ERIC

OR, LITTLE BY LITTLE

A TALE OF ROSLYN SCHOOL

By

FREDERIC W. FARRAR, D.D.

Author of "The Life of Christ," "Julian Home," "St. Winifreds," etc

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

GEORGE A. TRAVER

1902

CONTENTS

[PART I.]

[CHAPTER I--CHILDHOOD.]
[CHAPTER II--A NEW HOME.]
[CHAPTER III--BULLYING.]
[CHAPTER IV--CRIBBING.]
[CHAPTER V--THE SECOND TERM.]
[CHAPTER VI--HOME AFFECTIONS.]
[CHAPTER VII--ERIC A BOARDER.]
[CHAPTER VIII--"TAKING UP".]
[CHAPTER IX--"DEAD FLIES," OR "YE SHALL BE AS GODS".]
[CHAPTER X--DORMITORY LIFE.]
[CHAPTER XI--ERIC IN COVENTRY.]
[CHAPTER XII--THE TRIAL.]
[CHAPTER XIII--THE ADVENTURE AT THE STACK.]
[CHAPTER XIV--THE SILVER CORD BROKEN.]
[CHAPTER XV--HOME AGAIN.]

[PART II.]

[CHAPTER I--ABDIEL.]
[CHAPTER II--WILDNEY.]
[CHAPTER III--THE JOLLY HERRING.]
[CHAPTER IV--MR. ROSE AND BRIGSON.]
[CHAPTER V--RIPPLES.]
[CHAPTER VI--ERIC AND MONTAGU.]
[CHAPTER VII--THE PIGEONS.]
[CHAPTER VIII--SOWING THE WIND.]
[CHAPTER IX--WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG.]
[CHAPTER X--THE LAST TEMPTATION.]
[CHAPTER XI--REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.]
[CHAPTER XII--THE STORMY PETREL.]
[CHAPTER XIII--HOME AT LAST.]
[CHAPTER XIV--CONCLUSION.]

ILLUSTRATIONS

BULLYING.
ERIC Vignette on title-page.
SMOKING.
ON THE ROCK.
OUT OF THE WINDOW.
ERIC AND VERNON.
HIDING.
ERIC ESCAPING FROM THE SHIP Frontispiece.

ERIC: OR, LITTLE BY LITTLE

PART I.

CHAPTER I

CHILDHOOD

"Ah dear delights, that o'er my soul
On memory's wing like shadows fly!
Ah flowers that Joy from Eden stole,
While Innocence stood laughing by."--COLERIDGE.

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" cried a young boy, as he capered vigorously about, and clapped his hands. "Papa and mamma will be home in a week now, and then we shall stay here a little time, and then, and then, I shall go to school."

The last words were enunciated with immense importance, as he stopped his impromptu dance before the chair where his sober cousin Fanny was patiently working at her crochet; but she did not look so much affected by the announcement as the boy seemed to demand, so he again exclaimed, "And then, Miss Fanny, I shall go to school."

"Well, Eric," said Fanny, raising her matter-of-fact quiet face from her endless work, "I doubt, dear, whether you will talk of it with quite as much joy a year hence."

"O ay, Fanny, that's just like you to say so; you're always talking and prophesying; but never mind, I'm going to school, so hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" and he again began his capering,--jumping over the chairs, trying to vault the tables, singing and dancing with an exuberance of delight, till, catching a sudden sight of his little spaniel Flo, he sprang through the open window into the garden, and disappeared behind the trees of the shrubbery; but Fanny still heard his clear, ringing, silvery laughter, as he continued his games in the summer air.

She looked up from her work after he had gone, and sighed. In spite of the sunshine and balm of the bright weather, a sense of heaviness and foreboding oppressed her. Everything looked smiling and beautiful, and there was an almost irresistible contagion in the mirth of her young cousin, but still she could not help feeling sad. It was not merely that she would have to part with Eric, "but that bright boy," thought Fanny, "what will become of him? I have heard strange things of schools; oh, if he should be spoilt and ruined, what misery it would be. Those baby lips, that pure young heart, a year may work sad change in their words and thoughts!" She sighed again, and her eyes glistened as she raised them upwards, and breathed a silent prayer.

She loved the boy dearly, and had taught him from his earliest years. In most things she found him an apt pupil. Truthful, ingenuous, quick, he would acquire almost without effort any subject that interested him, and a word was often enough to bring the impetuous blood to his cheeks, in a flush, of pride or indignation. He required the gentlest teaching, and had received it, while his mind seemed cast in such a mould of stainless honor that he avoided most of the faults to which children are prone. But he was far from blameless. He was proud to a fault; he well knew that few of his fellows had gifts like his, either of mind or person, and his fair face often showed a clear impression of his own superiority. His passion, too, was imperious, and though it always met with prompt correction, his cousin had latterly found it difficult to subdue. She felt, in a word, that he was outgrowing her rule. Beyond a certain age no boy of spirit can be safely guided by a woman's hand alone.

Eric Williams was now twelve years old. His father was a civilian in India, and was returning on furlough to England after a long absence. Eric had been born in India, but had been sent to England by his parents at an early age, in charge of a lady friend of his mother. The parting, which had been agony to his father and mother, he was too young to feel; indeed the moment itself passed by without his being conscious of it. They took him on board the ship, and, after a time, gave him a hammer and some nails to play with. These had always been to him a supreme delight, and while he hammered away, Mr. and Mrs. Williams, denying themselves, for the child's sake, even one more tearful embrace, went ashore in the boat and left him. It was not till the ship sailed that he was told he would not see them again for a long, long time. Poor child, his tears and cries were wild when he first understood it; but the sorrows of four years old are very transient, and before a week was over, little Eric felt almost reconciled to his position, and had become the universal pet and plaything of every one on board, from Captain Broadland down to the cabin boy, with whom he very soon struck up an acquaintance. Yet twice a day at least, he would shed a tear, as he lisped his little prayer, kneeling at Mrs. Munro's knee, and asked God "to bless his dear dear father and mother, and make him a good boy."

When Eric arrived in England, he was intrusted to the care of a widowed aunt, whose daughter, Fanny, had the main charge of his early teaching. At first, the wayward little Indian seemed likely to form no accession to the quiet household, but he soon became its brightest ornament and pride. Everything was in his favor at the pleasant home of Mrs. Trevor. He was treated with motherly kindness and tenderness, yet firmly checked when he went wrong. From the first he had a well-spring of strength, against temptation, in the long letters which every mail brought from his parents; and all his childish affections were entwined round the fancied image of a brother born since he had left India. In his bed-room there hung a cherub's head, drawn in pencil by his mother, and this picture was inextricably identified in his imagination with his "little brother Vernon." He loved it dearly, and whenever he went astray, nothing weighed on his mind so strongly as the thought, that if he were naughty he would teach little Vernon to be naughty too when he came home.

And Nature also--wisest, gentlest, holiest of teachers-was with him in his childhood. Fairholm Cottage, where his aunt lived, was situated in the beautiful Vale of Ayrton, and a clear stream ran through the valley at the bottom of Mrs. Trevor's orchard. Eric loved this stream, and was always happy as he roamed by its side, or over the low green hills and scattered dingles, which lent unusual loveliness to every winding of its waters. He was allowed to go about a good deal by himself, and it did him good. He grew up fearless and self-dependent, and never felt the want of amusement. The garden and orchard supplied him a theatre for endless games and romps, sometimes with no other companion than his cousin and his dog, and sometimes with the few children of his own age whom he knew in the hamlet. Very soon he forgot all about India; it only hung like a distant golden haze on the horizon of his memory. When asked if he remembered it, he would say thoughtfully, that in dreams and at some other times, he saw a little child, with long curly hair, running about in a little garden, near a great river, in a place where the air was very bright. But whether the little boy was himself or his brother Vernon, whom he had never seen, he couldn't quite tell.

But above all, it was happy for Eric that his training was religious and enlightened. With Mrs. Trevor and her daughter, religion was not a system but a habit--not a theory, but a continued act of life. All was simple, sweet, and unaffected about their charity and their devotions. They loved God, and they did all the good they could to those around them. The floating gossip and ill-nature of the little village never affected them; it melted away insensibly in the presence of their cultivated minds; and so friendship with them was a bond of union among all, and from the vicar to the dairyman every one loved and respected them, asked their counsel, and sought their sympathy.

They called themselves by no sectarian name, nor could they have told to what "party" they belonged. They troubled themselves with no theories of education, but mingled gentle nurture with "wholesome neglect." There was nothing exotic or constrained in the growth of Eric's character. He was not one of your angelically good children at all, and knew none of the phrases of which infant prodigies are supposed to be so fond. He had not been taught any distinction between "Sunday books" and "week-day" books, but no book had been put in his way that was not healthy and genuine in tone. He had not been told that he might use his Noah's ark on Sunday, because it was "a Sunday plaything," while all other toys were on that day forbidden. Of these things the Trevors thought little; they only saw that no child could be happy in enforced idleness or constrained employment; and so Eric grew up to love Sunday quite as well as any other day in the week, though, unlike your angelic children, he never professed to like it better. But to be truthful, to be honest, to be kind, to be brave, these had been taught him, and he never quite forgot the lesson; nor amid the sorrows of after life did he ever quite lose the sense--learnt at dear quiet Fairholm--of a present loving God, of a tender and long-suffering Father.

As yet he could be hardly said to know what school was. He had been sent indeed to Mr. Lawley's grammar-school for the last half-year, and had learned a few declensions in his Latin grammar. But as Mr. Lawley allowed his upper class to hear the little boys their lessons, Eric had managed to get on pretty much as he liked. Only once in the entire half-year had he said a lesson to the dreadful master himself, and of course it was a ruinous failure, involving some tremendous pulls of Eric's hair, and making him tremble like a leaf. Several things combined to make Mr. Lawley dreadful to his imagination. Ever since he was quite little, he remembered hearing the howls which proceeded from the "Latin school" as he passed by, whilst some luckless youngster was getting caned; and the reverend pedagogue was notoriously passionate. Then, again, he spoke so indistinctly with his deep, gruff voice, that Eric never could and never did syllable a word he said, and this kept him in a perpetual terror. Once Mr. Lawley had told him to go out, and see what time it was by the church clock. Only hearing that he was to do something, too frightened to ask what it was, and feeling sure that even if he did, he should not understand what the master said, Eric ran out, went straight to Mr. Lawley's house, and after having managed by strenuous jumps to touch the knocker, informed the servant "that Mr. Lawley wanted his man."

"What man?" said the maid-servant, "the young man? or the butler? or is it the clerk?"

Here was a puzzler! all Eric knew was that he was in the habit of sending sometimes for one or the other of these functionaries; but he was in for it, so with a faltering voice he said "the young man" at hazard, and went back to the Latin school.

"Why have you been so long?" roared Mr. Lawley, as he timidly entered. Fear entirely prevented Eric from hearing what was said, so he answered at random, "He's coming, sir." The master, seeing by his scared look that something was wrong, waited to see what would turn up.

Soon after, in walked "the young man," and coming to the astonished Mr. Lawley, bowed, scraped, and said, "Master Williams said you sent for me, sir."

"A mistake," growled the schoolmaster, turning on Eric a look which nearly petrified him; he quite expected a book at his head, or at best a great whack of the cane; but Mr. Lawley had naturally a kind heart, soured as it was, and pitying perhaps the child's white face, he contented himself with the effects of his look.

The simple truth was, that poor Mr. Lawley was a little wrong in the head. A scholar and a gentleman, early misfortunes and an imprudent marriage had driven him to the mastership of the little country grammar-school; and here the perpetual annoyance caused to his refined mind by the coarseness of clumsy or spiteful boys, had gradually unhinged his intellect. Often did he tell the boys "that it was an easier life by far to break stones by the roadside than to teach them;" and at last his eccentricities became too obvious to be any longer overlooked.

The dénouement of his history was a tragic one, and had come a few days before the time when, our narrative opens. It was a common practice among the Latin school boys, as I suppose among all boys, to amuse themselves by putting a heavy book on the top of a door left partially ajar, and to cry out "Crown him" as the first luckless youngster who happened to come in received the book thundering on his head. One day, just as the trap had been adroitly laid, Mr. Lawley walked in unexpectedly. The moment he entered the school-room, down came an Ainsworth's Dictionary on the top of his hat, and the boy, concealed behind the door, unconscious of who the victim was, enunciated with mock gravity, "Crown him! three cheers."

It took Mr. Lawley a second to raise from his eyebrows the battered hat, and recover from his confusion; the next instant he was springing after the boy who had caused the mishap, and who, knowing the effects of the master's fury, fled with precipitation. In one minute the offender was caught, and Mr. Lawley's heavy hand fell recklessly on his ears and back, until he screamed with terror. At last by a tremendous writhe, wrenching himself free, he darted towards the door, and Mr. Lawley, too exhausted to pursue, snatched his large gold watch out of his fob, and hurled it at the boy's retreating figure. The watch flew through the air;--crash! it had missed its aim, and, striking the wall above the lintel, fell smashed into a thousand shivers.

The sound, the violence of the action, the sight of the broken watch, which was the gift of a cherished friend, instantly woke the master to his senses. The whole school had seen it; they sate there pale and breathless with excitement and awe. The poor man could bear it no longer. He flung himself into his chair, hid his face with his hands, and burst into hysterical tears. It was the outbreak of feelings long pent up. In that instant all his life passed before him--its hopes, its failures, its miseries, its madness. "Yes!" he thought, "I am mad."

Raising his head, he cried wildly, "Boys, go, I am mad!" and sank again into his former position, rocking himself to and fro. One by one the boys stole out, and he was left alone. The end is soon told. Forced to leave Ayrton, he had no means of earning his daily bread; and the weight of this new anxiety hastening the crisis, the handsome proud scholar became an inmate of the Brerely Lunatic Asylum. A few years afterwards, Eric heard that he was dead. Poor broken human heart! may he rest in peace.

Such was Eric's first school and schoolmaster. But although he learnt little there, and gained no experience of the character of others or of his own, yet there was one point about Ayrton Latin School, which he never regretted. It was the mixture there of all classes. On those benches gentlemen's sons sat side by side with plebeians, and no harm, but only good, seemed to come from the intercourse. The neighboring gentry, most of whom had begun their education there, were drawn into closer and kindlier union with their neighbors and dependents, from the fact of having been their associates in the days of their boyhood. Many a time afterwards, when Eric, as he passed down the streets, interchanged friendly greetings with some young glazier or tradesman whom he remembered at school, he felt glad that thus early he had learnt practically to despise the accidental and nominal differences which separate man from man.

CHAPTER II

A NEW HOME

"Life hath its May, and all is joyous then;
The woods are vocal and the flowers breathe odour,
The very breeze hath, mirth in't."--OLD PLAY.

At last the longed-for yet dreaded day approached, and a letter informed the Trevors that Mr. and Mrs. Williams would arrive at Southampton on July 5th, and would probably reach Ayrton the evening after. They particularly requested that no one should come to meet them on their landing. "We shall reach Southampton," wrote Mrs. Trevor, "tired, pale, and travel-stained, and had much rather see you first at dear Fairholm, where we shall be spared the painful constraint of a meeting in public. So please expect our arrival at about seven in the evening."

Poor Eric! although he had been longing for the time ever since the news came, yet now he was too agitated to enjoy. Exertion and expectation made him restless, and he could settle down to nothing all day, every hour of which hung most heavily on his hands.

At last the afternoon wore away, and a soft summer evening filled the sky with its gorgeous calm. Far off they caught the sound of wheels; a carriage dashed up to the door, and the next moment Eric sprang into his mother's arms.

"O mother, mother!"

"My own darling, darling boy!"

And as the pale sweet face of the mother met the bright and rosy child-face, each of them was wet with a rush of ineffable tears. In another moment Eric had been folded to his father's heart, and locked in the arms of "little brother Vernon." Who shall describe the emotions of those few moments? they did not seem like earthly moments; they seemed to belong not to time, but to eternity.

The first evening of such a scene is too excited to be happy. The little party at Fairholm retired early, and Eric was soon fast asleep with his arm round his newfound brother's neck.

Quiet steps entered the little room, and noiselessly the father and mother sat down by the bedside of their children. Earth could have shown no scene more perfect in its beauty than that which met their eyes. The pure moonlight flooded the little room, and showed distinctly the forms and countenances of the sleepers, whose soft regular breathing was the only sound that broke the stillness of the July night. The small shining flower-like faces, with their fair hair--the trustful loving arms folded round each brother's neck--the closed lids and parted lips made an exquisite picture, and one never to be forgotten. Side by side, without a word, the parents knelt down, and with eyes wet with tears of joyfulness, poured out their hearts in passionate prayer for their young and beloved boys.

Very happily the next month glided away; a new life seemed opened to Eric in the world of rich affections which had unfolded itself before him. His parents--above all, his mother--were everything that he had longed for; and Vernon more than fulfilled to his loving heart the ideal of his childish fancy. He was never tired of playing with and patronising his little brother, and their rambles by stream and hill made those days appear the happiest he had ever spent. Every evening (for he had not yet laid aside the habits of childhood) he said his prayers by his mother's knee, and at the end of one long summer's day, when prayers were finished, and full of life and happiness he lay down to sleep, "O mother," he said, "I am so happy--I like to say my prayers when you are here."

"Yes, my boy, and God loves to hear them."

"Aren't there some who never say prayers, mother?"

"Very many, love, I fear."

"How unhappy they must be! I shall always love to say my prayers."

"Ah, Eric, God grant that you may!"

And the fond mother hoped he always would. But these words often came back to Eric's mind in later and less happy days--days when that gentle hand could no longer rest lovingly on his head--when those mild blue eyes were dim with tears, and the fair boy, changed in heart and life, often flung himself down with an unreproaching conscience to prayerless sleep.

It had been settled that in another week Eric was to go to school in the Isle of Roslyn. Mr. Williams had hired a small house in the town of Ellan, and intended to stay there for his year of furlough, at the end of which period Vernon was to be left at Fairholm, and Eric in the house of the head-master of the school. Eric enjoyed the prospect of all things, and he hardly fancied that Paradise itself could be happier than a life at the seaside with his father and mother and Vernon, combined with the commencement of schoolboy dignity. When the time for the voyage came, his first glimpse of the sea, and the sensation of sailing over it with only a few planks between him and the deep waters, struck him silent with admiring wonder. It was a cloudless day; the line of blue sky melted into the line of blue wave, and the air was filled with sunlight. At evening they landed, and the coach took them to Ellan. On the way Eric saw for the first time the strength of the hills, so that when they reached the town and took possession of their cottage, he was dumb with the inrush of new and marvellous impressions.

Next morning he was awake early, and jumping out of bed, so as not to disturb the sleeping Vernon, he drew up the window-blind, and gently opened the window. A very beautiful scene burst on him, one destined to be long mingled with all his most vivid reminiscences. Not twenty yards below the garden, in front of the house, lay Ellan Bay, at that moment rippling with golden laughter in the fresh breeze of sunrise. On either side of the bay was a bold headland, the one stretching out in a series of broken crags, the other terminating in a huge mass of rock, called from its shape the Stack. To the right lay the town, with its grey old castle, and the mountain stream running through it into the sea; to the left, high above the beach, rose the crumbling fragment of a picturesque fort, behind which towered the lofty buildings of Roslyn School. Eric learnt the whole landscape by heart, and thought himself a most happy boy to come to such a place. He fancied that he should be never tired of looking at the sea, and could not take his eyes off the great buoy that rolled about in the centre of the bay, and flashed in the sunlight at every move. He turned round full of hope and spirits, and, after watching for a few moments the beautiful face of his sleeping brother, he awoke him with a boisterous kiss.

That day Eric was to have his first interview with Dr. Rowlands. The school had already re-opened, and one of the boys in his college cap passed by the window while they were breakfasting. He looked very happy and engaging, and was humming a tune as he strolled along. Eric started up and gazed after him with the most intense curiosity. At that moment the unconscious schoolboy was to him the most interesting person in the whole world, and he couldn't realize the fact that, before the day was over, he would be a Roslyn boy himself. He very much wondered what sort of a fellow the boy was, and whether he should ever recognise him again, and make his acquaintance. Yes, Eric, the thread of that boy's destiny is twined a good deal with yours; his name is Montagu, as you will know very soon.

At nine o'clock Mr. Williams started towards the school with his son. The walk led them by the sea-side, over the sands, and past the ruin, at the foot of which the waves broke at high tide. At any other time Eric would have been overflowing with life and wonder at the murmur of the ripples, the sight of the ships passing by the rock-bound bay, and the numberless little shells, with their bright colors and sculptured shapes, which lay about the beach. But now his mind was too full of a single sensation, and when, after crossing a green playground, they stood by the head-master's door, his heart fluttered, and it required all his energy to keep down the nervous trembling which shook him.

Mr. Williams gave his card, and they were shown into Dr. Rowlands' study. He was a kind-looking gentlemanly man, and when he turned to address Eric, after a few minutes' conversation with his father, the boy felt instantly reassured by the pleasant sincerity and frank courtesy of his manner. A short examination showed that Eric's attainments were very slight as yet, and he was to be put in the lowest form of all, under the superintendence of the Rev. Henry Gordon. Dr. Rowlands wrote a short note in pencil, and giving it to Eric, directed the servant to show him to Mr. Gordon's school-room.

