ground.

“Eric!” said Wildney chaffingly, “you don’t acknowledge your honours.”

Eric dropped his bat in the corner, put his coat across his arm, and walked away. As he passed Wildney, he stooped down and whispered again in a low voice—

“The curse has come upon me, criedThe Lady of Shalott.”

“The curse has come upon me, criedThe Lady of Shalott.”

“Hush, Eric, nonsense,”, whispered Wildney; “you’re not going away,” he continued aloud, as Eric turned towards the school. “Why, there are only two more to go in!”

“Yes, thank you, I must go.”

“Oh, then, I’ll come too.”

Wildney at once joined his friend. “There’s nothing more the matter, is there?” he asked anxiously, when they were out of hearing of the rest.

“God only knows.”

“Well, let’s change the subject. You’ve been playing brilliantly, old fellow.”

“Have I?”

“I should just think so, only you got out in rather a stupid way.”

“Ah well! it matters very little.”

Just at this moment one of the servants handed Eric a kind note from Mrs Rowlands, with whom he was a very great favourite, asking him to tea that night. He was not much surprised, for he had been asked several times lately, and the sweet womanly kindness which she always showed him caused him the greatest pleasure. Besides, she had known his mother.

“Upon my word, honoursarebeing showered on you!” said Wildney. “First to getthescore of the season at cricket, and bowl out about half the other side, and then go to tea with the head-master. Upon my word! Why, any of us poor wretches would give our two ears for such distinctions. Talk of curse indeed! Fiddlestick-end!”

But Eric’s sorrow lay too deep for chaff, and only answering with a sigh he went to dress for tea.

Just before tea-time Duncan and Montagu strolled in together. “How splendidly Eric played,” said Duncan.

“Yes, indeed. I’m so glad. By the bye, I must see about getting a new bat. I don’t know exactly how much money we’ve got, but I know there’s plenty. Let’s come and see.”

They entered his study, and he looked about everywhere for the key.

“Hallo,” he said, “I’m nearly sure I left it in the corner of this drawer, under some other things; but it isn’t there now. What can have become of it?”

“Where’s the box?” said Duncan; “let’s see if any of my keys will fit it. Hallo! whyyou’rea nice treasurer, Monty! here’s the key in the box!”

“No, is it though?” asked Montagu, looking serious. “Here, give it me; I hope nobody’s been meddling with it.”

He opened it quickly, and stood in dumb and blank amazement to see it empty.

“Phee-ew!” Montagu gave a long whistle.

“By Jove!” was Duncan’s only comment.

The boys looked at each other, but neither dared to express what was in his thoughts.

“A bad, bad business! what’s to be done, Monty?”

“I’ll rush straight down to tea, and ask the fellows about it. Would you mind requesting Rose not to come in for five minutes? Tell him there’s a row.”

He ran down stairs hastily and entered the tea-room, where the boys were talking in high spirits about the match, and liberally praising Eric’s play.

“I’ve got something unpleasant to say,” he announced, raising his voice.

“Hush! hush! hush! what’s the row?” asked half a dozen at once.

“The whole of the cricket-money, some six pounds at least, has vanished from the box in my study!”

For an instant the whole room was silent; Wildney and Graham interchanged anxious glances.

“Does any fellow know anything about this?”

All, or most, had a vague suspicion, but no one spoke.

“Where is Williams?” asked one of the sixth-form casually.

“He’s taking tea with the Doctor,” said Wildney.

Mr Rose came in, and there was no opportunity for more to be said, except in confidential whispers.

Duncan went up with Owen and Montagu to their study. “What’s to be done?” was the general question.

“I think we’ve all had a lesson once before not to suspect, too hastily. Still, in a matter like this,” said Montagu, “onemusttake notice of apparent cues.” “I know what you’re thinking of, Monty,” said Duncan.

“Well, then, did you hear anything when you and I surprised Eric suddenly two days ago?”

“I heard some one moving about in your study, as I thought.”

“I heard more, though at the time it didn’t strike me particularly. I distinctly heard the jingle of money.”

“Well, it’s no good counting up suspicious circumstances; we mustaskhim about it and act accordingly.”

“Will he come up to the studies again to-night?”

“I think not,” said Owen; “I notice he generally goes straight to bed after he has been out to tea; that’s to say, directly after prayers.”