The bell had just done ringing when they had started for the school, so that Eric knew that all the boys would be by this time assembled at their work, and that he should have to go alone into the middle of them. As he walked after the servant through the long corridors and up the broad stairs, he longed to make friends with him, so as, if possible, to feel less lonely. But he had only time to get out, "I say, what sort of a fellow is Mr. Gordon?"

"Terrible strict, Sir, I hear," said the man, touching his cap with a comic expression, which didn't at all tend to enliven the future pupil. "That's the door," he continued, "and you'll have to give him the doctor's note;" and, pointing to a door at the end of the passage, he walked off.

Eric stopped irresolutely. The man had disappeared, and he was by himself in the great silent building. Afraid of the sound of his own footsteps, he ran along the passage, and knocked timidly. He heard a low, a very low murmur in the room, but there was no answer. He knocked again a little louder; still no notice; then, overdoing it in his fright, he gave a very loud tap indeed.

"Come in," said a voice, which to the new boy sounded awful; but he opened the door, and entered. As he came in every head was quickly raised, he heard a whisper of "New fellow," and the crimson flooded his face, as he felt himself the cynosure of some forty intensely-inquisitive pairs of eyes.

He found himself in a high airy room, with three large windows opening towards the sea. At one end was the master's throne, and facing it, all down the room, were desks and benches, along which the boys were sitting at work. Every one knows how very confusing it is to enter a strange room full of strange people, and especially when you enter it from a darker passage. Eric felt dazzled, and not seeing the regular route to the master's desk, went towards it between two of the benches. As these were at no great distance from each other, he stumbled against several legs on his way, and felt pretty sure that they were put out on purpose to trip him, especially by one boy, who, pretending to be much hurt, drew up his leg, and began rubbing it, ejaculating sotto voce, "awkward little fool."

In this very clumsy way he at last reached the desk, and presented his missive. The master's eye was on him, but all Eric had time to observe was, that he looked rather stern, and had in his hand a book which he seemed to be studying with the deepest interest. He glanced first at the note, and then looked full at the boy, as though determined to read his character at a glance.

"Williams, I suppose?"

"Yes, Sir," said Eric, very low, still painfully conscious that all the boys were looking at him, as well as the master.

"Very well, Williams, you are placed in the lowest form--the fourth. I hope you will work well. At present they are learning their Cesar. Go and sit next to that boy," pointing towards the lower end of the room; "he will show you the lesson, and let you look over his book. Barker, let Williams look over you!"

Eric went and sat down at the end of a bench by the boy indicated. He was a rough-looking fellow, with a shock head of black hair, and a very dogged look. Eric secretly thought that he wasn't a very nice-looking specimen of Roslyn school. However, he sate by him, and glanced at the Cesar which the boy shoved about a quarter of an inch in his direction. But Barker didn't seem inclined to make any further advances, and presently Eric asked in a whisper,

"What's the lesson?"

The boy glanced at him, but took no further notice.

Eric repeated, "I say, what's the lesson?"

Instead of answering, Barker stared at him, and grunted,

"What's your name?"

"Eric--I mean Williams."

"Then why don't you say what you mean?"

Eric moved his foot impatiently at this ungracious reception; but as he seemed to have no redress, he pulled the Cesar nearer towards him.

"Drop that; 't isn't yours."

Mr. Gordon heard a whisper, and glanced that way. "Silence!" he said, and Barker pretended to be deep in his work, while Eric, resigning himself to his fate, looked about him.

He had plenty to occupy his attention in the faces round him. He furtively examined Mr. Gordon, as he bent over his high desk, writing, but couldn't make our the physiognomy. There had been something reserved and imperious in the master's manner, yet he thought he should not dislike him on the whole. With the countenances of his future schoolfellows he was not altogether pleased, but there were one or two which thoroughly attracted him. One boy, whose side face was turned towards him as he sat on the bench in front, took his fancy particularly, so, tired of doing nothing, he plucked up courage, and leaning forward whispered, "Do lend me your Cesar for a few minutes." The boy at once handed it to him with a pleasant smile, and as the lesson was marked, Eric had time to hurry over a few sentences, when Mr. Gordon's sonorous voice exclaimed,

"Fourth form, come up!"

Some twenty of the boys went up, and stood in a large semicircle round the desk. Eric of course was placed last, and the lesson commenced.

"Russell, begin," said the master; and immediately the boy who had handed Eric his Caesar, began reading a few sentences, and construed them very creditably, only losing a place or two. He had a frank open face, bright intelligent fearless eyes, and a very taking voice and manner. Eric listened admiringly and felt sure he should like him.

Barker was put on next. He bungled through the Latin in a grating irresolute sort of a way, with several false quantities, for each of which the next boy took him up. Then he began to construe;--a frightful confusion of nominatives without verbs, accusatives translated as ablatives, and perfects turned into prepositions ensued, and after a hopeless flounder, during which Mr. Gordon left him entirely to himself, Barker came to a full stop; his catastrophe was so ludicrous, that Eric could not help joining in the general titter Barker scowled.

"As usual, Barker," said the master, with a curl of the lip. "Hold out your hand!"

Barker did so, looking sullen defiance, and the cane immediately descended on his open palm. Six similar cuts followed, during which the form looked on, not without terror; and Barker, squeezing his hands tight together, went back to his seat.

"Williams, translate the piece in which Barker has just failed!"

Eric did as he was bid, and got through it pretty well. He had now quite recovered his ordinary bearing, and spoke out clearly and without nervousness. He afterwards won several places by answering questions, and at the end of the lesson was marked about half-way up the form. The boys' numbers were then taken down in the weekly register, and they went back to their seats.

On his desk Eric found a torn bit of paper, on which was clumsily scrawled, "I'll teach you to grin when I'm turned, you young brute."

The paper seemed to fascinate his eyes. He stared at it fixedly, and augured ominously of Barker's intentions, since that worthy obviously alluded to his having smiled in form, and chose to interpret it as an intentional provocation. He felt that he was in for it, and that Barker meant to pick a quarrel with him. This puzzled and annoyed him, and he felt very sad to have found an enemy already.

While he was looking at the paper, the great school-clock struck twelve; and the captain of the form getting up, threw open the folding-doors of the school-room.

"You may go," said Mr. Gordon; and leaving his seat disappeared by a door at the further end of the room.

Instantly there was a rash for caps, and the boys poured out in a confused and noisy stream, while at the same moment the other school-rooms disgorged their inmates. Eric naturally went out among the last; but just as he was going to take his cap, Barker seized it, and flung it with a whoop to the end of the passage, where it was trampled on by a number of the boys as they ran out.

Eric, gulping down his fury with a great effort, turned to his opponent, and said coolly, "Is that what you always do to new fellows?"

"Yes, you bumptious young owl, it is, and that too;" and a tolerably smart slap on the face followed--leaving a red mark on a cheek already aflame with, anger and indignation,--"should you like a little more?"

He was hurt, both mind and body, but was too proud to cry. "What's that for?" he said, with flashing eyes.

"For your conceit in laughing at me when I was caned."

Eric stamped. "I did nothing of the kind, and you know it as well as I do."

"What! I'm a liar, am I? O we shall take this kind of thing out of you, you young cub--take that;" and a heavier blow followed.

"You brutal cowardly bully," shouted Eric; and in another moment he would have sprung upon him. It was lucky for him that he did not, for Barker was three years older than he, and very powerful. Such an attack would hare been most unfortunate for him in every way. But at this instant some boys hearing the quarrel ran up, and Russell among them.

"Hallo, Barker," said one, "what's up?"

"Why, I'm teaching this new fry to be less bumptious, that's all."

"Shame!" said Russell, as he saw the mark on Eric's cheek; "what a fellow you are, Barker. Why couldn't you leave him alone for his first day, at any rate?"

"What's that to you? I'll kick you too, if you say much."

"Cavè, cavè!" whispered half a dozen voices, and instantly the knot of boys dispersed in every direction, as Mr. Gordon was seen approaching. He had caught a glimpse of the scene without understanding it, and seeing the new boy's red and angry face, he only said, as he passed by, "What, Williams! fighting already? Take care."

This was the cruellest cut of all. "So," thought Eric, "a nice beginning! it seems both boys and masters are against me;" and very disconsolately he walked to pick up his cap.

The boys were all dispersed in the play-ground at different games, and as he went home he was stopped perpetually, and had to answer the usual questions, "What's your name? Are you a boarder or a day scholar? What form are you in?" Eric expected all this, and it therefore did not annoy him. Under any other circumstances, he would have answered cheerfully and frankly enough; but now he felt miserable at his morning's rencontre, and his answers were short and sheepish, his only desire being to get away as soon as possible. It was an additional vexation to feel sure that his manner did not make a favorable impression.

Before he had got out of the play ground, Russell ran up to him. "I'm afraid you won't like this, or think much of us, Williams," he said. "But never mind. It'll only last a day or two, and the fellows are not so bad as they seem; except that Barker. I'm sorry you've come across him, but it can't be helped."

It was the first kind word he had had since the morning, and after his troubles kindness melted him. He felt half inclined to cry, and for a few moments could say nothing in reply to Russell's soothing words. But the boy's friendliness went far to comfort him, and at last, shaking hands with him, he said--

"Do let me speak to you sometimes, while I am a new boy, Russell."

"O yes," said Russell, laughing, "as much as ever you like. And as Barker hates me pretty much as he seems inclined to hate you, we are in the same box. Good bye."

So Eric left the field, and wandered home, like Calchas in the Iliad, "Sorrowful by the side of the sounding sea." Already the purple mantle had fallen from his ideal of schoolboy life. He got home later than they expected, and found his parents waiting for him. It was rather disappointing to them to see his face so melancholy, when they expected him to be full of animation and pleasure. Mrs. Williams drew her own conclusions from the red mark on his cheek, as well as the traces of tears welling to his eyes; but, like a wise mother, she asked nothing, and left the boy to tell his own story,--which, in time he did, omitting all the painful part, speaking enthusiastically of Russell, and only admitting that he had been a little teased.

CHAPTER III

BULLYING

"Give to the morn of life its natural blessedness." Wordsworth.

Why is it that new boys are almost invariably ill-treated? I have often fancied that there must be in boyhood a pseudo-instinctive cruelty, a sort of "wild trick of the ancestral savage," which, no amount of civilization can entirely repress. Certain it is, that to most boys the first term is a trying ordeal. They are being tested and weighed. Their place in the general estimation is not yet fixed, and the slightest circumstances are seized upon to settle the category under which the boy is to be classed. A few apparently trivial accidents of his first few weeks at school often decide his position in the general regard for the remainder of his boyhood. And yet these are not accidents; they are the slight indications which give an unerring proof of the general tendencies of his character and training. Hence much of the apparent cruelty with which new boys are treated is not exactly intentional. At first, of course, as they can have no friends worth speaking of, there are always plenty of coarse and brutal minds that take a pleasure in their torment, particularly if they at once recognise any innate superiority to themselves. Of this class was Barker. He hated Eric at first sight, simply because his feeble mind could only realise one idea about him, and that was the new boy's striking contrast with his own imperfections. Hence he left no means untried to vent on Eric his low and mean jealousy. He showed undisguised pleasure when he fell in form, and signs of disgust when he rose; he fomented every little source of disapproval or quarrelling which happened to arise against him; he never looked at him without a frown or a sneer; he waited for him to kick and annoy him as he came out of, or went into, the school-room. In fact, he did his very best to make the boy's life miserable, and the occupation of hating him seemed in some measure to fill up the vacuity of an ill-conditioned and degraded mind.

Hatred is a most mysterious and painful phenomenon to the unhappy person who is the object of it, and more especially if he have incurred it by no one assignable reason. To Eric it was peculiarly painful; he was utterly unprepared for it. In his bright joyous life at Fairholm, in the little he saw of the boys at the Latin school, he had met with nothing but kindness and caresses, and the generous nobleness of his character had seemed to claim them as a natural element. "And now, why," he asked impatiently, "should this bull-dog sort of fellow have set his whole aim to annoy, vex, and hurt me?" Incapable himself of so mean a spirit of jealousy at superior excellence, he could not make it out; but such, was the fact, and the very mysteriousness of it made it more intolerable to bear.

But it must be admitted that he made matters worse by his own bursts of passion. His was not the temper to turn the other cheek; but, brave and spirited as he was, he felt how utterly hopeless would be any attempt on his part to repel force by force. He would have tried some slight conciliation, but it was really impossible with such a boy as his enemy. Barker never gave him even so much as an indifferent look, much less a civil word. Eric loathed him, and the only good and happy part of the matter to his own mind was, that conscientiously his only desire was to get rid of him and be left alone, while he never cherished a particle of revenge.

While every day Eric was getting on better in form, and winning himself a very good position with the other boys, who liked his frankness, his mirth, his spirit, and cleverness, he felt this feud with Barker like a dark background to all his enjoyment. He even had to manoeuvre daily how to escape him, and violent scenes were of constant occurrence between them. Eric could not, and would not, brook his bullying with silence. His resentment was loud and stinging, and, Ishmaelite as Barker was, even his phlegmatic temperament took fire when Eric shouted his fierce and uncompromising retorts in the hearing of the others.

Meanwhile Eric was on the best of terms with the rest of the form, and such of the other boys as he knew, although, at first, his position as a home-boarder prevented his knowing many. Besides Russell, there were three whom he liked best, and respected most--Duncan, Montagu, and Owen. They were very different boys, but all of them had qualities which well deserved his esteem. Duncan was the most boyish of boys, intensely full of fun, good-nature, and vigor; with fair abilities, he never got on well, because he could not be still for two minutes, and even if, in some fit of sudden ambition, he got up high in the form, he was sure to be put to the bottom again before the day was over, for trifling or talking. But out of school he was the soul of every game; whatever he took up was sure to be done pleasantly, and no party of amusement was ever planned without endeavoring to secure him as one of the number.

Montagu's chief merit was, that he was such a thorough little gentleman; "such a jolly little fellow" every one said of him. Without being clever or athletic, he managed to do very fairly both at work and at the games, and while he was too exclusive to make many intimate friends, everybody liked walking about or talking with him. Even Barker, blackguard as he was, seemed to be a little uneasy when confronted with Montagu's naturally noble and chivalrous bearing. In nearly all respects his influence was thoroughly good, and few boys were more generally popular.

Owen, again, was a very different boy. His merit was a ceaseless diligence, in which it was doubtful whether ambition or conscientiousness had the greatest share. Reserved and thoughtful, unfitted for or indifferent to most games, he was anything but a favorite with the rest, and Eric rather respected than liked him. When he first came, he had been one of the most natural butts for Barker's craving ill-nature, and for a time he had been tremendously bullied. But gradually his mental superiority asserted itself. He took everything without tears and without passion, and this diminished the pleasure of annoying him. One day when Barker had given him an unprovoked kick, he quietly said,

"Barker, next time you do that, I'll tell Mr. Gordon."

"Sneak! do it if you dare." And he kicked him again; but the moment after he was sorry for it, for there was a dark look in Owen's eyes, as he turned instantly into the door of the master's room, and laid a formal complaint against Barker for bullying.

Mr. Gordon didn't like "telling," and he said so to Owen, without reserve. An ordinary boy would have broken into a flood of explanations and palliations, but Owen simply bowed, and said nothing. "He stood there for justice," and he had counted the cost. Strong-minded and clear-headed, he calculated correctly that the momentary dislike of his schoolfellows, with whom he well knew that he never could be popular, would be less unbearable than Barker's villanous insults. The consequence was that Barker was caned soundly, although, with some injustice, Mr. Gordon made no attempt to conceal that he did it unwillingly.

Of course the fellows were very indignant with Owen for sneaking, as they called it, and for a week or two he had the keen mortification of seeing "Owen is a sneak," written up all about the walls. But he was too proud or too cold to make any defence till called upon, and bore it in silence. Barker vowed eternal vengeance, and the very day after, had seized Owen with the avowed intention of "half murdering him." But before he could once strike him, Owen said in the most chill tone, "Barker, if you touch me, I shall go straight to Dr. Rowlands." The bully well knew that Owen never broke his word, but he could not govern his rage, and first giving Owen a violent shake, he proceeded to thrash him without limit or remorse.

Pale, but unmoved, Owen got away, and walked straight to Dr. Rowlands' door. The thing was unheard of, and the boys were amazed at his temerity, for the doctor was to all their imaginations a regular Deus ex machinâ. That afternoon, again Barker was publicly caned, with the threat that the next offence would be followed by instant and public expulsion. This punishment he particularly dreaded, because he was intended for the army, and he well knew that it might ruin his prospects. The consequence was, that Owen never suffered from him again, although he daily received a shower of oaths and curses, which he passed over with silent contempt.

My dear boy-reader, don't suppose that I want you to imitate Owen in this matter. I despise a boy who "tells" as much as you do, and it is a far better and braver thing to bear bullying with such a mixture of spirit and good humor, as in time to disarm it. But Owen was a peculiar boy, and remember he had no redress. He bore for a time, until he felt that he must have the justice and defence, without which it would have been impossible for him to continue at Roslyn school.

But why, you ask, didn't he tell the monitors? Unfortunately at Roslyn the monitorial system was not established. Although it was a school of 250 boys, the sixth form, with all their privileges, had no prerogative of authority. They hadn't the least right to interfere, because no such power had been delegated to them, and therefore they felt themselves merely on a par with the rest, except for such eminence as their intellectual superiority gave them. The consequence was, that any interference from them would have been of a simply individual nature, and was exerted very rarely. It would have done Owen no more good to tell a sixth-form boy, than to tell any other boy; and as he was not a favorite, he was not likely to find any champion to fight his battles or maintain his just rights.

All this had happened before Eric's time, and he heard it from his best friend Russell. His heart clave to that boy. They became friends at once by a kind of electric sympathy; the first glance of each at the other's face prepared the friendship, and every day of acquaintance more firmly cemented it. Eric could not have had a better friend; not so clever as himself, not so diligent as Owen, not so athletic as Duncan, or so fascinating as Montagu, Russell combined the best qualities of them all. And, above all, he acted invariably from the highest principle; he presented that noblest of all noble spectacles--one so rare that many think it impossible--the spectacle of an honorable, pure-hearted, happy boy, who, as his early years speed by, is ever growing in wisdom, and stature, and favor with God and man.

"Did that brute Barker ever bully you as he bullies me?" said Eric, one day, as he walked on the sea-shore with his friend.

"Yes," said Russell; "I slept in his dormitory when I first came, and he has often made me so wretched that I have flung myself on my knees at night in pretence of prayer, but really to get a little quiet time to cry like a child."

"And when was it he left off at last?"

"Why, you know, Upton in the fifth is my cousin, and very fond of me; he heard of it, though I didn't say anything about it, and told Barker that if ever he caught him at it, he would thrash him within an inch of his life; and that frightened him for one thing. Besides, Duncan, Montagu, and other friends of mine began to cut him in consequence, so he thought it best to leave off."

"How is it, Russell, that fellows stand by and let him do it?"

"You see, Williams," said Russell, "Barker is an enormously strong fellow, and that makes the younger chaps, whom he fags, look up to him as a great hero. And there isn't one in our part of the school who can thrash him. Besides, people never do interfere, you know--at least not often. I remember once seeing a street-row in London, at which twenty people stood by, and let a drunken beast of a husband strike his wife without ever stirring to defend her."

"Well," sighed Eric, "I hope my day of deliverance will come soon, for I can't stand it much longer, and 'tell' I won't, whatever Owen may do."

Eric's deliverance came very soon. It was afternoon; the boys were playing at different games in the green playground, and he was waiting for his turn at rounders. At this moment Barker lounged up, and calmly snatching off Eric's cap, shied it over Dr. Rowlands' garden wall. "There, go and fetch that."

"You blackguard!" said Eric, standing irresolutely for a few minutes; and then with tears in his eyes began to climb the wall. It was not very high, but boys were peremptorily forbidden to get over it under any circumstances, and Eric broke the rule not without trepidation. However, he dropped down on one of Mrs. Rowlands' flower-beds, and got his cap in a hurry, and clambered back undiscovered.

He thought this would have satisfied his tormentor for one day; but Barker was in a mischievous mood, so he again came up to Eric, and calling out, "Who'll have a game at football?" again snatched the cap, and gave it a kick; Eric tried to recover it, but every time he came up Barker gave it a fresh kick, and finally kicked it into a puddle.

Eric stood still, trembling with rage, while his eyes lightened scorn and indignation. "You hulking, stupid, cowardly bully,"--here Barker seized him, and every word brought a tremendous blow on the head, but blind with passion Eric went on--"you despicable bully, I won't touch that cap again, you shall pick it up yourself. Duncan, Russell, here! do help me against this intolerable brute."

Several boys ran up, but they were all weaker than Barker, who besides was now in a towering fury, and kicked Eric unmercifully.

"Leave him alone," shouted Duncan, "or by heaven I'll get you a sound thrashing from some fellow."

"I won't; mind your own business," growled Barker, shaking himself free from Duncan's hand.

"Barker, I'll never speak to you again from this day," said Montagu, turning on his heel with a look of withering contempt.

"What do I care? puppy, you want taking down too," was the reply, and some more kicks at Eric followed.

"Barker, I won't stand this any longer," said Russell; and seizing him by the arm, he dealt him a swinging blow on the face.

The bully stood in amazement, and dropped Eric, who fell on the turf nearly fainting, and bleeding at the nose. But now Russell's turn came, and in a moment Barker, who was twice his weight, had tripped him up, when he found himself collared in an iron grasp.

There had been an unobserved spectator of the whole scene, in the person of Mr. Williams himself, and it was his strong hand that now griped Barker's shoulder. He was greatly respected by the boys, who all knew his tall handsome figure by sight, and he frequently stood a quiet and pleased observer of their games. The boys in the playground came crowding round, and Barker in vain struggled to escape. Mr. Williams held him firmly, and said in a calm voice, "I have just seen you treat one of your schoolfellows with the grossest violence. It makes me blush for you, Roslyn Boys," he continued, turning to the group that surrounded him, "that you can stand by unmoved, and see such things done. You know that you despise any one who tells a master, yet you allow this bullying to go on, and that, too, without any provocation. Now, mark; it makes no difference that the boy hurt is my own son; I would have punished this scoundrel, whoever it had been, and I shall punish him now." With these words he lifted the riding-whip which he happened to be carrying, and gave Barker one of the most satisfactory castigations he had ever undergone; the boys declared that Dr. Rowlands' "swishings" were nothing to it. Mr. Williams saw that the offender was a tough subject, and determined that he should not soon forget the punishment he then received. He had never heard from Eric how this boy had been treating him, but he had heard it from Russell, and now he had seen one of the worst specimens of it with his own eyes. He therefore belabored him till his sullen obstinacy gave way to a roar for mercy, and promises never so to offend again.

At this crisis he flung the boy from him with a "phew" of disgust, and said, "I give nothing for your word; but if ever you do bully in this way again, and I see or hear of it, your present punishment shall be a trifle to what I shall then administer. At present, thank me for not informing your master." So saying, he made Barker pick up the cap, and, turning away, walked home with Eric leaning on his arm.

Barker, too, carried himself off with the best grace he could; but it certainly didn't mend matters when he heard numbers of fellows, even little boys, say openly, "I'm so glad; serves you right."

From that day Eric was never troubled with personal violence from Barker or any other boy. But rancor smouldered deep in the mind of the baffled tyrant, and, as we shall see hereafter, there are subtler means of making an enemy wretched than striking or kicking him.

CHAPTER IV

CRIBBING

"Et nos ergo manum ferulæ subduximus."--Juv. i. 15.

It must not be thought that Eric's year as a home boarder was made up of dark experiences. Roslyn had a very bright as well as a dark side, and Eric enjoyed it "to the finger-tips." School-life, like all other life, is an April day of shower and sunshine. Its joys may be more childish, its sorrows more trifling than those of after years;--but they are more keenly felt.

And yet, although we know it to be a mere delusion, we all idealise and idolise our childhood. The memory of it makes pleasant purple in the distance, and as we look back on the sunlight of its blue far-off hills, we forget how steep we sometimes found them.

After Barker's discomfiture, which took place some three weeks after his arrival, Eric liked the school more and more, and got liked by it more and more. This might have been easily foreseen, for he was the type of a thoroughly boyish mind in its more genial and honorable characteristics, and his round of acquaintances daily increased. Among others, a few of the sixth, who were also day-scholars, began to notice and walk home with him. He looked on them as great heroes, and their condescension much increased his dignity both in his own estimation and that of his equals.

Now, too, he began to ask some of his most intimate acquaintances to spend an evening with him sometimes at home. This was a pleasure much coveted, for no boy ever saw Mrs. Williams without loving her, and they felt themselves humanised by the friendly interest of a lady who reminded every boy of his own mother. Vernon, too, now a lively and active child of nine, was a great pet among them, so that every one liked Eric who "knew him at home." A boy generally shows his best side at home; the softening shadows of a mother's tender influence play over him, and tone down the roughness of boyish character. Duncan, Montagu, and Owen were special favorites in the home circle, and Mrs. Williams felt truly glad that her son had singled out friends who seemed, on the whole, so desirable. But Montagu and Russell were the most frequent visitors, and the latter became almost like one of the family; he won so much on all their hearts that Mrs. Williams was not surprised when Eric confided to her one day that he loved Russell almost as well as be loved Vernon.

As Christmas approached, the boys began to take a lively interest in the half-year's prizes, and Eric was particularly eager about them. He had improved wonderfully, and as both his father and mother prevented him from being idle, even had he been so inclined, he had soon shown that he was one of the best in the form. Two prizes were given, half-yearly to each remove; one for "marks" indicating the boy who had generally been highest throughout the half year, and the other for the test proofs of proficiency in a special examination. It was commonly thought in the form that Owen would get the first of these prizes, and Eric the other; and towards the approach of the examination, he threw his whole energy into the desire to win. The desire was not selfish. Some ambition was of course natural; but he longed for the prize chiefly for the delight which he knew his success would cause at Fairholm, and still more to his own family.

During the last week, an untoward circumstance happened, which, while it increased his popularity, diminished a good deal (as he thought) his chance of success. The fourth form were learning a Homer lesson, and Barker, totally unable to do it by his own resources, was trying to borrow a crib. Eric, much to their mutual disgust, still sat next to him in school, and would have helped him if he had chosen to ask; but he never did choose, nor did Eric care to volunteer. The consequence was, that unless he could borrow a crib, he was invariably turned, and he was now particularly anxious to get one, because the time was nearly up.

There was a certain idle, good-natured boy, named Llewellyn, who had "cribs" to every book they did, and who, with a pernicious bonhommie, lent them promiscuously to the rest, all of whom were only too glad to avail themselves of the help, except the few at the top of the form, who found it a slovenly way of learning the lesson, which was sure to get them into worse difficulties than an honest attempt to master the meaning for themselves. Llewellyn sat at the farther end of the form in front, so Barker scribbled in the fly-leaf of his book, "Please send us your Homer crib," and got the book passed on to Llewellyn, who immediately shoved his crib in Barker's direction. The only danger of the transaction being noticed, was when the book was being handed from one bench to another, and as Eric unluckily had an end seat, he had got into trouble more than once.

On this occasion, just as Graham, the last boy on the form in front, handed Eric the crib, Mr. Gordon happened to look up, and Eric, very naturally anxious to screen another from trouble, popped the book under his own Homer.

"Williams, what are you doing?"

"Nothing, Sir," said Eric, looking up innocently.

"Bring me that book under your Homer."

Eric blushed, hesitated--but at last, amid a dead silence, took up the book. Mr. Gordon looked at it for a moment, let it fall on the ground, and then, with an unnecessary affectation of disgust, took it up with the tongs, and dropped it into the fire. There was a titter round the room.

"Silence," thundered the master; "this is no matter for laughing. So, sir, this is the way you get up to the top of the form?"

"I wasn't using it, sir," said Eric.

"Not using it! Why, I saw you put it, open, under your Homer."

"It isn't mine, sir."

"Then whose is it?" Mr. Gordon looked at the fly leaf, but of course no name was there; in those days it was dangerous to write one's name in a translation.

Eric was silent.

"Under the circumstances, Williams, I must punish you," said Mr. Gordon. "Of course I am bound to believe you, but the circumstances are very suspicious. You had no business with such a book at all. Hold out your hand."

As yet, Eric had never been caned. It would have been easy for him in this case to clear himself without mentioning names, but (very rightly) he thought it unmanly to clamor about being punished, and he felt nettled at Mr. Gordon's merely official belief of his word. He knew that he had his faults, but certainly want of honor was not among them. Indeed, there were only three boys out of the twenty in the form, who did not resort to modes of unfairness far worse than the use of cribs, and those three were Russell, Owen, and himself; even Duncan, even Montagu, inured to it by custom, were not ashamed to read their lesson off a concealed book, or copy a date from a furtive piece of paper. They would have been ashamed of it before they came to Roslyn school, but the commonness of the habit had now made them blind or indifferent to its meanness. It was peculiarly bad in the fourth form, because the master treated them with implicit confidence, and being scrupulously honorable himself, was unsuspicious of others. He was therefore extremely indignant at this apparent discovery of an attempt to overreach him in a boy so promising and so much of a favorite as Eric Williams.

"Hold out your hand," he repeated.

Eric did so, and the cane tingled sharply across his palm. He could bear the pain well enough, but he was keenly alive to the disgrace; he, a boy at the head of his form, to be caned in this way by a man who didn't understand him, and unjustly too! He mustered up an indifferent air, closed his lips tight, and determined to give no further signs. The defiance of his look made Mr. Gordon angry, and he inflicted in succession five hard cuts on either hand, each one of which, was more excruciating than the last.

"Now, go to your seat."

Eric did go to his seat, with all his bad passions roused, and he walked in a jaunty and defiant kind of way that made the master really grieve at the disgrace into which he had fallen. But he instantly became a hero with the form, who unanimously called him a great brick for not telling, and admired him immensely for bearing up without crying under so severe a punishment. The punishment was most severe, and for some weeks after there were dark weals visible across Eric's palm, which rendered the use of his hands painful.

"Poor Williams," said Duncan, as they went out of school, "how very plucky of you not to cry."

"Vengeance deep brooding o'er the cane,
Had locked the source of softer woe;
And burning pride, and high disdain,
Forbade the gentler tear to flow,"

said Eric, with a smile.

But he only bore up until he got home, and there, while he was telling his father the occurrence, he burst into a storm of passionate tears, mingled with the fiercest invectives against Mr. Gordon for his injustice.

"Never mind, Eric," said his father; "only take care that you never get a punishment justly, and I shall always be as proud of you as I am now. And don't cherish this resentment, my boy; it will only do you harm. Try to forgive and forget."

"But, Papa, Mr. Gordon is so hasty. I have indeed been rather a favorite of his, yet now he shows that he has no confidence in me. It is a great shame that he shouldn't believe my word. I don't mind the pain; but I shan't like him any more, and I'm sure, now, I shan't get the examination prize."

"You don't mean, Eric, that he will be influenced by partiality in the matter?"

"No, Papa, not exactly; at least I dare say he won't intend to be. But it is unlucky to be on bad terms with a master, and I know I shan't work so well."

On the whole, the boy was right in thinking this incident a misfortune. Although he had nothing particular for which to blame himself, yet the affair had increased his pride, while it lowered his self-respect; and he had an indistinct consciousness that the popularity in his form would do him as much harm as the change of feeling in his master. He grew careless and dispirited, nor was it till in the very heat of the final competition, that he felt his energies fully revived.

Half the form were as eager about the examination as the other half were indifferent; but none were more eager than Eric. He was much hindered by Barker's unceasing attempt to copy his papers surreptitiously; and very much disgusted at the shameless way in which many of the boys "cribbed" from books, and from each other, or used torn leaves concealed in their sleeves, or dates written on their wristbands, and on their nails. He saw how easily much of this might have been prevented; but Mr. Gordon was fresh at his work, and had not yet learnt the practical lesson, that to trust young boys to any great extent, is really to increase their temptations. He did learn the lesson afterwards, and then almost entirely suppressed the practice, partly by increased vigilance, and partly by forbidding any book to be brought into the room during the time of examination. But meanwhile, much evil had been done by the habitual abuse of his former confidence.

I shall not linger over the examination. At its close, the day before the breaking-up, the list was posted on the door of the great school-room, and most boys made an impetuous rush to see the result. But Eric was too nervous to be present at the hour when this was usually done, and he had asked Russell to bring him the news.

He was walking up and down the garden, counting the number of steps he took, counting the number of shrubs along each path, and devising every sort of means to beguile the time, when he heard hasty steps, and Russell burst in at the back gate, breathless with haste, and bright with excitement.

"Hurrah! old fellow," he cried, seizing both Eric's hands; "I never felt so glad in my life;" and he shook his friend's arms up and down, laughing joyously.

"Well! tell me," said Eric.

"First, {Owen/Williams} Aequales," "you've got head remove you see, in spite of your forebodings, as I always said you would; and I congratulate you with all my heart."

"No?" said Eric, "have I really?--you're not joking? Oh! hurrah!--I must rush in and tell them;" and he bounded off.

In a second he was back at Russell's side. "What a selfish animal I am! Where are you placed, Russell?"

"Oh! magnificent; I'm third;--far higher than I expected."

"I'm so glad," said Eric. "Come in with me and tell them. I'm head remove, mother," he shouted, springing into the parlor where his father and mother sat.

In the lively joy that this announcement excited, Russell stood by for the moment unheeded; and when Eric took him by the hand to tell them that he was third, he hung his head, and a tear was in his eye.

"Poor boy! I'm afraid you're disappointed," said Mrs. Williams kindly, drawing him to her side.

"Oh no, no! it's not that," said Russell, hastily, as he lifted his swimming eyes towards her face.

"Are you hurt, Russell?" asked Eric, surprised.

"Oh! no; don't ask me; I am only foolish to-day;" and with a burst of sorrow he flung his arms round Mrs. Williams' neck. She folded him to her heart, and kissed him tenderly; and when his sobs would let him speak, he whispered to her in a low tone, "It is but a year since I became an orphan."

"Dearest child," she said, "look on me as a mother; I love you very dearly for your own sake as well as Eric's."

Gradually he grew calmer. They made him stay to dinner and spend the rest of the day there, and by the evening he had recovered all his usual sprightliness. Towards sunset he and Eric went for a stroll down the bay, and talked over the term and the examination.

They sat down on a green bank just beyond the beach, and watched the tide come in, while the sea-distance was crimson with the glory of evening. The beauty and the murmur filled them with a quiet happiness, not untinged with the melancholy thought of parting the next day.

At last Eric broke the silence. "Russell, let me always call you Edwin, and call me Eric."

"Very gladly, Eric. Your coming here has made me so happy." And the two boys squeezed each other's hands, and looked into each other's faces, and silently promised that they would be loving friends for ever.

CHAPTER V

THE SECOND TERM

"Take us the foxes, the little foxes that spoil our vines; for our
vines have tender grapes."--CANT. ii. 15.

The second term at school is generally the great test of the strength of a boy's principles and resolutions. During the first term the novelty, the loneliness, the dread of unknown punishments, the respect for authorities, the desire to measure himself with his companions--all tend to keep him right and diligent. But many of these incentives are removed after the first brush of novelty, and many a lad who has given good promise at first, turns out, after a short probation, idle, or vicious, or indifferent.

But there was little comparative danger for Eric, so long as he continued to be a home boarder, which was for another half-year. On the contrary, he was anxious to support in his new remove the prestige of having been head boy; and as he still continued under Mr. Gordon, he really wished to turn over a new leaf in his conduct towards him, and recover, if possible, his lost esteem.

His popularity was a fatal snare. He enjoyed and was very proud of it, and was half inclined to be angry with Russell for not fully sharing his feelings; but Russell had a far larger experience of school life than his new friend, and dreaded with all his heart lest "he should follow a multitude to do evil."

The "cribbing," which had astonished and pained Eric at first, was more flagrant than even in the Upper Fourth, and assumed a chronic form. In all the repetition lessons one of the boys used to write out in a large hand the passage to be learnt by heart, and dexterously pin it to the front of Mr. Gordon's desk. There any boy who chose could read it off with little danger of detection, and, as before, the only boys who refused to avail themselves of this trickery were Eric, Russell, and Owen.

Eric did not yield to it; never once did he suffer his eyes to glance at the paper when his turn to repeat came round. But although this was the case, he never spoke against the practice to the other boys, even when he lost places by it. Nay more, he would laugh when any one told him how he had escaped "skewing" (i.e. being turned) by reading it off; and he even went so far as to allow them to suppose that he wouldn't himself object to take advantage of the master's unsuspicious confidence.

"I say, Williams," said Duncan, one morning as they strolled into the school-yard, "do you know your Rep.?"

"No," said Eric, "not very well; I haven't given more than ten minutes to it."

"Oh, well, never mind it now; come and have a game at racquets? Russel and Montagu have taken the court."

"But I shall skew."

"Oh no, you needn't, you know. I'll take care to pin it up on the desk near you."

"Well, I don't much care. At any rate I'll chance it." And off the boys ran to the racquet-court, Eric intending to occupy the last quarter of an hour before school-time in learning his lesson. Russell and he stood the other two, and they were very well matched. They had finished two splendid games, and each side had been victorious in turn, when Duncan, in the highest spirits, shouted, "Now, Russell, for the conqueror."

"Get some one else in my place," said Russell; "I don't know my Rep., and must cut and learn it."

"O bother the Rep.," said Montagu; "somebody's sure to write it out in school, and old Gordon'll never see."

"You forget, Montagu, I never condescend to that."

"O ay, I forgot. Well, after all, you're quite right; I only wish I was as good."

"What a capital fellow he is," continued Montagu, leaning on his racquet and looking after him, as Russell left the court; "but I say, Williams, you're not going too, are you?"

"I think I must, I don't know half my lesson."

"O no! don't go; there's Llewellyn; he'll take Russell's place, and we must have the conquering game."

Again Eric yielded; and when the clock struck he ran into school, hot, vexed with himself, and certain to break down, just as Russell strolled in, whispering, "I've had lots of time to get up the Horace, and know it pat."

Still he clung to the little thistledown of hope that he should have plenty of time to cram it before the form were called up. But another temptation awaited him. No sooner was he seated than Graham whispered, "Williams, it's your turn to write out the Horace; I did last time, you know."

Poor Eric. He was reaping the fruits of his desire to keep up popularity, by never denying his complicity in the general cheating. Everybody seemed to assume now that he at any rate didn't think much of it, and he had never claimed his real right up to that time of asserting his innocence. But this was a step further than he had ever gone before. He drew back--

"My turn, what do you mean?"

"Why, you know as well as I do that we all write it out by turns."

"Do you mean to say that Owen or Russell ever wrote it out?"

"Of course not; you wouldn't expect the saints to be guilty of such a thing, would you?"

"I'd rather not, Graham," he said, getting very red.

"Well, that is cowardly," answered Graham, angrily; "then I suppose I must do it myself."

"Here, I'll do it," said Eric suddenly; "shy us the paper."

His conscience smote him bitterly. In his silly dread of giving offence, he was doing what he heartily despised, and he felt most uncomfortable.

"There," he said, pushing the paper from him in a pet; "I've written it, and I'll have nothing more to do with it."

Just as he finished they were called up, and Barker, taking the paper, succeeded in pinning it as usual on the front of the desk. Eric had never seen it done so carelessly and clumsily before, and firmly believed, what was indeed a fact, that Barker had done it badly on purpose, in the hope that it might be discovered, and so Eric be got once more into a scrape. He was in an agony of apprehension, and when put on, was totally unable to say a word of his Rep. But low as he had fallen, he would not cheat like the rest; he kept his eyes resolutely turned away from the guilty paper, and even refused to repeat the words which were prompted in his ear by the boys on each side. Mr. Gordon, after waiting a moment, said--

"Why, Sir, you know nothing about it; you can't have looked at it. Go to the bottom and write it out five times."

"Write it out" thought Eric; "this is retribution, I suppose;" and covered with shame and vexation, he took his place below the malicious Barker at the bottom of the form.

It happened that during the lesson the fire began to smoke, and Mr. Gordon told Owen to open the window for a moment. No sooner was this done than the mischievous whiff of sea air which entered the room began to trifle and coquet with the perdulous half sheet pinned in front of the desk, causing thereby an unwonted little pattering crepitation. In alarm, Duncan thoughtlessly pulled out the pin, and immediately the paper floated gracefully over Russell's head, as he sat at the top of the form, and, after one or two gyrations, fluttered down in the centre of the room.

"Bring me that piece of paper," said Mr. Gordon, full of vague suspicion.

Several boys moved uneasily, and Eric looked nervously around.

"Did you hear? fetch me that half sheet of paper."

A boy picked it up and handed it to him. He held it for a full minute in his hands without a word, while vexation, deep disgust, and rising anger struggled in his countenance. At last, he suddenly turned full on Eric, whose writing he recognized, and broke out,

"So, Sir! a second time caught in gross deceit. I should not have thought it possible. Your face and manners belie you. You have lost my confidence forever. I despise you."

"Indeed, Sir," said the penitent Eric, "I never meant--"

"Silence--you are detected, as cheats always will be. I shall report you to Dr. Rowlands."

The next boy was put on, and broke down. The same with the next, and the next, and the next; Montagu, Graham, Llewellyn, Duncan, Barker, all hopeless failures; only two boys had said it right--Russell and Owen.

Mr. Gordon's face grew blacker and blacker. The deep undisguised pain which the discovery caused him was swallowed up in unbounded indignation. "False-hearted, dishonorable boys," he exclaimed, "henceforth my treatment of you shall be very different. The whole form, except Russell and Owen, shall have an extra lesson every half-holiday; not one of the rest of you will I trust again. I took you for gentlemen. I was mistaken. Go." And so saying, he waved them to their seats with imperious disdain.

They went, looking sheepish, and ashamed. Eric, deeply vexed, kept twisting and untwisting a bit of paper, without raising his eyes, and even Barker thoroughly repented his short-sighted treachery; the rest were silent and miserable.

At twelve o'clock two boys lingered in the room to speak to Mr. Gordon; they were Eric Williams and Edwin Russell, but they were full of very different feelings.

Eric stepped to the desk first. Mr. Gordon looked up.

"You! Williams, I wonder that you have the audacity to speak to me. Go--I have nothing to say to you!"

"But, sir, I want to tell you that--"

"Your guilt is only too clear, Williams. You will hear more of this. Go, I tell you."

Eric's passion overcame him; he stamped furiously on the ground, and burst out, "I will speak, sir; you have been unjust to me for a long time, but I will not be--"

Mr. Gordon's cane fell sharply across the boy's back; he stopped, glared for a moment; and then saying:

"Very well, sir! I shall tell Dr. Rowlands that you strike before you hear me," he angrily left the room, and slammed the door violently behind him.