The three sat there till prayer-time, taciturn and thoughtful. Their books were open, but they did little work, and it was evident that Montagu was filled with the most touching grief. During the evening he drew out a little likeness which Eric had given him, and looked at it long and earnestly. “Is it possible?” he thought. “O Eric, Eric! can that face be the face of a thief?”

The prayer-bell dispelled his reverie. Eric entered with the Rowlandses, and sat in his accustomed place. He had spent a pleasant, quiet evening, and, little knowing what had happened, felt far more cheerful and hopeful than he had done before, although he was still ignorant how to escape the difficulty which threatened him.

He couldn’t help observing that as he entered he was the object of general attention; but he attributed it either to his playing that day, or to the circumstances in which he was placed by Billy’s treachery, of which he knew that many boys were now aware. But when prayers were over, and he saw that every one shunned him, or looked and spoke in the coldest manner, his most terrible fears revived.

He went off to his dormitory, and began to undress. As he sat half abstracted on his bed doing nothing, Montagu and Duncan entered, and he started to see them, for they were evidently the bearers of some serious intelligence.

“Eric,” said Duncan, “do you know that some one has stolen all the cricket-money?”

“Stolen—what—all?” he cried, leaping up as if he had been shot. “Oh, what new retribution is this?” and he hid his face, which had turned ashy pale, in his hands.

“To cut matters short, Eric, do you know anything about it?”

“If it is all gone, it is not I who stole it,” he said, not lifting his head.

“Do you know anything about it?”

“No!” he sobbed convulsively. “No, no, no! Yet stop; don’t let me add a lie—Let me think. No, Duncan!” he said, looking up, “I donotknow who stole it.”

They stood silent, and the tears were stealing down Montagu’s averted face.

“O Duncan, Monty, be merciful, be merciful,” said Eric. “Don’t yet condemn me. I am guilty, not ofthis, but of something as bad. I admit I was tempted; but if the money really is all gone, it isnotI who am the thief.”

“You must know, Eric, that the suspicion against you is very strong, and rests on some definite facts.”

“Yes, I know it must. Yet, oh, do be merciful, and don’t yet condemn me. I have denied it. Whatever else I am, am I a liar, Monty? O Monty, Monty, believe me in this!”

But the boys still stood silent.

“Well then,” he said, “I will tell you all. But I can only tell it to you, Monty. Duncan, indeed, you mustn’t be angry; you are my friend, but not so much as Monty. I can tell him, and him only.”

Duncan left the room, and Montagu sat down beside Eric on the bed, and put his arm round him to support him, for he shook violently. There, with deep and wild emotion, and many interruptions of passionate silence, Eric told to Montagu his miserable tale. “I am the most wretched fellow living,” he said; “there must be some fiend that hates me, and drives me to ruin. But let it all come: I care nothing, nothing, what happens to me now. Only, dear, dear Monty, forgive me, and love me still.”

“O Eric, it is not for one like me to talk of forgiveness; you were sorely tempted. Yet God will forgive you if you ask Him. Won’t you pray to Him to-night? I love you, Eric, still, with all my heart, and do you think God can be less kind than man? AndI, too, will pray for you, Eric. Good-night, and God bless you.” He gently disengaged himself—for Eric clung to him, and seemed unwilling to lose sight of him—and a moment after he was gone.

Eric felt terribly alone. He knelt down and tried to pray, but somehow it didn’t seem as if the prayer came from his heart, and his thoughts began instantly to wander far away. Still he knelt—knelt even until his candle had gone out, and he had nearly fallen asleep, thought-wearied, on his knees. And then he got into bed still dressed. He had been making up his mind that he could bear it no longer, and would run away to sea that night.

He waited till eleven, when Dr Rowlands took his rounds. The Doctor had been told all the circumstances of suspicion, and they amounted in his mind to certainty. It made him very sad, and he stopped to look at the boy from whom he had parted on such friendly terms so short a time before. Eric did not pretend to be asleep, but opened his eyes, and looked at the head-master. Very sorrowfully Dr Rowlands shook his head, and went away. Eric never saw him again.

The moment he was gone Eric got up. He meant to go to his study, collect the few presents, which were his dearest mementos of Russell, Wildney, and his other friends—above all, Vernon’s likeness—and then make his escape from the building, using for the last time the broken pane and loosened bar in the corridor, with which past temptations had made him so familiar.