Before Mr. Gordon had time to recover from his astonishment, Russell stood by him.

"Well, my boy," said the master, softening in a moment, and laying his hand gently on Russell's head, "what have you to say? You cannot tell how I rejoice, amid the deep sorrow that this has caused me, to find that you at least are uncontaminated. But I knew, Edwin, that I could trust you."

"O sir, I come to speak for Eric--for Williams." Mr. Gordon's brow darkened again, and the storm gathered, as he interrupted vehemently, "Not a word, Russell; not a word. This is the second time that he has wilfully deceived me; and this time he has involved others too in his base deceit."

"Indeed, sir, you wrong him. I can't think how he came to write the paper, but I know that he did not and would not use it. Didn't you see yourself, sir, how he turned his head quite another way when he broke down."

"It is very kind of you, Edwin, to defend him," said Mr. Gordon coldly, "but at present, at any rate, I must not hear you. Leave me; I feel very sad, and must have time to think over this disgraceful affair."

Russell went away disconsolate, and met his friend striding up and down, the passage, waiting for Dr. Rowlands to come out of the library.

"O Eric," he said, "how came you to write that paper?"

"Why, Russell, I did feel very much ashamed, and I would have explained it, and said so; but that Gordon spites me so. It is such a shame; I don't feel now as if I cared one bit."

"I am sorry you don't get on with him; but remember you have given him in this case good cause to suspect. You never crib, Eric, I know, but I can't help being sorry that you wrote the paper."

"But then Graham asked me to do it, and called me cowardly because I refused at first."

"Ah, Eric," said Russell, "they will ask you to do worse things if you yield so easily. I wouldn't say anything to Dr. Rowlands about it, if I were you."

Eric took the advice, and, full of mortification, went home. He gave his father a true and manly account of the whole occurrence, and that afternoon Mr. Williams wrote a note of apology and explanation to Mr. Gordon. Next time the form went up, Mr. Gordon said, in his most freezing tones, "Williams, at present I shall take no further notice of your offence beyond including you in the extra lesson every half-holiday."

From that day forward Eric felt that he was marked and suspected, and the feeling worked on him with the worst effects. He grew more careless in work, and more trifling and indifferent in manner. Several boys now beat him whom he had easily surpassed before, and his energies were for a time entirely directed to keeping that supremacy in the games which he had won by his activity and strength.

It was a Sunday afternoon, towards the end of the summer term, and the boys were sauntering about in the green playground, or lying on the banks reading and chatting. Eric was with a little knot of his chief friends, enjoying the sea breeze as they sat on the grass. At last the bell of the school chapel began to ring, and they went in to the afternoon service. Eric usually sat with Duncan and Llewellyn, immediately behind the benches allotted to chance visitors. The bench in front of them happened on this afternoon to be occupied by some rather odd people, viz., an old man with long white hair, and two ladies remarkably stout, who were dressed with much juvenility, although past middle age. Their appearance immediately attracted notice, and no sooner had they taken their seats than Duncan and Llewellyn began to titter. The ladies' bonnets, which were of white, trimmed with long green leaves and flowers, just peered over the top of the boys' pew, and excited much amusement. But Eric had not yet learnt to disregard the solemnity of the place, and the sacred act in which they were engaged. He tried to look away, and attend to the service, and for a time he partially succeeded, although, seated as he was between the two triflers, who were perpetually telegraphing to each other their jokes, he found it a difficult task, and secretly he began to be much tickled.

At last the sermon commenced, and Llewellyn, who had imprisoned a grasshopper in a paper cage, suddenly let it hop out. The first hop took it to the top of the pew; the second perched it on the shoulder of the stoutest lady. Duncan and Llewellyn tittered louder, and even Eric could not resist a smile. But when the lady, feeling some irritation on her shoulder, raised her hand, and the grasshopper took a frightened leap into the centre of the green foliage which enwreathed her bonnet, none of the three could stand it, and they burst into fits of laughter, which they tried in vain to conceal by bending down their heads and cramming their handkerchiefs into their mouths. Eric, having once given way, enjoyed the joke uncontrollably, and the lady made matters worse by her uneasy attempts to dislodge the unknown intruder, and discover the cause of the tittering, which she could not help hearing. At last all three began to laugh so violently that several heads were turned in their direction, and Dr. Rowlands' stern eye caught sight of their levity. He stopped short in his sermon, and for one instant transfixed them with his indignant glance. Quiet was instantly restored, and alarm reduced them to the most perfect order, although the grasshopper still sat imperturbable among the artificial flowers. Meanwhile the stout lady had discovered that for some unknown reason she had been causing considerable amusement, and, attributing it to intentional ridicule, looked round, justly hurt. Eric, with real shame, observed the deep vexation of her manner, and bitterly repented his share in the transaction.

Next morning Dr. Rowlands, in full academicals, sailed into the fourth-form room. His entrance was the signal for every boy to rise, and after a word or two to Mr. Gordon, he motioned them to be seated. Eric's heart sank within him.

"Williams, Duncan, and Llewellyn, stand out!" said the Doctor. The boys, with downcast eyes and burning cheeks, stood before him.

"I was sorry to notice," said he, "your shameful conduct in chapel yesterday afternoon. As far as I could observe, you were making yourselves merry in that sacred place with the personal defects of others. The lessons you receive here must be futile indeed, if they do not teach you the duty of reverence to God, and courtesy to man. It gives me special pain, Williams, to have observed that you, too, a boy high in your remove, were guilty of this most culpable levity. You will all come to me at twelve o'clock in the library."

At twelve o'clock they each received a flogging. The pain inflicted was not great, and Duncan and Llewellyn, who had got into similar trouble before, cared very little for it, and went out laughing to tell the number of swishes they had received, to a little crowd of boys who were lingering outside the library door. But not so Eric. It was his first flogging, and he felt it deeply. To his proud spirit the disgrace was intolerable. At that moment he hated Dr. Rowlands, he hated Mr. Gordon, he hated his schoolfellows, he hated everybody. He had been flogged; the thought haunted him; he, Eric Williams, had been forced to receive this most degrading corporal punishment. He pushed fiercely through the knot of boys, and strode as quick as he could along the playground, angry and impenitent.

At the gate Russell met him. Eric felt the meeting inopportune; he was ashamed to meet his friend, ashamed to speak to him, envious of him, and jealous of his better reputation. He wanted to pass him by without notice, but Russell would not suffer this. He came up to him and took his arm affectionately. The slightest allusion to his late disgrace would have made Eric flame out into passion; but Russell was too kind to allude to it then. He talked as if nothing had happened, and tried to turn his friend's thoughts to more pleasant subjects. Eric appreciated his kindness, but he was still sullen and fretful, and it was not until they parted that his better feelings won the day. But when Russell said to him "Good bye, Eric," it was too much for him, and seizing Edwin's hand, he wrung it hard, and tears rushed to his eyes.

"Dear, good Edwin! how I wish I was like you. If all my friends were like you, I should never get into these troubles."

"Nay, Eric," said Russell, "you may be far better than I. You have far batter gifts, if you will only do yourself justice."

They parted by Mr. Williams' door, and Russell walked home sad and thoughtful; but Eric, barely answering his brother's greeting, rushed up to his room, and, flinging himself on his bed, sobbed like a child at the remembrance of his disgrace. They were not refreshing tears; he felt something hard at his heart, and, as he prayed neither for help nor forgiveness, it was pride and rebellion, not penitence, that made him miserable.

CHAPTER VI

HOME AFFECTIONS

"Keep the spell of home affection.
Still alive in every heart;
May its power, with mild direction,
Draw our love from self apart,
Till thy children
Feel that thou their Father art."
SCHOOL HYMN.

"I have caught such a lot of pretty sea anemones, Eric," said little Vernon Williams, as his brother strolled in after morning school; "I wish you would come and look at them."

"O, I can't come now, Verny; I am going out to play cricket with some fellows directly."

"But it won't take you a minute; do come."

"What a little bore you are. Where are the things?"

"O, never mind, Eric, if you don't want to look at them," said Vernon, hurt at his brother's rough manner.

"First you ask me to look, and then say 'never mind,'" said Eric impatiently; "here, show me them."

The little boy brought a large saucer, round which the crimson sea-flowers were waving their long tentacula in the salt water.

"Oh, ay; very pretty indeed. But I must be off to cricket."

Vernon looked up at his brother sadly.

"You aren't so kind to me, Eric, as you used to be."

"What nonsense! and all because I don't admire those nasty red-jelly things, which one may see on the shore by thousands any day. What a little goose you are, Vernon!"

Vernon made no reply, but was putting away his sea-anemones with a sigh, when in came Russell to fetch Eric to the cricket.

"Well, Verny," he said, "have you been getting those pretty sea-anemones? come here and show me them. Ah, I declare you've got one of those famous white plumosa fellows among them. What a lucky little chap you are!"

Vernon was delighted.

"Mind you take care of them," said Russell. "Where did you find them?"

"I have been down the shore getting them."

"And have you had a pleasant morning?"

"Yes, Russell, thank you. Only it is rather dull being always by myself, and Eric never comes with me now."

"Naughty Eric," said Russell, playfully. "Never mind, Verny; you and I will cut him, and go by ourselves."

Eric had stood by during the conversation, and the contrast of Russel's unselfish kindness with his own harsh want of sympathy, struck him. He threw his arms round his brother's neck, and said, "We will both go with you, Verny, next half holiday."

"O, thank you, Eric," said his brother; and the two schoolboys ran out. But when the next half holiday came, warm and bright, with the promise of a good match that afternoon, Eric repented his promise, and left Russell to amuse his little brother, while he went off, as usual, to the playground.

There was one silent witness of scenes like these, who laid them up deeply in her heart. Mrs. Williams was not unobservant of the gradual but steady falling off in Eric's character, and the first thing she noticed was the blunting of his home affections. When they first came to Roslyn, the boy used constantly to join his father and mother in their walks; but now he went seldom or never; and even if he did go, he seemed ashamed, while with them, to meet any of his schoolfellows. The spirit of false independence was awake and growing in her darling son. The bright afternoons they had spent together on the sunny shore, or seeking for sea-flowers among the lonely rocks of the neighboring headlands,--the walks at evening and sunset among the hills, and the sweet counsel they had together, when the boy's character opened like a flower in the light and warmth of his mother's love,--the long twilights when he would sit on a stool with his young head resting on her knees, and her loving hand among his fair hair,--all these things were becoming to Mrs. Williams memories, and nothing more.

It was the trial of her life, and very sad to bear; the more so because they were soon to be parted, certainly for years, perhaps for ever. The time was drawing nearer and nearer; it was now June, and Mr. Williams' term of furlough ended in two months. The holidays at Roslyn were the months of July and August, and towards their close Mr. and Mrs. Williams intended to leave Vernon at Fairholm, and start for India--sending back Eric by himself as a boarder in Dr. Rowlands' house.

After morning school, on fine days, the boys used to run straight down to the shore and bathe. A bright and joyous scene it was. They stripped off their clothes on the shingle that adjoined the beach, and then running along the sands, would swim out far into the bay till their heads looked like small dots glancing in the sunshine. This year Eric had learned to swim, and he enjoyed the bathing more than any other pleasure.

One day after they had dressed, Russell and he began to amuse themselves on the sea-shore. The little translucent pools left on the sands by the ebbing tide always swarm with life, and the two boys found great fun in hunting audacious little crabs, or catching the shrimps that shuffled about in the shallow water. At last Eric picked up a piece of wood which he found lying on the beach, and said, "What do you say to coming crabfishing, Edwin? this bit of stick will do capitally to thrust between the rocks in the holes where they lie?"

Russell agreed, and they started to the rocks of the Ness to seek a likely place for their purpose. The Ness was a mile off, but in the excitement of their pleasure they were oblivious of time.

The Williams', for the boys' convenience, usually dined at one, but on this day they waited half an hour for Eric. Since, however, he didn't appear, they dined without him, supposing that he was accidentally detained, and expecting him to come in every minute. But two o'clock came, and no Eric; half-past two, and no Eric; three, but still no Eric. Mrs. Williams became seriously alarmed, and even her husband grew uneasy.

Vernon was watching for his brother at the window, and seeing Duncan pass by, ran down to ask him, "If he knew where Eric was?"

"No," said Duncan; "last time I saw him was on the shore. We bathed together, and I remember his clothes were lying by mine when I dressed. But I hav'n't seen him since. If you like we'll go and look for him. I daresay he's on the beach somewhere."

But they found no traces of him there; and when they returned with this intelligence, his mother got so agitated that it required all her husband's firm gentleness to support her sinking spirits. There was enough to cause anxiety, for Vernon repeatedly ran out to ask the boys who were passing if they had seen his brother, and the answer always was, that they had left him bathing in the sea.

Meanwhile our young friends, having caught several crabs, suddenly noticed by the sun that it was getting late.

"Good gracious, Edwin," said Eric, pulling out his watch, "it's half-past three; what have we been thinking of? How frightened they'll be at home;" and running back as fast as they could, they reached the house at five o'clock, and rushed into the room.

"Eric, Eric," said Mrs. Williams faintly, "where have you been? has anything happened to you, my child?"

"No, mother, nothing. I've only been crabfishing with Russell, and we forgot the time."

"Thoughtless boy," said his father, "your mother has been in an agony about you."

Eric saw her pale face and tearful eyes, and flung himself in her arms, and mother and son wept in a long embrace. "Only two months," whispered Mrs. Williams, "and we shall leave you, dear boy, perhaps forever. O do not forget your love for us in the midst of new companions."

The end of term arrived; this time Eric came out eighth only instead of first, and, therefore, on the prize day, was obliged to sit among the crowd of undistinguished boys. He saw that his parents were disappointed, and his own ambition was grievously mortified. But he had full confidence in his own powers, and made the strongest resolutions to work hard the next half-year, when he had got out of "that Gordon's" clutches.

The Williams' spent the holidays at Fairholm, and now, indeed, in the prospect of losing them, Eric's feelings to his parents came out in all their strength. Most happily the days glided by, and the father and mother used them wisely. All their gentle influence, all their deep affection, were employed in leaving on the boy's heart lasting impressions of godliness and truth. He learnt to feel that their love would encircle him for ever with its heavenly tenderness, and their pure prayers rise for him night and day to the throne of God.

The day of parting came, and most bitter and heartrending it was. In the wildness of their passionate sorrow, Eric and Vernon seemed to hear the sound of everlasting farewells. It is God's mercy that ordains how seldom young hearts have to endure such misery.

At length it was over. The last sound of wheels had died away; and during those hours the hearts of parents and children felt the bitterness of death. Mrs. Trevor and Fanny, themselves filled with grief, still used all their unselfish endeavors to comfort their dear boys. Vernon, weary of crying, soon sank to sleep; but not so Eric. He sat on a low stool, his face buried in his hands, breaking the stillness every now and then with his convulsive sobs.

"O Aunty," he cried, "do you think I shall ever see them again? I have been so wicked, and so little grateful for all their love. O, I wish I had thought at Roslyn how soon I was to lose them."

"Yes, dearest," said Mrs. Trevor, "I have no doubt we shall all meet again soon. Your father is only going for five years, you know, and that will not seem very long. And then they will be writing continually to us, and we to them. Think, Eric, how gladdened their hearts will be to hear that you and Vernon are good boys, and getting on well."

"O, I will be a better boy, I will indeed," said Eric; "I mean to do great things, and they shall have nothing but good reports of me."

"God helping you, dear," said his aunt, pushing back his hair from his forehead, and kissing it softly; "without his help, Eric, we are all weak indeed."

She sighed. But how far deeper her sigh would have been had she known the future. Merciful is the darkness that shrouds it from human eyes!

CHAPTER VII

ERIC A BOARDER

"We were, fair queen,
Two lads that thought there was no more behind,
But such a day to-morrow as to-day,
And to be boy eternal."--WINTER'S TALE, i. 2.

The holidays were over. Vernon was to have a tutor at Fairholm, and Eric was to return alone, and be received into Dr. Rowlands' house.

As he went on board the steam-packet, he saw numbers of the well-known faces on deck, and merry voices greeted him.

"Hallo, Williams! here you are at last," said Duncan, seizing his hand. "How have you enjoyed the holidays? It's so jolly to see you again."

"So you're coming as a boarder," said Montagu, "and to our noble house, too. Mind you stick up for it, old fellow. Come along, and let's watch whether the boats are bringing any more fellows; we shall be starting in a few minutes."

"Ha! there's Russell," said Eric, springing to the gangway, and warmly shaking his friend's hand as he came on board.

"Have your father and mother gone, Eric?" said Russell, after a few minutes' talk.

"Yes," said Eric, turning away his head, and hastily brushing his eyes. "They are on their way back to India."

"I'm so sorry," said Russell; "I don't think anyone has ever been so kind to me as they were."

"And they loved you, Edwin, dearly, and told me, almost the last thing, that they hoped we should always be friends. Stop! they gave me something for you." Eric opened his carpet-bag, and took out a little box carefully wrapped up, which he gave to Russell. It contained a pretty silver watch, and inside the case was engraved--"Edwin Russell, from the mother of his friend Eric."

The boy's eyes glistened with joyful surprise. "How good they are," he said; "I shall write and thank Mrs. Williams directly we get to Roslyn."

They had a fine bright voyage, and arrived that night. Eric, as a new comer, was ushered at once into Dr. Rowlands' drawing-room, where the head master was sitting with his wife and children. His greeting was dignified, but not unkindly; and, on saying "good night," he gave Eric a few plain words of affectionate advice.

At that moment Eric hardly cared for advice. He was full of life and spirits, brave, bright, impetuous, tingling with hope, in the flush and flower of boyhood. He bounded down the stairs, and in another minute entered the large room where all Dr. Rowlands' boarders assembled, and where most of them lived, except the few privileged sixth form, and other boys who had "studies." A cheer greeted his entrance into the room. By this time most of the Rowlandites knew him, and were proud to have him among their number. They knew that he was clever enough to get them credit in the school, and, what was better still, that he would be a capital accession of strength to the cricket and football. Except Barker, there was not one who had not a personal liking for him, and on this occasion even Barker was gracious.

The room in which Eric found himself was large and high. At one end was a huge fire-place, and there was generally a throng of boys round the great iron fender, where, in cold weather, a little boy could seldom get. The large windows opened on the green playground; and iron bars prevented any exit through them. This large room, called "the boarders' room," was the joint habitation of Eric and some thirty other boys; and at one side ran a range of shelves and drawers, where they kept their books and private property. There the younger Rowlandites breakfasted, dined, had tea, and, for the most part, lived. Here, too, they had to get through all such work as was not performed under direct supervision. How many and what varied scenes had not that room beheld! had those dumb walls any feeling, what worlds of life and experience they would have acquired! If against each boy's name, as it was rudely cut on the oak panels, could have been also cut the fate that had befallen him, the good that he had there learnt, the evil that he had there suffered--what noble histories would the records unfold of honor and success, of baffled temptations and hard-won triumphs; what awful histories of hopes blighted and habits learned, of wasted talents and ruined lives!

The routine of school-life was on this wise:--At half-past seven the boys came down to prayers, which were immediately followed by breakfast. At nine they went into school, where they continued, with little interruption, till twelve. At one they dined, and, except on half-holidays, went into school again from two till five. The lock-up bell rang at dusk; at six o'clock they had tea--which was a repetition of breakfast, with leave to add to it whatever else they liked--and immediately after sat down to "preparation," which lasted from seven till nine. During this time one of the masters was always in the room, who allowed them to read amusing books, or employ themselves in any other quiet way they liked, as soon as ever they had learnt their lessons for the following day. At nine Dr. Rowlands came in and read prayers, after which the boys were dismissed to bed.

The arrangement of the dormitories was peculiar. They were a suite of rooms, exactly the same size, each opening into the other; six on each side of a lavatory, which occupied the space between them, so that, when all the doors were open, you could see from one end of the whole range to the other. The only advantage of this arrangement was, that one master walking up and down could keep all the boys in order while they were getting into bed. About a quarter of an hour was allowed for this process, and then the master went along the rooms putting out the lights. A few of the "study-boys" were allowed to sit up till ten, and their bedrooms were elsewhere. The consequence was, that in these dormitories the boys felt perfectly secure from any interruption. There were only two ways by which a master could get at them; one up the great staircase, and through the lavatory; the other by a door at the extreme end of the range, which led into Dr. Rowlands' house, but was generally kept locked.

In each dormitory slept four or five boys, distributed by their order in the school list, so that, in all the dormitories, there were nearly sixty; and of these a goodly number were, on Eric's arrival, collected in the boarders' room, the rest being in their studies, or in the classrooms which some were allowed to use in order to prevent too great a crowd in the room below.

At nine o'clock the prayer-bell rang. Immediately all the boarders took their seats for prayers, each with an open Bible before him; and when the school servants had also come in, Dr. Rowlands read a chapter, and offered up an extempore prayer. While reading, he generally interspersed a few pointed remarks or graphic explanations, and Eric learnt much in this simple way. The prayer, though short, was always well suited to the occasion, and calculated to carry with it the attention of the worshippers.

Prayers over, the boys noisily dispersed to their bed rooms, and Eric found himself placed in a room immediately to the right of the lavatory, occupied by Duncan, Graham, Llewellyn, and two other boys named Bull and Attlay, all in the same form with himself They were all tired with their voyage, and the excitement of coming back to school, so that they did not talk much that night, and before long Eric was fast asleep, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming that he should have a very happy life at Roslyn school, and seeing himself win no end of distinctions, and make no end of new friends.

CHAPTER VIII

"TAKING UP"

"We are not worst at once; the course of evil
Begins so slowly, and from such slight source,
An infant's hand might stop the breach with clay;
But let the stream grow wider, and Philosophy--
Ay, and Religion too--may strive in vain
To stem the headlong current!"--ANON.

With intense delight Eric heard it announced next morning, when the new school-list was read, that he had got his remove into the "Shell," as the form was called which intervened between the fourth and the fifth. Russell, Owen, and Montagu also got their removes with him, but his other friends were left for the present in the form below.

Mr. Rose, hiss new master, was in every respect a great contrast with Mr. Gordon. He was not so brilliant in his acquirements, nor so vigorous in his teaching, and therefore clever boys did not catch fire from him so much as from the fourth-form master. But he was a far truer and deeper Christian; and, with no less scrupulous a sense of honor, and detestation of every form of moral obliquity, he never yielded to those storms of passionate indignation which Mr. Gordon found it impossible to control. Disappointed in early life, subjected to the deepest and most painful trials, Mr. Rose's fine character had come out like gold from the flame. He now lived in and for the boys alone, and his whole life was one long self-devotion to their service and interests. The boys felt this, and even the worst of them, in their worst moments, loved and honored Mr. Rose. But he was not seeking for gratitude, which he neither expected nor required; he asked no affection in return for his self-denials; he worked with a pure spirit of human and self-sacrificing love, happy beyond all payment if ever he were instrumental in saving one of his charge from evil, or turning one wanderer from the error of his ways.

He was an unmarried man, and therefore took no boarders himself, but lived in the school-buildings, and had the care of the boys in Dr. Rowlands' house.

Such was the master under whom Eric was now placed, and the boy was sadly afraid that an evil report would have reached his ears, and given him already an unfavorable impression. But he was soon happily undeceived. Mr. Rose at once addressed him with much kindness, and he felt that, however bad he had been before, he would now have an opportunity to turn over a new leaf, and begin again a career of hope. He worked admirably at first, and even beat, for the first week or two, his old competitors, Owen and Russell.

From the beginning, Mr. Rose took a deep interest in him. Few could look at the boy's bright blue eyes and noble face without doing so, and the more when they knew that his father and mother were thousands of miles away, leaving him alone in the midst of so many dangers. Often the master asked him, and Russell, and Owen, and Montagu, to supper with him in the library, which gave them the privilege of sitting up later than usual, and enjoying a more quiet and pleasant evening than was possible in the noisy rooms. Boys and master were soon quite at home with each other, and in this way Mr. Rose had an opportunity of instilling many a useful warning without the formality of regular discipline or stereotyped instruction.

Eric found the life of the "boarders' room" far rougher than he had expected. Work was out of the question there, except during the hours of preparation, and the long dark winter evenings were often dull enough. Sometimes, indeed, they would all join in some regular indoor boys' game like "baste the bear," or "high-cockolorum;" or they would have amusing "ghost-hunts," as they called them, after some dressed-up boy among the dark corridors and staircases. This was good enough fun, but at other times they got tired of games, and could not get them up, and then numbers of boys felt the idle time hang heavy on their hands. When this was the case, some of the worse sort, as might have been expected, would fill up their leisure with bullying or mischief.

For some time they had a form of diversion which disgusted and annoyed Eric exceedingly. On each of the long iron-bound deal tables were placed two or three tallow candles in tin candlesticks, and this was the only light the boys had. Of course, these candles often, wanted snuffing, and as snuffers were sure to be thrown about and broken as soon as they were brought into the room, the only resource was to snuff them with the fingers, at which all the boys became great adepts from necessity. One evening Barker, having snuffed the candle, suddenly and slyly put the smouldering wick unnoticed on the head of a little quiet inoffensive fellow named Wright, who happened to be sitting next to him. It went on smouldering for some time without Wright's perceiving it, and at last Barker, highly delighted, exclaimed--

"I see a chimney," and laughed.

Four or five boys looked up, and very soon every one in the room had noticed the trick except little Wright himself, who unconsciously wrote on at the letter he was sending home.

Eric did not like this; but not wishing to come across Barker again, said nothing, and affected not to have observed. But Russell said quietly, "There's something on your head, Wright," and the little boy putting up his hand, hastily brushed off the horrid wick.

"What a shame!" he said, as it fell on his letter, and made a smudge.

"Who told you to interfere?" said Barker, turning fiercely to Russell. Russell, as usual, took not the slightest notice of him, and Barker, after a little more bluster, repeated the trick on another boy. This time Russell thought that every one might be on the look out for himself, and so went on with his work. But when Barker again chanted maliciously--

"I see a chimney," every boy who happened to be reading or writing, uneasily felt to discover this time he was himself the victim or no; and so things continued for half an hour.

Ridiculous and disgusting as this folly was, it became, when constantly repeated, very annoying. A boy could not sit down to any quiet work without constant danger of having some one creep up behind him and put the offensive fragment of smoking snuff on his head; and neither Barker nor any of his little gang of imitators seemed disposed to give up their low mischief.

One night, when the usual exclamation was made, Eric felt sure, from seeing several boys looking at him, that this time some one had been treating him in the same way. He indignantly shook his head, and sure enough the bit of wick dropped off. Eric was furious, and springing up, he shouted--

"By Jove! I won't stand this any longer."

"You'll have to sit it then," said Barker.

"O, it was you who did it, was it? Then take that;" and, seizing one of the tin candlesticks, Eric hurled it at Barker's head. Barker dodged, but the edge of it cut open his eyebrow as it whizzed by, and the blood flowed fast.

"I'll kill you for that," said Barker, leaping at Eric, and seizing him by the hair.

"You'll get killed yourself then, you brute," said Upton, Russell's cousin, a fifth-form boy, who had just come into the room--and he boxed his ears as a premonitory admonition. "But, I say, young un," continued he to Eric, "this kind of thing won't do, you snow. You'll get into rows if you shy candlesticks at fellows' heads at that rate."

"He has been making the room intolerable for the last month by his filthy tricks," said Eric hotly; "some one must stop him, and I will somehow, if no one else does."

"It wasn't I who put the thing on your head, you passionate young fool," growled Barker.

"Who was it then? How was I to know? You began it."

"You shut up, Barker," said Upton; "I've heard of your ways before, and when I catch you at your tricks, I'll teach you a lesson. Come up to my study, Williams, if you like."

Upton was a fine sturdy fellow of eighteen, immensely popular in the school for his prowess and good looks. He hated bullying, and often interfered to protect little boys, who accordingly idolised him, and did anything he told them very willingly. He meant to do no harm, but he did great harm. He was full of misdirected impulses, and had a great notion of being manly, which he thought consisted in a fearless disregard of all school rules, and the performance of the wildest tricks. For this reason he was never very intimate with his cousin Russell, whom he liked very much, but who was too scrupulous and independent to please him. Eric, on the other hand, was just the boy to take his fancy, and to admire him in return; his life, strength, and pluck, made him a ready pupil in all schemes of mischief, and Upton, who had often noticed him, would have been the first to shudder had he known how far his example went to undermine all Eric's lingering good resolutions, and ruin for ever the boy of whom he was so fond.

From this time Eric was much in Upton's study, and constantly by his side in the playground. In spite of their disparity in age and position in the school, they became sworn friends, though, their friendship was broken every now and then by little quarrels, which united them all the more closely after they had not spoken to each other perhaps for a week.

"Your cousin Upton has 'taken up' Williams," said Montagu to Russell one afternoon, as he saw the two strolling together on the beach, with Eric's arm in Upton's.

"Yes, I am sorry for it."

"So am I. We shan't see so much of him now."

"O, that's not my only reason," answered Russell, who had a rare habit of always going straight to the point.

"You mean you don't like the 'taking-up' system."

"No, Montagu; I used once to have fine theories about it. I used to fancy that a big fellow would do no end of good to one lower in the school, and that the two would stand to each other in the relation of knight to squire. You know what the young knights were taught, Monty--to keep their bodies under, and bring them into subjection; to love God, and speak the truth always. That sounds very grand and noble to me. But when a big fellow takes up a little one you know pretty well that those are not the kind of lessons he teaches."

"No, Russell; you're quite right. It's bad for a fellow in every way. First of all, it keeps him in an unnatural sort of dependence; then ten to one it makes him conceited, and prevents his character from really coming out well. And besides, the young chap generally gets paid out in kicks and abuse from the jealousy and contempt of the rest; and if his protector happens to leave, or anything of that kind, woe betide him!"

"No fear for Eric in that line, though," said Russell; "he can hold his own pretty well against any one. And after all, he is a most jolly fellow. I don't think even Upton will spoil him; it's chiefly the soft self-indulgent fellows, who are all straw and no iron, who get spoilt by being 'taken up.'"

Russell was partly right. Eric learnt a great deal of harm from Upton, and the misapplied hero-worship led to bad results. But he was too manly a little fellow, and had too much self-respect, to sink into the effeminate condition which usually grows on the young delectables who have the misfortune to be "taken up."

Nor did he in the least drop his old friends, except Owen. A coolness grew up between the latter and Eric, not unmingled with a little mutual contempt. Eric sneered at Owen as a fellow who did nothing but grind all day long, and had no geniality in him; while Owen pitied the love of popularity which so often led Eric into delinquencies, which he himself despised. Owen had, indeed, but few friends in the school; the only boy who knew him well enough to respect and like him thoroughly was Russell, who found in him the only one who took the same high, ground with himself. But Russell loved the good in every one, and was loved by all in return, and Eric he loved most of all, while he often mourned over his increasing failures.

One day as the two were walking together in the green playground, Mr. Gordon passed by; and as the boys touched their caps, he nodded and smiled pleasantly at Russell, but hardly noticed, and did not return Eric's salute. He had begun to dislike the latter more and more, and had given him up altogether as one of the reprobates.

"What a surly devil that is," said Eric, when he had passed; "did you see how he purposely cut me?"

"A surly ...? Oh Eric, that's the first time I ever heard you swear."

Eric blushed. He hadn't meant the word to slip out in Russell's hearing, though similar expressions were common enough in his talk with other boys. But he didn't like to be reproved, even by Russell, and in the ready spirit of self-defence, he answered--

"Pooh, Edwin, you don't call that swearing, do you? You're so strict, so religious, you know. I love you for it, but then, there are none like you. Nobody thinks anything of swearing here."

Russell was silent.

"Besides, what can be the harm of it? it means nothing. I was thinking the other night, and I concluded that you and Owen are the only two fellows here who don't swear."

Russell still said nothing.

"And, after all, I didn't swear; I only called that fellow a surly devil."

"O, hush! Eric, hush!" said Russell sadly. "You wouldn't have said so half-a-year ago."

Eric knew what he meant. The image of his father and mother rose before him, as they sate far away in their lonely Indian home, thinking of him, praying for him, centring all their hopes in him. In him!--and he knew how many things he was daily doing and saying, which would cut them to the heart. He knew that all his moral consciousness was fast vanishing, and leaving him a bad and reckless boy.

In a moment, all this passed through his mind. He remembered how shocked he had been at swearing at first; and even when it became too familiar to shock him, how he determined never to fall into the habit himself. Then he remembered how gradually it had become quite a graceful sound in his ears; a sound of entire freedom and independence of moral restraint; an open casting off, as it were, of all authority, so that he had begun to admire it, particularly in Duncan, and above all, in his new hero, Upton; and he recollected how, at last, an oath had one day slipped out suddenly in his own words, and how strange it sounded to him, and how Upton smiled to hear it, though conscience had reproached him bitterly; but now that he had done it once, it became less dreadful, and gradually grew common enough, till even conscience hardly reminded him that he was doing wrong.

He thought of all this, and hung his head. Pride struggled with him for a moment, but at length he answered, "O Edwin, I fear I am getting utterly bad; I wish I were more like you," he added, in a low sad tone.

"Dear Eric, I have no right to say it, full of faults as I am myself; but you will be so much happier, if you try not to yield to all the bad things round us. Remember, I know more of school than you."

The two boys strolled on silently. That night Eric knelt at his bedside, and prayed as he had not done for many a long day.

CHAPTER IX

"DEAD FLIES," OR "YE SHALL BE AS GODS"

"In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night." PROV. vii. 9.

At Roslyn, even in summer, the hour for going to bed was half-past nine. It was hardly likely that so many boys, overflowing with turbulent life, should lie down quietly, and get to sleep. They never dreamt of doing so. Very soon after the masters were gone, the sconces were often relighted, sometimes in separate dormitories, sometimes in all of them, and the boys amused themselves by reading novels or making a row. They would play various games about the bedrooms, vaulting or jumping over the beds, running races in sheets, getting through the windows upon the roofs, to frighten the study-boys with sham ghosts, or playing the thousand other pranks which suggested themselves to the fertile imagination of fifteen. But the favorite amusement was a bolstering match. One room would challenge another, and, stripping the covers off their bolsters, would meet in mortal fray. A bolster well wielded, especially when dexterously applied to the legs, is a very efficient instrument to bring a boy to the ground; but it doesn't hurt very much, even when the blows fall on the head. Hence these matches were excellent trials of strength and temper, and were generally accompanied with shouts of laughter, never ending until one side was driven back to its own room. Many a long and tough struggle had Eric enjoyed, and his prowess was so universally acknowledged, that his dormitory, No. 7, was a match for any other, and far stronger in this warfare than most of the rest. At bolstering, Duncan was a perfect champion; his strength and activity were marvellous, and his mirth uproarious. Eric and Graham backed him up brilliantly; while Llewellyn and Attlay, with sturdy vigor, supported the skirmishers. Bull, the sixth boy in No. 7, was the only fainéant among them, though he did occasionally help to keep off the smaller fry.

Happy would it have been for all of them if Bull had never been placed in No. 7; happier still if he had never come to Roslyn school. Backward in work, overflowing with vanity at his supposed good looks, of mean disposition and feeble intellect, he was the very worst specimen of a boy that Eric had ever seen. Not even Barker so deeply excited Eric's repulsion and contempt. And yet, since the affair of Upton, Barker and Eric were declared enemies, and, much to the satisfaction of the latter, never spoke to each other; but with Bull--much as he inwardly loathed him--he was professedly and apparently on good terms. His silly love of universal popularity made him accept and tolerate the society even of this worthless boy.

Any two boys talking to each other about Bull would probably profess to like him "well enough," but if they were honest, they would generally end by allowing their contempt.

"We've got a nice set in No. 7, haven't we?" said Duncan to Eric one day.

"Capital. Old Llewellyn's a stunner, and I like Attlay and Graham."

"Don't you like Bull then?"

"O yes; pretty well."

The two boys looked each other in the face, then, like the confidential augurs, burst out laughing.

"You know you detest him," said Duncan.

"No, I don't. He never did me any harm that I know of."

"Him!--well, I detest him."

"Well!" answered Eric, "on coming to think of it, so do I. And yet he is popular enough in the school. I wonder how that is."

"He's not really popular. I've often noticed that fellows pretty generally despise him, yet somehow don't like to say so."

"Why do you dislike him, Duncan?"

"I don't know. Why do you?"

"I don't know either."

Neither Eric nor Duncan meant this answer to be false, and yet if they had taken the trouble to consider, they would have found out in their secret souls the reasons of their dislike.

Bull had been to school before, and of this school he often bragged as the acmé of desirability and wickedness. He was always telling boys what they did at "his old school," and he quite inflamed the minds of such as fell under his influence by marvellous tales of the wild and wilful things which he and his former school-fellows had done. Many and many a scheme of sin and mischief, at Roslyn was suggested, planned, and carried out on the model of Bull's reminiscences of his previous life.

He had tasted more largely of the tree of the knowledge of evil than any other boy, and strange to say, this was the secret why the general odium was never expressed. He claimed his guilty experience so often as a ground of superiority, that at last the claim was silently allowed. He spoke from the platform of more advanced iniquity, and the others listened first curiously, then eagerly to his words.

"Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." Such was the temptation which assailed the other boys in dormitory No. 7; and Eric among the number. Bull was the tempter. Secretly, gradually, he dropped into their too willing ears the poison of his polluting acquirements.

In brief, Bull was cursed with a degraded and corrupting mind.

I hurry over a part of my subject inconceivably painful; I hurry over it, but if I am to perform my self-imposed duty of giving a true picture of what school life sometimes is, I must not pass it by altogether.

The first time that Eric heard indecent words in dormitory No. 7, he was shocked beyond bound or measure. Dark though it was, he felt himself blushing scarlet to the roots of his hair, and then growing pale again, while a hot dew was left upon his forehead. Bull was the speaker; but this time there was a silence, and the subject instantly dropped. The others felt that "a new boy" was in the room; they did not know how he would take it; they were unconsciously abashed.

Besides, though they had themselves joined in such conversation before, they did not love it, and on the contrary, felt ashamed of yielding to it.

Now, Eric, now or never! Life and death, ruin and salvation, corruption and purity, are perhaps in the balance together, and the scale of your destiny may hang on a single word of yours. Speak out, boy! Tell these fellows that unseemly words wound your conscience; tell them that they are ruinous, sinful, damnable; speak out and save yourself and the rest. Virtue is strong and beautiful, Eric, and vice is downcast in her awful presence. Lose your purity of heart, Eric, and you have lost a jewel which the whole world, if it were "one entire and perfect chrysolite," cannot replace.

Good spirits guard that young boy, and give him grace in this his hour of trial! Open his eyes that he may see the fiery horses and the fiery chariots of the angels who would defend him, and the dark array of spiritual foes who throng around his bed. Point a pitying finger to the yawning abyss of shame, ruin, and despair that even now perhaps is being cleft under his feet. Show him the garlands of the present and the past, withering at the touch of the Erinnys in the future. In pity, in pity show him the canker which he is introducing into the sap of the tree of life, which shall cause its root to be hereafter as bitterness, and its blossom to go up as dust.

But the sense of sin was on Eric's mind. How could he speak? was not his own language sometimes profane? How--how could he profess to reprove another boy on the ground of morality, when he himself said did things less ruinous perhaps, but equally forbidden?

For half an hour, in an agony of struggle with himself, Eric lay silent. Since Bull's last words nobody had spoken. They were going to sleep. It was too late to speak now, Eric thought. The moment passed by for ever; Eric had listened without objection to foul words, and the irreparable harm was done.

How easy it would have been to speak! With the temptation, God had provided also a way to escape. Next time it came, it was far harder to resist, and it soon became, to men, impossible.

Ah Eric, Eric! how little we know the moments which decide the destinies of life. We live on as usual. The day is a common day, the hour a common hour. We never thought twice about the change of intention, which by one of the accidents--(accidents!)--of life determined for good or for evil, for happiness or misery, the color of our remaining years. The stroke of the pen was done in a moment which led unconsciously to our ruin; the word was uttered quite heedlessly, on which turned for ever the decision of our weal or woe.

Eric lay silent. The darkness was not broken by the flashing of an angel's wing, the stillness was not syllabled by the sound of an angel's voice; but to his dying day Eric never forgot the moments which passed, until, weary and self-reproachful, he fell asleep.

Next morning he awoke, restless and feverish. He at once remembered what had passed. Bull's words haunted him; he could not forget them; they burnt within him like the flame of a moral fever. He was moody and petulant, and for a time could hardly conceal his aversion to Bull. Ah Eric! moodiness and petulance cannot save you, but prayerfulness would; one word, Eric, at the throne of grace--one prayer before you go down among the boys, that God in his mercy would wash away, in the blood of his dear Son, your crimson stains, and keep your conscience and memory clean.

The boy knelt down for a few minutes, and repeated to himself a few formal words. Had he stayed longer on his knees, he might have given way to a burst of penitence and supplication--but he heard Bull's footstep, and getting up, he ran down stairs to breakfast; so Eric did not pray.

Conversations did not generally drop so suddenly in dormitory No. 7. On the contrary, they generally flashed along in the liveliest way, till some one said "Good night;" and then the boys turned off to sleep. Eric knew this, and instantly conjectured that it was only a sort of respect for him, and ignorance of the manner in which he would consider it, that prevented Duncan and the rest from taking any further notice of Bull's remark. It was therefore no good disburdening his mind to any of them; but he determined to speak about the matter to Russell in their next walk.

They usually walked together on Sunday. Dr. Rowlands had discontinued the odious and ridiculous custom of the younger boys taking their exercise under a master's inspection. Boys are not generally fond of constitutionals, so that on the half-holidays they almost entirely confined their open-air exercise to the regular games, and many of them hardly left the play-ground boundaries once a week. But on Sundays they often went walks, each with his favorite friend or companion. When Eric first came as a boarder, he invariably went with Russell on Sunday, and many a pleasant stroll they had taken together, sometimes accompanied by Duncan, Montagu, or Owen. The latter, however, had dropped even this intercourse with Eric, who for the last few weeks had more often gone with his new friend Upton.

"Come a walk, boy," said Upton, as they left the dining-room.

"O excuse me to-day, Upton," said Eric, "I'm going with your cousin."

"Oh very well," said Upton, in high dudgeon, and, hoping to make Eric jealous, he went a walk with Graham, whom he had "taken up" before he knew Williams.

Russell was rather surprised when Eric came to him and said, "Come a stroll to Fort Island, Edwin--will you?"