He turned the handle of the door and pushed, but it did not yield. Half contemplating the possibility of such an intention on Eric’s part, Dr Rowlands had locked it behind him when he went out.

“Ha!” thought the boy, “then he too knows and suspects. Never mind. I must give up my treasures—yes, even poor Verny’s picture; perhaps it is best I should, for I’m only disgracing his dear memory. But they shan’t prevent me from running away.”

Once more he deliberated. Yes, there could be no doubt about the decision. Hecouldnot endure another public expulsion, or even another birching; hecouldnot endure the cold faces of even his best friends. No, no! hecouldnot face the horrible phantom of detection, and exposure, and shame. But worse than all this, he could not endurehimself; he must fly away from the sense thathe, Eric Williams, the brother of Vernon, the friend of Edwin Russell, was sunk in all degradation. Could it really, really be, thathe, once the soul of chivalrous honour, who once would have felt a stain like a wound,—was it possible that he should have been a thief? It was too dreadful a thought. Escape he must.

After using all his strength in long-continued efforts, he succeeded in loosening the bar of his bedroom window. He then took his two sheets, tied them together in a firm knot, wound one end tightly round the remaining bar, and let the other fall down the side of the building. He took one more glance round his little room, and then let himself down by the sheet, hand under hand, until he could drop to the ground. Once safe, he ran towards Starhaven as fast as he could, and felt as if he were flying for his life. But when he got to the end of the playground he could not help stopping to take one more longing, lingering look at the scenes he was leaving for ever. It was a chilly and overclouded night, and by the gleams of struggling moonlight, he saw the whole buildings standing out black in the night air. The past lay behind him like a painting. Many and many unhappy or guilty hours had he spent in that home, and yet those last four years had not gone by without their own wealth of life and joy. He remembered how he had first walked across that playground, hand in hand with his father, a little boy of twelve. He remembered his first troubles with Barker, and how his father had at last delivered him from the annoyances of his old enemy. He remembered how often he and Russell had sat there, looking at the sea, in pleasant talk, especially the evening when he had got his first prize and head-remove in the lower-fourth; and how, on the night of Russell’s death, he had gazed over that playground from the sick-room window. He remembered how often he had got cheered there for his feats at cricket and football, and how often he and Upton, in old days, and he and Wildney afterwards, had walked there on Sundays, arm in arm. Then the stroll to Fort Island, and Barker’s plot against him, and the evening at the Stack, passed through his mind; and the dinner at “The Jolly Herring,” and, above all, Vernon’s death. Oh! how awful it seemed to him now, as he looked through the darkness at the very road along which they had brought Verny’s dead body. Then his thoughts turned to the theft of the pigeons, his own drunkenness, and then his last cruel, cruel experiences, and this dreadful end of the day which, for an hour or two, had seemed so bright on that very spot where he stood. Could it be that this (oh, how little he had ever dreamed of it)—that this was to be the conclusion of his schooldays?

Yes, in those rooms, of which the windows fronted him, there they lay, all his school-fellows—Montagu, and Wildney, and Duncan, and all whom he cared for best. And there was Mr Rose’s light still burning in the library window; and he was leaving the school and those who had been with him there so long, in the dark night, by stealth, penniless, and broken-hearted, with the shameful character of a thief.

Suddenly Mr Rose’s light moved, and fearing discovery or interception, he roused himself from the bitter reverie and fled to Starhaven through the darkness. There was still a light in the little sailors’ tavern, and, entering, he asked the woman who kept it, “if she knew of any ship which was going to sail next morning?”

“Why, your’n is, bean’t it, Maister Davey?” she asked, turning to a rough-looking sailor who sat smoking in the bar.

“Ees,” grunted the man.

“Will you take me on board?” said Eric.

“You be a runaway, I’m thinking?”

“Never mind. I’ll come as cabin-boy—anything.”

The sailor glanced at his striking appearance and neat dress. “Hardly in the cabin-boy line, I should say.”

“Will you take me?” said Eric. “You’ll find me strong and willing enough.”

“Well—if the skipper don’t say no. Come along.”

They went down to a boat, and “Maister Davey” rowed to a schooner in the harbour, and took Eric on board.

“There,” he said, “you may sleep there for to-night,” and he pointed to a great heap of sailcloth beside the mast.

Weary to death, Eric flung himself down, and slept deep and sound till the morning, on board theStormy Petrel.

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