"O yes," said Russell cheerfully; "why, we haven't seen each other for some time lately! I was beginning to fancy that you meant to drop me, Eric."

He spoke with a smile, and in a rallying tone, but Eric hung his head, for the charge was true. Proud of his popularity among all the school, and especially at his friendship with so leading a fellow as Upton, Eric had not seen much of his friend since their last conversation about swearing. Indeed, conscious of failure, he felt sometimes uneasy in Russell's company.

He faltered, and answered humbly, "I hope you will never drop me, Edwin, however bad I get? But I particularly want to speak to you to-day."

In an instant Russell had twined his arm in Eric's, as they turned towards Fort Island; and Eric, with an effort, was just going to begin, when they heard Montagu's voice calling after them--

"I say, you fellows, where are you off to! may I come with you?"

"O yes, Monty, do," said Russell, "It will be quite like old times; now that my cousin Horace has got hold of Eric, we have to sing 'When shall we three meet again?'"

Russell only spoke in fun; but, unintentionally, his words jarred in Eric's heart. He was silent, and answered in monosyllables, so the walk was provokingly dull. At last they reached Fort Island, and sat down by the ruined chapel looking on the sea.

"Why what's the row with you, old boy," said Montagu, playfully shaking Eric by the shoulder, "you're as silent as Zimmerman on Solitude, and as doleful as Harvey on the Tombs. I expect you've been going through a select course of Blair's Grave, Young's Night Thoughts, and Drelincourt on Death."

To his surprise Eric's head was still bent, and, at last, he heard a deep suppressed sigh.

"My dear child, what is the matter with you?" said Russell, affectionately taking his hand, "surely you're not offended at my nonsense?"

Eric had not liked to speak while Montagu was by, but now he gulped down his rising emotion, and briefly told them of Bull's vile words the night before. They listened in silence.

"I knew it must come, Eric," said Russell at last, "and I am so sorry you didn't speak at the time."

"Do the fellows ever talk in that way in either of your dormitories?" asked Eric.

"No," said Russell.

"Very little," said Montagu.

A pause followed, during which all three plucked the grass and looked away.

"Let me tell you," said Russell solemnly; "my father (he is dead now you know, Eric), when I was sent to school, warned me of this kind of thing. I had been brought up in utter ignorance of such coarse knowledge as is forced upon one here, and with my reminiscences of home, I could not bear even that much of it which was impossible to avoid. But the very first time such talk was begun in my dormitory I spoke out. What I said I don't know, but I felt as if I was trampling on a slimy poisonous adder, and, at any rate, I showed such pain and distress that the fellows dropped it at the time. Since then I have absolutely refused to stay in the room if ever such talk is begun. So it never is now, and I do think the fellows are very glad of it themselves."

"Well," said Montagu, "I don't profess to look on it from the religious ground, you know, but I thought it blackguardly, and in bad taste, and said so. The fellow who began it, threatened to kick me for a conceited little fool, but he didn't; and they hardly ever venture on that ground now."

"It is more than blackguardly--it is deadly," answered Russell; "my father said it was the most fatal curse which could ever become rife in a public school."

"Why do masters never give us any help or advice on these matters?" asked Eric thoughtfully.

"In sermons they do. Don't you remember Rowlands' sermon not two weeks ago on Kibroth-Hattaavah? But I for one think them quite right not to speak to us privately on such subjects, unless we invite confidence. Besides, they cannot know that any boys talk in this way. After all, it is only a very few of the worst who ever do."

They got up and walked home, but from day to day Eric put off performing the duty which Russell had advised, viz.--a private request to Bull to abstain from his offensive communications, and an endeavor to enlist Duncan into his wishes.

One evening they were telling each other stories in No. 7. Bull's turn came, and in his story the vile element again appeared. For a while Eric said nothing, but as the strain grew worse, he made a faint remonstrance.

"Shut up there, Williams," said Attlay, "and don't spoil the story."

"Very well. It's your own fault, and I shall shut my ears."

He did for a time, but a general laugh awoke him. He pretended to be asleep, but he listened. Iniquity of this kind was utterly new to him; his curiosity was awakened; he no longer feigned indifference, and the poison flowed deep into his veins. Before that evening was over, Eric Williams was "a god, knowing good from evil."

O young boys, if your eyes ever read these pages, pause and beware. The knowledge of evil is ruin, and the continuance in it hell. That little matter--that beginning of evil,--it will be like the snowflake detached by the breath of air from the mountain-top, which, as it rushes down, gains size, and strength, and impetus, till it has swollen to the mighty and irresistible avalanche that overwhelms garden, and field, and village, in a chaos of undistinguishable death.

Kibroth-Hattaavah! Many and many a young Englishman has perished there! Many and many a happy English boy, the jewel of his mother's heart,--brave, and beautiful, and strong,--lies buried there. Very pale their shadows rise before us--the shadows of our young brothers who have sinned and suffered. From the sea and the sod, from foreign graves and English churchyards, they start up and throng around us in the paleness of their fall. May every schoolboy who reads this page be warned by the waving of their wasted hands, from that burning marle of passion, where they found nothing but shame and ruin, polluted affections, and an early grave.

CHAPTER X

DORMITORY LIFE

[Greek: Aspasiae trillistos hepaeluths nux herebennae.]
HOM.

For a few days after the Sunday walk narrated in the last chapter, Upton and Eric cut each other dead. Upton was angry at Eric's declining the honor of his company, and Eric was piqued at Upton's unreasonableness. In the "taking up" system, such quarrels were of frequent occurrence, and as the existence of a misunderstanding was generally indicated in this very public way, the variations of good will between such friends generally excited no little notice and amusement among the other boys. But both Upton and Eric were too sensible to carry their differences so far as others similarly circumstanced; each thoroughly enjoyed the other's company, and they generally seized an early opportunity for effecting a reconciliation, which united them more firmly than ever.

As soon as Eric had got over his little pique, he made the first advances, by writing a note to Upton, which he slipped under his study door, and which ran as follows:--

"Dear Horace--Don't let us quarrel about nothing. Silly fellow, why should you be angry with me because for once I wanted to go a walk with Russell, who, by the bye, is twice as good a fellow as you? I shall expect you to make it up directly after prayers.--Yours, if you are not silly, E.W."

The consequence was, that as they came out from prayers, Upton seized Eric's hand, and slapped him on the back, after which they had a good laugh over their own foolish fracas, and ran up stairs chattering merrily.

"There's to be an awful lark in the dormitories tonight," said Eric; "the doctor's gone to a dinner-party, and we're going to have no end of fun."

"Are you? Well, if it gets amusing, come to my study and tell me, I'll come and look on."

"Very well; depend upon it, I'll come." And they parted at the foot of the study stairs.

It was Mr. Rose's night of duty. He walked slowly up and down the range of Dormitories until every boy seemed ready to get into bed, and then he put out all the candles. So long as he was present, the boys observed the utmost quiet and decorum. All continued quite orderly until he had passed away through the lavatory, and one of the boys following him as a scout, had seen the last glimmer of his candle disappear round the corner at the foot of the great staircase, and heard the library door close behind him.

After that, particularly as Dr. Rowlands was absent, the boys knew that they were safe from disturbance, and the occupants of No. 7 were the first to stir.

"Now for some fun," said Duncan, starting up, and by way of initiative pitching his pillow at Eric's head.

"I'll pay you out for that when I'm ready," said Eric, laughing; "but give us a match, first."

Duncan produced some vestas, and no sooner had they lighted their candle, than several of the dormitory doors began to be thrown open, and one after another all requested a light, which Duncan and Eric conveyed to them in a sort of emulous lampadephoria, so that a length all the twelve dormitories had their sconces lit, and the boys began all sorts of amusement, some in their night-shirts and others with their trousers slipped on. Leap-frog was the prevalent game for a time, but at last Graham suggested theatricals, and they were agreed on.

"But we're making a regular knock-me-down shindy," said Llewellyn; "somebody must keep cavè."

"O, old Rose is safe enough at his Hebrew in the library; no fear of disturbing him if we were dancing hippopotami," answered Graham.

But it was generally considered safest to put some one at the top of the stairs, in case of an unexpected diversion in that direction, and little Wright consented to go first. He had only to leave the lavatory door open; and stand at the top of the staircase, and he then commanded for a great distance the only avenue in which danger was expected. If any master's candle appeared n the hall, the boys had full three minutes' warning, and a single loudly-whispered "cave" would cause some one in each dormitory instantly to "douse the glim," and shut the door; so that by the time of the adversary's arrival, they would all be (of course) fast asleep in bed, some of them snoring in an alarming manner. Whatever noise the master might have heard, it would be impossible to fix it on any of the sleepers.

So at the top of the stairs stood little Wright, shoeless, and shivering in his night-gown, but keenly entering into the fun, and not unconscious of the dignity of his position. Meanwhile the rest were getting up a scenic representation of Bombastes Furioso, arranging a stage, piling a lot of beds together for a theatre, and dressing up the actors in the most fantastic apparel.

The impromptu Bombastes excited universal applause, and just at the end Wright ran in through the lavatory.

"I say," said the little fellow, "it's jolly cold standing at the top of the stairs. Won't some one relieve guard?"

"O, I will," answered Eric, good-naturedly; "it's a shame that one fellow should have all the bother and none of the fun;" and he ran to take Wright's post.

After watching a minute or two, he felt sure that there was no danger, and therefore ran up to Upton's study for a change.

"Well, what's up?" said the study-boy, approvingly, as he glanced at Eric's laughing eyes.

"O, we've been having leap-frog, and then Bombastes Furioso. But I'm keeping 'cavè' now; only it's so cold that I thought I'd run up to your study."

"Little traitor; we'll shoot you for a deserting sentinel."

"O no;" said Eric, "it's all serene; Rowley's out, and dear old Rose'd never dream of supposing us elsewhere than in the arms of Morpheus. Besides the fellows are making less row now."

"Well! look here! let's go and look on, and I'll tell you a dodge; put one of the tin washing-basins against the iron door of the lavatory, and then if any one comes he'll make clang enough to wake dead; and while he's amusing himself with this, there'll be lots of time to 'extinguish the superfluous abundance of the nocturnal illuminators.' Eh?"

"Capital!" said Eric, "come along."

They went down and arranged the signal very artistically, leaving the iron door ajar a little, and then neatly poising the large tin basin on its edge, so as to lean against it. Having extremely enjoyed this part of the proceeding, they went to look at the theatricals again, the boys being highly delighted at Upton's appearance among them.

They at once made Eric take a part in some very distant reminiscences of Macbeth, and corked his cheeks with whiskers and mustachios to make him resemble Banquo, his costume being completed by a girdle round his nightshirt, consisting of a very fine crimson silk handkerchief, richly broidered with gold, which had been brought to him from India, and which at first, in the innocence of his heart, he used to wear on Sundays, until he acquired the sobriquet of "the Dragon." Duncan made a superb Macbeth.

They were doing the dagger-scene, which was put on the stage in a most novel manner. A sheet had been pinned from the top of the room, on one side of which stood a boy with a broken dinner knife, the handle end of which he was pushing through a hole in the middle of the sheet at the shadow of Duncan on the other side.

Duncan himself, in an attitude of intensely affected melodrama, was spouting--

"Is this a dagger which I see before me?
The handle towards me now? come, let me clutch thee;"

And he snatched convulsively at the handle of the protruded knife; but as soon as he nearly touched it, this end was immediately withdrawn, and the blade end substituted, which made the comic Macbeth instantly draw back again, and recommence his apostrophe. This scene had tickled the audience immensely, and Duncan, amid shouts of laughter, was just drawing the somewhat unwarrantable conclusion that it was

"A dagger of the mind, a false creation,"

when a sudden grating, followed by a reverbrated clang, produced a dead silence.

"Cavè," shouted Eric, and took a flying leap into his bed. Instantly there was a bolt in different directions; the sheet was torn down, the candles dashed out, the beds shoved aside, and the dormitories at once plunged in profound silence, only broken by the heavy breathing of sleepers, when in strode--not Mr. Rose or any of the under masters--but--Dr. Rowlands himself!

He stood for a moment to survey the scene. All the dormitory doors were wide open; the sheet which had formed the stage curtain lay torn on the floor of No. 7; the beds in all the adjoining rooms were in the strangest positions; and half-extinguished wicks still smouldered in several of the sconces. Every boy was in bed, but the extraordinary way in which the bed clothes were huddled about told an unmistakeable tale.

He glanced quickly round, but the moment he had passed into No. 8, he heard a run, and, turning, just caught sight of Upton's figure vanishing into the darkness of the lavatory, towards the study stairs.

He said not a word, but stalked hastily through all dormitories, again stopping at No. 7 on his return.

He heard nothing but the deep snores of Duncan, and instantly fixed on him as a chief culprit.

"Duncan!"

No reply; but calm stertorous music from Duncan's bed.

"Duncan!" he said, still louder and more sternly, "you sleep soundly, sir, too soundly; get up directly," and he laid his hand on the boy's arm.

"Get away, you old donkey," said Duncan sleepily; "'t, aint time to get up yet. First bell hasn't rung."

"Come, sir, this shamming will only increase your punishment;" but the imperturbable Duncan stretched himself lazily, gave a great yawn, and then awoke with such an admirably feigned start at seeing Dr. Rowlands, that Eric, who had been peeping at the scene from over his bed-clothes, burst into an irresistible explosion of laughter.

Dr. Rowlands swung round on his heel--"What! Williams! get out of bed, sir, this instant."

Eric, forgetful of his disguise, sheepishly obeyed; but when he stood on the floor, he looked so odd in his crimson girdle and corked cheeks, with Dr. Rowlands surveying him in intense astonishment, that the scene became overpoweringly ludicrous to Duncan, who now in his turn was convulsed with a storm of laughter, faintly echoed in stifled titterings from other beds.

"Very good," said Dr. Rowlands, now thoroughly angry, "you will hear of this to-morrow;" and he walked away with a heavy step, stopping at the lavatory door to restore the tin basin to its proper place, and then mounting to the studies.

Standing in the passage into which the studies opened, he knocked at one of the doors, and told a boy to summon all their occupants at once to the library.

Meanwhile, the dormitory-boys were aghast, and as soon as they heard the doctor's retreating footsteps, began flocking in the dark to No. 7, not daring to relight their candles.

"Good gracious!" said Attlay, "only to think of Rowley appearing! How could he have twigged?"

"He must have seen our lights in the window as he came home," said Eric.

"I say, what a row that tin-basin dodge of yours made! What a rage the Doctor will be in to-morrow?"

"Won't you just catch it!" said Barker to Duncan, but intending the remark for Eric.

"Just like your mean chaff," retorted Duncan. "But I say, Williams," he continued, laughing, "you did look so funny in the whiskers."

At this juncture they heard all the study-boys running down stairs to the library, and, lost in conjecture, retired to their different rooms.

"What do you think he'll do to us?" asked Eric.

"I don't know," said Duncan uneasily; "flog us, for one thing, that's certain. I'm so sorry about that basin, Eric; but it's no good fretting. We've had our cake, and now we must pay for it, that's all."

Eric's cogitations began to be unpleasant, when the door opened, and somebody stole noiselessly in.

"Who's there?"

"Upton. I've come to have a chat. The Doctor's like a turkey-cock in sight of a red handkerchief. Never saw him in such a rage."

"Why, what's he been saying?" asked Eric, as Upton came and took a seat on his bed.

"Oh! he's been rowing us like six o'clock," said Upton, "about 'moral responsibility,' 'abetting the follies of children,' 'forgetting our position in the school,' and I don't know what all; and he ended by asking who'd been in the dormitories. Of course I confessed the soft impeachment, whereon he snorted 'Ha! I suspected so. Very well, Sir, you don't know how to use a study; you shall be deprived of it till the end of term.'"

"Did he really, Horace?" said Eric. "And it's all my doing that you've got into the scrape. Do forgive me."

"Bosh! My dear fellow," said Upton, "it's twice as much my fault as yours; and, after all, it was only a bit of fun. It's rather a bore losing the study, certainly; but never mind, we shall see all the more of each other. Good night; I must be off."

Next morning, prayers were no sooner over than Dr. Rowlands said to the boys, "Stop! I have a word to say to you."

"I find that there was the utmost disorder in the dormitories yesterday evening. All the candles were relighted at forbidden hours, and the noise made was so great that it was heard through the whole building. I am grieved that I cannot leave you, even for a few hours, without your taking such advantage of my absence; and that the upper boys, so far from using their influence to prevent these infractions of discipline, seem inclined rather to join in them themselves. On this occasion I have punished Upton, by depriving him of a privilege which he has abused; and as I myself detected Duncan and Williams, they will be flogged in the library at twelve. But I now come to the worst part of the proceeding. Somebody had been reckless enough to try and prevent surprise by the dangerous expedient of putting a tin basin against the iron door. The consequence was, that I was severely hurt, and might have been seriously injured in entering the lavatory. I must know the name of the delinquent."

Upton and Eric immediately stood up. Dr. Rowlands looked surprised, and there was an expression of grieved interest in Mr. Rose's face.

"Very well," said the Doctor, "I shall speak to you both privately."

Twelve o'clock came, and Duncan and Eric received a severe caning. Corporal punishment, however necessary and desirable for some dispositions, always produced on Eric the worst effects. He burned, not with remorse or regret, but with shame and violent indignation, and listened, with a glare in his eye, to Dr. Rowlands' warnings. When the flogging was over, he almost rushed out of the room, to choke in solitude his sense of humiliation, nor would he suffer any one for an instant to allude to his disgrace. Dr. Rowlands had hinted that Upton was doing him no good; but he passionately resented the suggestion, and determined, with obstinate perversity, to cling more than ever to the boy whom he had helped to involve in the same trouble with himself.

Any attempt on the part of masters to interfere in the friendships of boys is usually unsuccessful. The boy who has been warned against his new acquaintance not seldom repeats to him the fact that Mr. So-and-so doesn't like seeing them together, and after that they fancy themselves bound in honor to show that they are not afraid of continuing their connection. It was not strange, therefore, that Eric and Upton were thrown more than ever into each other's society, and consequently, that Eric, while he improved daily in strength, activity, and prowess, neglected more and more his school duties and honorable ambitions.

Mr. Rose sadly remarked the failure of promise in his character and abilities, and did all that could be done, by gentle firmness and unwavering kindness, to recal his pupil to a sense of duty. One night he sent for him to supper, and invited no one else. During the evening he drew out Eric's exercise, and compared it with, those of Russell and Owen, who were now getting easily ahead of him in marks. Eric's was careless, hurried, and untidy; the other two were neat, spirited, and painstaking, and had, therefore, been marked much higher.

"Your exercises used to be far better--I may say incomparably better," said Mr. Rose; "what is the cause of this falling off?"

Eric was silent.

Mr. Rose laid his hand gently on his head. "I fear, my boy, you have not been improving lately. You have got into many scrapes, and are letting boys beat you in form who are far your inferiors in ability. That is a very bad sign, Eric; in itself it is a discouraging fact, but I fear it indicates worse evils. You are wasting the golden hours, my boy, that can never return. I only hope and trust that no other change for the worse is going on in your character."

And so he talked on till the boy's sorrow was undisguised. "Come," he said gently, "let us kneel down together before we part."

Boy and master knelt down humbly side by side, and, from a full heart, the young man poured out his fervent petitions for the child beside him. Eric's heart seemed to catch a glow from his words, and he loved him as a brother. He rose from his knees full of the strongest resolutions, and earnestly promised amendment for the future.

But poor Eric did not yet know his own infirmity. For a time, indeed, there was a marked improvement; but daily life flowed on with its usual allurements, and when the hours of temptation came, his good intentions melted away, so that, in a few more weeks, the prayer, and the vows that followed it, had been obliterated from his memory without leaving any traces in his life.

CHAPTER XI

ERIC IN COVENTRY

"And either greet him not
Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more
Than if not looked on."--TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, iii. 3.

Upton, expatriated from his study, was allowed to use one of the smaller class-rooms which were occupied during play-hours by those boys who were too high in the school for "the boarders' room," and who were waiting to succeed to the studies as they fell vacant. There were three or four others with him in this class-room, and although it was less pleasant than his old quarters, it was yet far more comfortable than the Pandemonium of the shell and fourth-form boys.

As a general rule, no boys were allowed to sit in any of the class-rooms except their legitimate occupants. The rule, however, was very generally overlooked, and hence Eric, always glad of an opportunity to escape from the company of Barker and his associates, became a constant frequenter of his friend's new abode. Here they used to make themselves very comfortable. Joining the rest, they would drink coffee or chocolate, and amuse themselves over the fire with Punch, or some warlike novel in a green or yellow cover. One of them very often read aloud to the rest: and Eric, being both a good reader and a merry, intelligent listener, soon became quite a favorite among the other boys.

Mr. Rose had often seen him sitting there, and left him unmolested; but if ever Mr. Gordon happened to come in and notice him, he invariably turned him out, and after the first offence or two, had several times set him an imposition. This treatment gave fresh intensity to his now deeply-seated disgust at his late master, and his expressions of indignation at "Gordon's spite" were loud and frequent.

One day Mr. Gordon had accidentally come in, and found no one there but Upton and Eric; they were standing very harmlessly by the window, with Upton's arm resting kindly on Eric's shoulder as they watched with admiration the net-work of rippled sunbeams that flashed over the sea. Upton had just been telling Eric the splendid phrase [Greek: anêrithmon gelasma pontiôn], which he had stumbled upon in an Aeschylus lesson that morning, and they were trying which would hit on the best rendering of it. Eric stuck up for the literal sublimity of "the innumerable laughter of the sea," while Upton was trying to win him over to "the many-twinkling smile of ocean." They were enjoying the discussion, and each stoutly maintaining his own rendering, when Mr. Gordon entered.

On this occasion he was particularly angry; he had an especial dislike of seeing the two boys together, because he fancied that the younger had grown more than usually conceited and neglectful, since he had been under the fifth-form patronage; and he saw in Eric's presence there, a new case of wilful disobedience.

"Williams, here again!" he exclaimed sharply. "Why, sir, you seem to suppose that you may defy rules with impunity! How often have I told you that no one is allowed to sit here, except the regular occupants?"

His voice startled the two boys from their pleasant discussion.

"No other master takes any notice of it, sir," said Upton.

"I have nothing to do with other masters, Williams, you will bring me the fourth Georgic, written out by Saturday morning, for your repeated disobedience. Upton, I have a great mind to punish you also, for tempting him to come here."

This was a mistake on Mr. Gordon's part, of which Upton took immediate advantage.

"I have no power to prevent it, sir, if he wishes it. Besides," he continued, with annoying blandness of tone, "it would be inhospitable; and I am too glad of his company."

Eric smiled, and Mr. Gordon frowned. "Williams, leave the room instantly."

The boy obeyed slowly and doggedly. "Mr. Rose never interferes with me, when he sees me here," he said as he retreated.

"Then I shall request Mr. Rose to do so in future; your conceit and impertinence are getting intolerable."

Eric only answered with a fiery glance; the next minute Upton joined him on the stairs, and Mr. Gordon heard them laughing a little ostentatiously, as they ran out into the playground together. He went away full of strong contempt, and from that moment began to look on the friends as two of the worst boys in the school.

This incident had happened on Thursday, which was a half-holiday, and instead of being able to join in any of the games, Eric had to spend that weary afternoon in writing away at the fourth Georgic; Upton staying in a part of the time to help him a little, by dictating the lines to him--an occupation not unfrequently interrupted by storms of furious denunciation against Mr. Gordon's injustice and tyranny; Eric vowing "that he would pay him out somehow yet."

The imposition was not finished that evening, and it again consumed some of the next day's leisure, part of it being written between schools in the forbidden class-room. Still it was not quite finished on Friday afternoon at six, when school ended, and Eric stayed a few minutes behind the rest to scribble off the last ten lines; which done, he banged down the lid of his desk, not locking it, and ran out.

The next morning an incident happened which involved considerable consequences to some of the actors in my story.

Mr. Rose and several other masters had not a room to themselves, like Mr. Gordon, but heard their forms in the great hall. At one end of this hall was a board used for the various school notices, to which there were always affixed two or three pieces of paper containing announcements about examinations and other matters of general interest.

On Saturday morning (when Eric was to give up his Georgic), the boys, as they dropped into the hall for morning school, observed a new notice on the board, and, thronging round to see what it was, read these words, written on a half-sheet of paper, attached by wafers to the board--

"GORDON IS A SURLY DEVIL."

As may be supposed, so completely novel an announcement took them all very much by surprise, and they wondered who had been so audacious as to play this trick. But their wonder was cut short by the entrance of the masters, and they all took their seats, without any one tearing down the dangerous paper.

After a few minutes the eye of the second master, Mr. Ready, fell on the paper, and, going up, he read it, stood for a moment transfixed with astonishment, and then called Mr. Rose.

Pointing to the inscription, he said: "I think we had better leave that there, Rose, exactly as it is, till Dr. Rowlands has seen it. Would you mind asking him to step in here?"

Just at this juncture Eric came in, having been delayed by Mr. Gordon while he rigidly inspected the imposition. As he took his seat, Montagu, who was next him, whispered--

"I say, have you seen the notice-board?"

"No. Why?"

"Why, some fellow has been writing up an opinion of Gordon not very favorable."

"And serve him right, too, brute!" said Eric, smarting with the memory of his imposition.

"Well, there'll be no end of a row; you'll see."

During this conversation, Dr. Rowlands came in with Mr. Rose. He read the paper, frowned, pondered a moment, and then said to Mr. Rose--"Would you kindly summon the lower school into the hall? As it would be painful to Mr. Gordon to be present, you had better explain to him how matters stand."

"Halloa! here's a rumpus!" whispered Montagu; "he never has the lower school down for nothing."

A noise was heard on the stairs, and in flocked the lower school. When they had ranged themselves on the vacant forms, there was a dead silence and hush of expectation.

"I have summoned you all together," said the Doctor, "on a most serious occasion. This morning, on coming into the school-room, the masters found that the notice-board had been abused for the purpose of writing up an insult to one of our number, which is at once coarse and wicked. As only a few of you have seen it, it becomes my deeply painful duty to inform you of its purport; the words are these--'Gordon is a surly devil.'"--A very slight titter followed this statement, which was instantly succeeded by a sort of thrilling excitement; but Eric, when he heard the words, started perceptibly, and colored as he caught Montagu's eye fixed on him.

Dr. Rowlands continued--"I suppose this dastardly impertinence has been perpetrated by some boy out of a spirit of revenge. I am perfectly amazed at the unparalleled audacity and meanness of the attempt, and it may be very difficult to discover the author of it. But, depend upon it, discover him we will, at whatever cost. Whoever the offender may be, and he must be listening to me at this moment, let him be assured that he shall not be unpunished. His guilty secret shall be torn from him. His punishment can only be mitigated by his instantly yielding himself up."

No one stirred, but during the latter part of this address Eric was so uneasy, and his cheek burned with such hot crimson, that several eyes were upon him, and the suspicions of more than one boy were awakened.

"Very well," said the head master, "the guilty boy is not inclined to confess. Mark, then; if his name has not been given up to me by to-day week, every indulgence to the school will be forfeited, the next whole holiday stopped, and the coming cricket-match prohibited."

"The handwriting may be some clue," suggested Mr. Ready. "Would you have any objection to my examining the note-books of the Shell?"

"None at all. The Shell-boys are to show their books to Mr. Ready immediately."

The head-boy of the Shell collected the books, and took them to the desk; the three masters glanced casually at about a dozen, and suddenly stopped at one. Eric's heart beat loud, as his saw Mr. Rose point towards him.

"We have discovered a handwriting which remarkably resembles that on the board. I give the offender one more chance of substituting confession for detection."

No one stirred; but Montagu felt that his friend was trembling violently.

"Eric Williams, stand out in the room."

Blushing scarlet, and deeply agitated, the boy obeyed

"The writing on the notice is exactly like yours. Do you know anything of this shameful proceeding?"

"Nothing, sir," he murmured in a low tone.

"Nothing whatever?"

"Nothing whatever, sir."

Dr. Rowlands' look searched him through and through, and seemed to burn into his heart. He did not meet it, but hung his head. The Doctor felt certain from his manner that he was guilty. He chained him to the spot with his glance for a minute or two, and then said slowly, and with a deep sigh--

"Very well; I hope you have spoken the truth; but whether you have or no, we shall soon discover. The school, and especially the upper boys, will remember what I have said. I shall now tear down the insulting notice, and put it into your hands, Avonley, as head of the school, that you may make further inquiries." He left the room, and the boys resumed their usual avocation till twelve o'clock. But poor Eric could hardly get through his ordinary pursuits; he felt sick and giddy, until everybody noticed his strange embarrassed manner, and random answers.

No sooner had twelve o'clock struck, than the whole school broke up into knots of buzzing and eager talkers.

"I wonder who did it," said a dozen voices at once.

"The writing was undoubtedly Williams'," suggested some.

"And did you notice how red and pale he got when the Doctor spoke to him, and how he hung his head?"

"Yes; and one knows how he hates Gordon."

"Ay; by the bye, Gordon set him a Georgic only on Thursday, and he has been swearing at him ever since."

"I noticed that he stayed in after all the rest last night," said Barker.

"Did he? By Jove, that looks bad."

"Has any one charged him with it?" asked Duncan.

"Yes," answered one of the group: "but he's as proud about it as Lucifer, and is furious if you mention it to him. He says we ought to know him better than to think him capable of such a thing."

"And quite right, too," said Duncan. "If he did it, he's done something totally unlike what one would have believed possible of him."

The various items of evidence were put together, and certainly they seemed to prove a strong case against Eric. In addition to the probabilities already mentioned, it was found that the ink used was of a violet color, and a peculiar kind, which Eric was known to patronise; and not only so, but the wafers with which the paper had been attached to the board were yellow, and exactly of the same size with some which Eric was said to possess. How the latter facts had been discovered, nobody exactly knew, but they began to be very generally whispered throughout the school.

In short, the almost universal conviction among the boys proclaimed that he was guilty, and many urged him to confess it at once, and save the school from the threatened punishment. But he listened to such suggestions with the most passionate indignation.

"What!" he said, angrily, "tell a wilful lie to blacken my own innocent character? Never!"

The consequence was, they all began to shun him. Eric was put into Coventry. Very few boys in the school still clung to him, and maintained his innocence in spite of appearances, but they were the boys whom he had most loved and valued, and they were most vigorous in his defence. They were Russell, Montagu, Duncan, Owen, and little Wright.

On the evening of the Saturday, Upton had sought out Eric, and said in a very serious tone, "This is a bad business, Williams. I cannot forget how you have been abusing Gordon lately, and though I won't believe you guilty, yet you ought to explain."

"What? even you, then suspect me?" said Eric, bursting into proud tears. "Very well. I shan't condescend to deny it. I won't speak to you again till you have repented of mistrusting me;" and he resolutely rejected all further overtures on Upton's part.

He was alone in his misery. Some one, he perceived, had plotted to destroy his character, and he saw too clearly how many causes of suspicion told against him. But it was very bitter to think that the whole school could so readily suppose that he would do a thing which from his soul he abhorred. "No," he thought, "bad I may be, but I could not have done such a base and cowardly trick."

Never in his life had he been so wretched. He wandered alone to the rocks, and watched the waves dashing against them with the rising tide. The tumult of the weather seemed to relieve and console the tumult of his heart. He drank in strength and defiance from the roar of the waters, and climbed to their very edge along the rocks, where every fresh, rush of the waves enveloped him in white swirls of angry loam. The look of the green, rough, hungry sea, harmonised with his feelings, and he sat down and stared into it, to find relief from the torment of his thoughts.

At last, with a deep sigh, he turned away to go back, and meet the crowd of suspicious and unkindly companions, and brood alone over his sorrow in the midst of them. He had not gone many steps, when he caught sight of Russell in the distance. His first impulse was to run away and escape; but Russell determined to stop him, and when he came up, said, "Dear Eric, I have sought you out on purpose to tell you that I don't suspect you, and have never done so for a moment. I know you too well, my boy, and be sure that I will always stick to you, even if the whole school cut you."

"Oh, Edwin, I am so wretched. I needn't tell you that I am quite innocent of this. What have I done to be so suspected? Why, even your cousin Upton won't believe me."

"But he does, Eric," said Russell; "he told me so just now, and several others said the same thing."

A transient gleam passed over Eric's face.

"O, I do so long for home again," he said. "Except you, I have no friend."

"Don't say so, Eric. This cloud will soon blow over. Depend upon it, as the Doctor said, we shall discover the offender yet, and the fellows will soon make you reparation for their false suspicions. And you have one friend, Eric," he continued, pointing reverently upwards.

Eric was overcome; he sat down on the grass and hid his face till the tears flowed through his closed fingers. Russell sat silent and pitying beside him, and let Eric's head rest upon his shoulder.

When they got home, Eric found three notes in his drawer. One was from Mr. Gordon, and ran thus:--

"I have little doubt, Williams, that you have done this act. Believe me, I feel no anger, only pity for you. Come to me and confess, and I promise, by every means in my power, to befriend and save you."

This note he read, and then, stamping on the floor, tore it up furiously into twenty pieces, which he scattered about the room.

Another was from Mr. Rose;

"Dear Eric--I cannot, will not, believe you guilty, although appearances look very black. You have many faults, but I feel sure that I cannot be mistaken in supposing you too noble-minded for a revenge so petty and so mean. Come to me, dear boy, if I can help you in any way. I trust you, Eric, and will use every endeavor to right you in the general estimation. You are innocent; pray to God for help under this cruel trial, and be sure that your character will yet be cleared.--Affectionately yours, WALTER ROSE."

"P.S.--I can easily understand that just now you will like quiet; come and sit with me in the library as much as you like."

He read this note two or three times with grateful emotion, and at that moment would have died for Mr. Rose. The third note was from Owen, as follows:--

"Dear Williams--We have been cool to each other lately; naturally, perhaps. But yet I think that it will be some consolation to you to be told, even by a rival, that I, for one, feel certain of your innocence. If you want company, I shall be delighted now to walk with you.--Yours truly, D. OWEN."

This note, too, brought much comfort to the poor boy's lonely and passionate heart. He put it into his pocket, and determined at once to accept Mr. Rose's kind offer of allowing him to sit for the present in the library.

There were several boys in the room while he was reading his notes, but none of them spoke to him, and he was too proud to notice them, or interrupt the constrained silence. As he went out he met Duncan and Montagu, who at once addressed him in the hearing of the rest.

"Ha! Williams," said Duncan, "we have been looking everywhere for you, dear fellow. Cheer up, you shall be cleared yet. I, for one, and Monty for another, will maintain your innocence before the whole school."

Montagu said nothing, but Eric understood full well the trustful kindness of his soft pressure of the hand. His heart was too full to speak, and he went on towards the library.

"I wonder at your speaking to that fellow," said Bull, as the two new comers joined the group at the fire-place.

"You will be yourself ashamed of having ever suspected him before long," said Montagu warmly; "ay, the whole lot of you; and you are very unkind to condemn him before you are certain."

"I wish you joy of your friend, Duncan," sneered Barker.

"Friend?" said Duncan, firing up; "yes! he is my friend, and I'm not ashamed of him. It would be well for the school if all the fellows were as honorable as Williams."

Barker took the hint, and although he was too brazen to blush, thought it better to say no more.

CHAPTER XII

THE TRIAL

"A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all." TENNYSON, The Princess.

On the Monday evening, the head boy reported to Dr. Rowlands that the perpetrator of the offence had not been discovered, but that one boy was very generally suspected, and on grounds that seemed plausible. "I admit," he added, "that from the little I know of him he seems to me a very unlikely sort of boy to do it."

"I think," suggested the Doctor, "that the best way would be for you to have a regular trial on the subject, and hear the evidence. Do you think that you can be trusted to carry on the investigation publicly, with good order and fairness?"

"I think so, sir," said Avonley.

"Very well. Put up a notice, asking all the school to meet by themselves in the boarders' room tomorrow afternoon at three, and see what you can do among you."

Avonley did as the Doctor suggested. At first, when the boys assembled, they seemed inclined to treat the matter as a joke, and were rather disorderly; but Avonley briefly begged them, if they determined to have a trial, to see that it was conducted sensibly; and by general consent he was himself voted into the desk as president. He then got up and said--

"There must be no sham or nonsense about this affair. Let all the boys take their seats quietly down the room."

They did so, and Avonley asked, "Is Williams here?"

Looking round, they discovered he was not. Russell instantly went to the library to fetch him, and told him what was going on. He took Eric's arm kindly as they entered, to show the whole school that he was not ashamed of him, and Eric deeply felt the delicacy of his goodwill.

"Are you willing to be tried, Williams," asked Avonley, "on the charge of having written the insulting paper about Mr. Gordon? Of course we know very little how these kind of things ought to be conducted, but we will see that everything done is open and above ground, and try to manage it properly."

"There is nothing I should like better," said Eric.

He had quite recovered his firm, manly bearing. A quiet conversation with his dearly loved friend and master had assured him in the confidence of innocence, and though the color on his cheek had through excitement sunk into two bright red spots, he looked wonderfully noble and winning as he stood before the boys in the centre of the room. His appearance caused a little reaction in his favor, and a murmur of applause followed his answer.

"Good," said Avonley; "who will prosecute on the part of the school?"

There was a pause. Nobody seemed to covet the office.

"Very well; if no one is willing to prosecute, the charge drops."

"I will do it," said Gibson, a Rowlandite, one of the study boys at the top of the fifth form. He was a clever fellow, and Eric liked the little he had seen of him.

"Have you any objection, Williams, to the jury being composed of the sixth form? or are there any names among them which you wish to challenge?"

"No," said Eric, glancing round with confidence.

"Well, now, who will defend the accused?"

Another pause, and Upton got up.

"No," said Eric, at once. "You were inclined to distrust me, Upton, and I will only be defended by somebody who never doubted my innocence."

Another pause followed, and then, blushing crimson, Russell got up. "I am only a Shell-boy," he said, "but if Eric doesn't mind trusting his cause to me, I will defend him, since no other fifth-form fellow stirs."

"Thank you, Russell, I wanted you to offer, I could wish no better defender."

"Will Owen, Duncan, and Montagu help me, if they can?" asked Russell.

"Very willingly," they all three said, and went to take their seats by him. They conversed eagerly for a few minutes, and then declared themselves ready.

"All I have got to do," said Gibson, rising, "is to bring before the school the grounds for suspecting Williams, and all the evidence which makes it probable that he is the offender. Now, first of all, the thing must have been done between Friday evening and Saturday morning; and since the school-room door is generally locked soon after school, it was probably done in the short interval between six and a quarter past. I shall now examine some witnesses."

The first boy called upon was Pietrie, who deposed, that on Friday evening, when he left the room, having been detained a few minutes, the only boy remaining in it was Williams.

Carter, the school-servant, was then sent for, and deposed, that he had met Master Williams hastily running out of the room, when he went at a quarter past six to lock the door.

Examined by Gibson.--"Was any boy in the room when you did lock the door?"

"No one."

"Did you meet any one else in the passage?"

"No."

Cross-examined by Russell.--"Do boys ever get into the room after the door is locked?"

"Yes."

"By what means?"

"Through the side windows."

"That will do."

Russell here whispered something to Duncan, who at once left the room, and on returning, after a few minutes' absence, gave Russell a significant nod.

Barker was next brought forward, and questioned by Gibson.

"Do you know that Williams is in the habit of using a particular kind of ink?"

"Yes; it is of a violet color, and has a peculiar smell."

"Could you recognise anything written with it?"

"Yes."

Gibson here handed to Barker the paper which had caused so much trouble.

"Is that the kind of ink?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the handwriting on that paper?"

"Yes; it is Williams' hand."

"How can you tell?"

"He makes his r's in a curious way."

"Turn the paper over. Have you ever seen those kind of wafers before?"

"Yes; Williams has a box of them in his desk."

"Has any other boy, that you are aware of, wafers like those?"

"No."

Cross-examined by Duncan.--"How do you know that Williams has wafers like those?"

"I have seen him use them."

"For what purpose?"

"To fasten letters."

"I can't help remarking that you seem very well acquainted with what he does. Several of those who know him best, and have seen him oftenest, never heard of these wafers. May I ask," he said, "if any one else in the school will witness to having seen Williams use these wafers?"

No one spoke, and Barker, whose malice seemed to have been changed into uneasiness, sat down.

Upton was the next witness. Gibson began--"You have seen a good deal of Williams?"

"Yes," said Upton smiling.

"Have you ever heard him express any opinion of Mr. Gordon?"

"Often."

"Of what kind?"

"Dislike and contempt," said Upton, amidst general laughter.

"Have you ever heard him say anything which implied a desire to injure him?"

"The other day Mr. Gordon gave him a Georgic as an imposition, and I heard Williams say that he would like to pay him out."

This last fact was new to the school, and excited a great sensation.

"When did he say this?"

"On Friday afternoon."

Upton had given his evidence with great reluctance, although, being simply desirous that the truth should come out, he concealed nothing that he knew. He brightened up a little when Russell rose to cross-examine him.

"Have you ever known Williams to do any mean act?"

"Never."

"Do you consider him a boy likely to have been guilty on this occasion?"

"Distinctly the reverse. I am convinced of his innocence."

The answer was given with vehement emphasis, and Eric felt greatly relieved by it.

One or two other boys were then called on as witnesses to the great agitation which Eric had shown during the investigation in the school-room, and then Gibson, who was a sensible, self-contained fellow, said, "I have now done my part. I have shown that the accused had a grudge against Mr. Gordon at the time of the occurrence, and had threatened to be revenged on him; that he was the last boy in the room during the time when the offence must have been committed; that the handwriting is known to resemble his, and that the ink and wafers employed were such as he, and he only, was known to possess. In addition to all this, his behavior, when the matter was first publicly noticed, was exactly such as coincides with the supposition of his guilt. I think you will all agree in considering these grounds of suspicion very strong; and leaving them to carry their full weight with you, I close the case for the prosecution."

The school listened to Gibson's quiet formality with a kind of grim and gloomy satisfaction, and when he had concluded, there were probably few but Eric's own immediate friends who were not fully convinced of his guilt, however sorry they might be to admit so unfavorable an opinion of a companion whom they all admired.

After a minute or two, Russell rose for the defence, and asked, "Has Williams any objection to his desk being brought, and any of its contents put in as evidence?"

"Not the least; there is the key, and you will find it in my place in school."

The desk was brought, but it was found to be already unlocked, and Russell looked at some of the note-paper which it contained. He then began--"In spite of the evidence adduced, I think I can show that Williams is not guilty. It is quite true that he dislikes Mr. Gordon, and would not object to any open way of showing it; it is quite true that he used the expressions attributed to him, and that the ink and wafers are such as may be found in his desk, and that the handwriting is not unlike his. But is it probable that a boy intending to post up an insult such as this, would do so in a manner, and at a time so likely to involve him in immediate detection, and certain punishment? At any rate, he would surely disguise his usual handwriting. Now, I ask any one to look at this paper, and tell me whether it is not clear, on the contrary, that these letters were traced slowly and with care, as would be the case with an elaborate attempt to imitate?" Russell here handed the paper to the jury, who again narrowly examined it.

"Now the evidence of Pietrie and Carter is of no use, because Carter himself admitted that boys often enter the room by the window; a fact to which we shall have to allude again.

"We admit the evidence about the ink and wafers. But it is rather strange that Barker should know about the wafers, since neither I, nor any other friend of Williams, often as we have sat by him when writing letters, have ever observed that he possessed any like them."

Several boys began to look at Barker, who was sitting very ill at ease on the corner of a form, in vain trying to appear unconcerned.

"There is another fact which no one yet knows, but which I must mention. It will explain Williams' agitation when Dr. Rowlands read out the words on that paper; and, confident of his innocence, I am indifferent to its appearing to tell against him. I myself once heard Williams use the very words written on that paper, and not only heard them, but expostulated with him strongly for the use of them. I need hardly say how very unlikely it is, that remembering this, he should thus publicly draw my suspicions on him, if he meant to insult Mr. Gordon, undiscovered. But, besides myself, there was another boy who accidentally overheard that expression. That boy was Barker.

"I have to bring forward a new piece of evidence which at least ought to go for something. Looking at this half-sheet of note-paper, I see that the printer's name on the stamp in the corner is 'Graves, York.' Now, I have just found that there is no paper at all like this in Williams' desk; all the note-paper it contains is marked 'Blakes, Ayrton.'

"I might bring many witnesses to prove how very unlike Williams' general character a trick of this kind would be. But I am not going to do this. We think we know the real offender. We have had one trial, and now demand another. It is our painful duty to prove Williams' innocence by proving another's guilt. That other is a known enemy of mine, and of Montagu's, and of Owen's. We therefore leave the charge of stating the case against him to Duncan, with whom he has never quarrelled."

Russell sat down amid general applause; he had performed his task with a wonderful modesty and self-possession, which filled every one with admiration, and Eric warmly pressed his hand.

The interest of the school was intensely excited, and Duncan, after a minute's pause, starting up, said--"Williams has allowed his desk to be brought in and examined. Will Barker do the same?"

The real culprit now saw at once that his plot to ruin Eric was recoiling on himself. He got up, swore and blustered at Russell, Duncan, and Williams, and at first flatly refused to allow his desk to be brought. He was, however, forced to yield, and when opened, it was immediately seen that the note-paper it contained was identical with that on which the words had been written. At this he affected to be perfectly unconcerned, and merely protested against what he called the meanness of trying to fix the charge on him.

"And what have you been doing the whole of the last day or two," asked Gibson, quietly, "but endeavoring to fix the charge on another?"

"We have stronger evidence against you," said Duncan, confronting him with an undaunted look, before which his insolence quailed. "Russell, will you call Graham?"

Graham was called, and put on his honor.

"You were in the sick-room on Friday evening?"

"Yes."

"Did you see any one get into the school-room through the side window?"

"I may as well tell you all about it. I was sitting doing nothing in the sick-room, when I suddenly saw Barker clamber in to the school-room by the window, which he left open. I was looking on simply from curiosity, and saw him search Williams' desk, from which he took out something, I could not make out what. He then went to his own place, and wrote for about ten minutes, after which I observed him go up and stand by the notice board. When he had done this he got out by the window again, and ran off."

"Didn't this strike you as extraordinary?"

"No; I thought nothing more about it, till some one told me in the sick-room about this row. I then mentioned privately what I had seen, and it wasn't till I saw Duncan, half an hour ago, that I thought it worth while to make it generally known."

Duncan turned an enquiring eye to Barker (who sat black and silent), and then pulled some bits of torn paper from his pocket, put them together, and called Owen to stand up. Showing him the fragments of paper, he asked, "Have you ever seen these before?"

"Yes. On Saturday, when the boys left the schoolroom, I stayed behind to think a little over what had occurred, feeling convinced that Williams was not guilty, spite of appearances. I was standing by the empty fire-place, when these bits of paper caught my eye. I picked them up, and, after a great deal of trouble, fitted them together. They are covered apparently with failures in an attempt at forgery, viz., first, 'Gordon is a sur--' and then a stop, as though the writer were dissatisfied, and several of the words written over again for practice, and then a number of r's made in the way that Williams makes them."

"There you may stop," said Barker, stamping fiercely; "I did it all."

A perfect yell of scorn and execration followed this announcement.

"What! you did it, and caused all this misery, you ineffable blackguard!" shouted Upton, grasping him with one hand, while he struck him with the other.

"Stop!" said Avonley; "just see that he doesn't escape, while we decide on his punishment."

It was very soon decided by the sixth form that he should run the gauntlet of the school. The boys instantly took out their handkerchiefs, and knotted them tight. They then made a double line down each side of the corridor, and turned Barker loose. He stood stock-still at one end, while the fellows nearest him thrashed him unmercifully with the heavy knots. At last the pain was getting severe, and he moved on, finally beginning to run. Five times he was forced up and down the line, and five times did every boy in the line give him a blow, which, if it did not hurt much, at least spoke of no slight anger and contempt. He was dogged and unmoved to the last, and then Avonley hauled him into the presence of Dr. Rowlands. He was put in a secure room by himself, and the next morning was first flogged and then publicly expelled. Thenceforth he disappears from the history of Roslyn school.

I need hardly say that neither Eric nor his friends took any part in this retributive act. They sat together in the boarders' room till it was over, engaged in exciting discussion of the recent event. Most warmly did Eric thank them for their trustfulness. "Thank you," he said, "with all my heart, for proving my innocence; but thank you, even more a great deal, for first believing it."

Upton was the first to join them, and since he had but wavered for a moment, he was soon warmly reconciled with Eric. They had hardly shaken hands when the rest came flocking in. "We have all been unjust," said Avonley; "let's make up for it as well as we can. Three cheers for Eric Williams!"

They gave, not three, but a dozen, till they were tired; and meanwhile, every one was pressing round him, telling him how sorry they were for the false suspicion, and doing all they could to show their regret for his recent troubles. His genial, boyish heart readily forgave them, and his eyes were long wet with tears of joy. The delicious sensation of returning esteem made him almost think it worth while to have under gone his trial.

Most happily did he spend the remainder of that afternoon, and it was no small relief to all the Rowlandites in the evening to find themselves finally rid of Barker, whose fate no one pitied, and whose name no one mentioned without disgust. He had done more than any other boy to introduce meanness, quarrelling, and vice, and the very atmosphere of the rooms seemed healthier in his absence. One boy only forgave him, one boy only prayed for him, one boy only endeavored to see him for one last kind word. That boy was Edwin Russell.

After prayers, Mr. Gordon, who had been at Dr. Rowlands' to dinner, apologised to Eric amply and frankly for his note, and did and said all that could be done by an honorable man to repair the injury of an unjust doubt. Eric felt his generous humility, and from thenceforth, though they were never friends, he and Mr. Gordon ceased to be enemies.

That night Mr. Rose crowned his happiness by asking him and his defenders to supper in the library. A most bright and joyous evening they passed, for they were in the highest spirits; and when the master bade them "good night," he kindly detained Eric, and said to him, "Keep an innocent heart, my boy, and you need never fear trouble. Only think if you had been guilty, and were now in Barker's place!"

"O, I couldn't be guilty, sir," said Eric, gaily.

"Not of such a fault, perhaps. But," he added solemnly, "there are many kinds of temptation, Eric many kinds. And they are easy to fall into. You will find it no light battle to resist them."

"Believe me, sir, I will try," he answered with humility.

"Jehovah-Nissi!" said Mr. Rose. "Let the Lord be your banner, Eric, and you will win the victory. God bless you."

And as the boy's graceful figure disappeared through the door, Mr. Rose drew his arm-chair to the fire, and sat and meditated long. He was imagining for Eric a sunny future--a future of splendid usefulness, of reciprocated love, of brilliant fame.

CHAPTER XIII

THE ADVENTURE AT THE STACK

"Ten cables from where green meadows
And quiet homes could be seen,
No greater space
From peril to peace,
But the savage sea between!"--EDWIN ARNOLD.

The Easter holidays at Roslyn lasted about ten days, and as most of the boys came from a distance, they usually spent them at school. Many of the usual rules were suspended during this time, and the boys were supplied every day with pocket-money; consequently the Easter holidays passed very pleasantly, and there was plenty of fun.

It was the great time for excursions all over the island, and the boys would often be out the whole day long among the hills, or about the coast. Eric enjoyed the time particularly, and was in great request among all the boys. He was now more gay and popular than ever, and felt as if nothing were wanting to his happiness. But this brilliant prosperity was not good for him, and he felt continually that he cared far less for the reproaches of conscience than he had done in the hours of his trial; sought far less for help from God than he had done when he was lonely and neglected.

He always knew that his great safeguard was the affection of Russell. For Edwin's sake, and for shame at the thought of Edwin's disapproval, he abstained from many things into which he would otherwise have insensibly glided in conformation to the general looseness of the school morality. But Russell's influence worked on him powerfully, and tended to counteract a multitude of temptations.

Among other dangerous lessons, Upton had taught Eric to smoke; and he was now one of those who often spent a part of his holidays in lurking about with pipes in their mouths at places where they were unlikely to be disturbed, instead of joining in some hearty and healthy game. When he began to "learn" smoking, he found it anything but pleasant; but a little practice had made him an adept, and he found a certain amount of enjoyable excitement in finding out cozy places by the river, where he and Upton might go and lounge for an hour to enjoy the forbidden luxury.

In reality he, like most boys, detested the habit; but it seemed a fine thing to do, and to some, at any rate, it was a refuge from vacuity. Besides, they had a confused notion that there was something "manly" in it, and it derived an additional zest from the stringency of the rules adopted to put it down. So a number of the boys smoked, and some few of them to such excess as to get them into great mischief, and form a habit which they could never afterwards abandon.

One morning of the Easter holidays, Eric, Montagu, and Russell started for an excursion down the coast to Rilby Head. As they passed through Ellan, Eric was deputed to go and buy Easter eggs and other provisions, as they did not mean to be back for dinner. In about ten minutes he caught up the other two, just as they were getting out of the town.

"What an age you've been buying a few Easter eggs," said Russell, laughing; "have you been waiting till the hens laid?"

"No; they are not the only things I've got."

"Well, but you might have got all the grub at the same shop."

"Ay; but I've procured a more refined article. Guess what it is?"

The two boys didn't guess, and Eric said, to enlighten them, "Will you have a whiff, Monty?"

"A whiff! Oh! I see you've been wasting your tin on cigars--alias, rolled cabbage-leaves. Oh fumose puer!"

"Well, will you have one?"

"If you like," said Montagu, wavering; "but I don't much care to smoke."

"Well, I shall, at any rate," said Eric, keeping off the wind with his cap, as he lighted a cigar, and began to puff.

They strolled on in silence; the smoking didn't promote conversation, and Russell thought he had never seen his friend look so ridiculous, and entirely unlike himself, as he did while strutting along with the weed in his mouth. The fact was, Eric didn't guess how much he was hurting Edwin's feelings, and he was smoking more to "make things look like the holidays," by a little bravado, than anything else. But suddenly he caught the expression of Russell's face, and instantly said--

"O, I forgot, Edwin; I know you don't like smoking;" and he instantly flung the cigar over the hedge, being really rather glad to get rid of it. With the cigar, he seemed to have flung away the affected manner he displayed just before, and the spirits of all three rose at once.

"It isn't that I don't like smoking only, Eric, but I think it wrong--for us I mean."

"O, my dear fellow! surely there can't be any harm in it. Why everybody smokes."

"It may be all very well for men, although I'm not so sure of that. But, at any rate, it's wrong and ridiculous in boys. You know yourself what harm it does in every way."

"O, it's a mere school rule against it. How can it be wrong? Why, I even know clergymen who smoke."

Montagu laughed. "Well, clergymen ain't immaculate," said he; "but I never met a man yet who didn't tell you that he was sorry he'd acquired the habit."

"I'm sure you won't thank that rascally cousin of mine for having taught you," said Russell; "but seriously, isn't it a very moping way of spending the afternoon, to go and lie down behind some hay-stack, or in some frowsy tumble-down barn, as you smokers do, instead of playing racquets or football?"

"O, it's pleasant enough sometimes," said Eric, speaking rather against his own convictions.

"As for me, I've nearly left it off," said Montagu, "and I think Rose convinced me that it was a mistake. Not that he knows that I ever did smoke; I should be precious sorry if he did, for I know how he despises it in boys. Were you in school the other day when he caught Pietrie and Brooking?"

"No."

"Well, when Brooking went up to have his exercise corrected, Rose smelt that he had been smoking, and charged him with it. Brooking stoutly denied it, but after he had told the most robust lies, Rose made him empty his pockets, and there, sure enough, were a pipe and a cigar-case half full! You should have heard how Rose thundered and lightened at him for his lying, and then sent him to the Doctor. I never saw him so terrific before."

"You don't mean to say you were convinced it was wrong because Brooking was caught, and told lies--do you? Non sequitur."

"Stop--not so fast." Very soon after Rose twigged Pietrie, who at once confessed, and was caned. I happened to be in the library when Rose sent for him, and Pietrie said mildly that "he didn't see the harm of it." Rose smiled in his kind way, and said, "Don't see the harm of it! Do you see any good in it?"

"No, sir."

"Well, isn't it forbidden?"

"Yes, sir."

"And doesn't it waste your money?"

"Yes, sir."

"And tempt you to break rules, and tell lies to screen yourself?"

"Yes, sir," said Pietrie, putting his tail between his legs.

"And don't your parents disapprove it? And doesn't it throw you among some of the worst boys, and get you into great troubles? Silly child," he said, pulling Pietrie's ear (as he sometimes does, you know), "don't talk nonsense; and remember next time you're caught I shall have you punished." So off went Pietrie, [Greek: achreian idon] as our friend Homer says. And your humble servant was convinced."

"Well, well," said Eric laughing, "I suppose you're right. At any rate, I give in. Two to one ain't fair; [Greek: ards duo o Aerachlaes], since you're in a quoting humor."

Talking in this way they got to Rilby Head, where they found plenty to amuse them. It was a splendid headland, rising bluff four hundred feet out of the sea, and presenting magnificent reaches of rock scenery on all sides. The boys lay on the turf at the summit, and flung innocuous stones at the sea-gulls as they sailed far below them over the water, and every now and then pounced at some stray fish that came to the surface; or they watched the stately barks as they sailed by on the horizon, wondering at their cargo and destination; or chaffed the fishermen, whose boats heaved on the waves at the foot of the promontory. When they were rested, they visited a copper-mine by the side of the head, and filled their pockets with bits of bright quartz or red shining spar, which they found in plenty among the rocks.

In the afternoon they strolled towards home, determining to stop a little at the Stack on their way. The Stack formed one of the extremities of Ellan Bay, and was a huge mass of isolated schist, accessible at low water, but entirely surrounded at high tide. It was a very favorite resort of Eric's, as the coast all about it was bold and romantic; and he often went there with Russell on a Sunday evening to watch the long line of golden radiance slanting to them over the water from the setting sun--a sight which they often agreed to consider one of the most peaceful and mysteriously beautiful in nature.

They reached the Stack, and began to climb to its summit. The sun was just preparing to set, and the west was gorgeous with red and gold.

"We shan't see the line on the waters this evening," said Eric; "there's too much of a breeze. But look, what a glorious sunset!"

"Yes; it'll be stormy tomorrow," answered Russell, "but come along, let's get to the top; the wind's rising, and the waves will be rather grand."

"Ay, we'll sit and watch them; and let's finish our grub; I've got several eggs left, and I want to get them out of my pocket."

They devoured the eggs, and then stood enjoying the sight of the waves, which sometimes climbed up the rock almost to their feet, and then fell back, hissing and discomfited. Suddenly they remembered that it was getting late, and that they ought to get home for tea at seven.

"Hallo!" said Russell, looking at his watch, "it's half-past six. We must cut back as hard as we can. By the bye, I hope the tide hasn't been coming in all this time."

"Good God!" said Montagu, with a violent start, "I'm afraid it has, though! What asses we have been, with our waves and sunsets. Let's set off as hard as we can pelt."

Immediately they scrambled, by the aid of hands and knees, down the Stack, and made their way for the belt of rock which joined it to the mainland; but, to their horror, they at once saw that the tide had come in, and that a narrow gulf of sea already divided them from the shore.

"There's only one way for it," said Eric; "if we're plucky we can jump that; but we musn't wait till it gets worse. A good jump will take us nearly to the other side--far enough, at any rate, to let us flounder across somehow."

As fast as they could they hurried along down to the place where the momentarily increasing zone of water seemed as yet to be narrowest; and where the rocks on the other side were lower than those on which they stood. Their situation was by no means pleasant. The wind had been rising more and more, and the waves dashed into this little channel with such violence, that to swim it would have been a most hazardous experiment, particularly as they could not dive in from the ledge on which they stood, from their ignorance of the depth of water.

Eric's courage supported the other two. "There's no good thinking about it," said he, "jump we must; the sooner the better. We can but be a little hurt at the worst. Here, I'll set the example."

He drew back a step or two, and sprang out with all his force. He was a practised and agile jumper, and, to their great relief, he alighted near the water's edge, on the other side, where, after slipping once or twice on the wet and seaweed-covered rocks, he effected a safe landing, with no worse harm than a wetting up to the knees.

"Now then, you too," he shouted; "no time to lose."

"Will you jump first, Monty?" said Russell; "both of you are better jumpers than I, and to tell the truth I'm rather afraid."

"Then I won't leave you," said Montagu; "we'll both stay here."

"And perhaps be drowned or starved for our pains No, Monty, you can clear it, I've no doubt."

"Couldn't we try to swim it together, Edwin?"

"Madness! look there." And as he spoke, a huge furious wave swept down the whole length of the gulf by which they stood, roaring and surging along till the whole water seethed, and tearing the seaweeds from their roots in the rock.

"Now's your time," shouted Eric again. "What are you waiting for? For God's sake, jump before another wave comes."

"Monty, you must jump now," said Russell, "if only to help me when I try."

Montagu went back as far as he could, which was only a few steps, and leapt wildly forward. He lighted into deep water, nearly up to his neck, and at first tried in vain to secure a footing on the sharp slippery schist; but he stumbled forwards vigorously, and in half a minute, Eric leaning out as far as he could, caught his hand, and just pulled him to the other side in time to escape another rush of tumultuous and angry foam.

"Now, Edwin," they both shouted, "it'll be too late in another minute. Jump for your life."

Russell stood on the rock pale and irresolute. Once or twice he prepared to spring, and stopped from fear at the critical instant. In truth, the leap was now most formidable; to clear it was hopeless; and the fury of the rock-tormented waves rendered the prospect of a swim on the other side terrible to contemplate. Once in the grasp of one of those billows, even a strong man must have been carried out of the narrow channel, and hurled against the towering sweep of rocks which lay beyond it.

"Oh Edwin, Edwin--dear Edwin--do jump," cried Eric with passionate excitement. "We will rush in for you."

Russell now seemed to have determined on running the risk; he stepped back, ran to the edge, missed his footing, and with a sharp cry of pain, fell heavily forward into the water. For an instant, Eric and Montagu stood breathless,--but the next instant, they saw Russell's head emerge, and then another wave foaming madly by, made them run backwards for their lives, and hid him from their view. When it had passed, they saw him clinging with both hands, in the desperate instinct of self-preservation, to a projecting bit of rock, by the aid of which he gradually drew himself out of the water, and grasping at crevices or bits of seaweed, slowly and painfully reached the ledge on which they had stood before they took the leap. He presented a pitiable spectacle; his face, pale as death, was dabbled with blood; his head drooped on his breast; his clothes were torn, and streamed with the salt water; his cap was gone, and the wet hair, which he seemed too exhausted to push aside, hung over his forehead and eyes. He was evidently dizzy, and in pain; and they noticed that he only seemed to use one foot.

While he was regaining the ledge, neither of the boys spoke, lest their voices should startle him, and make him fall; but now, they both cried out, "Are you hurt, Edwin?"

He did not answer, but supported his pale face on one hand, while he put the other to his head, from which the blood was flowing fast.

"O Edwin, for the love of God, try once more," said Montagu; "you will die if you spend the night on that rock."

They could not catch the reply, and called again. The wind and waves were both rising fast, and it was only by listening intently, that they caught the faint words, "I can't, my leg is hurt." Besides, they both saw that a jump was no longer possible; the channel was more than double the width which it had been when Eric leaped, and from the rapid ascent of rocks on both sides, it was now far out of depth.

"O God, what can we do," said Montagu, bursting into tears. "We can never save him; and all but the very top of the Stack is covered at high tide."

Eric had not lost his presence of mind. "Cheer up, Edwin," he shouted; "I will get back to you somehow. If I fail, crawl up to the top again."

Again the wind carried away the reply, and Russell had sunk back on the rock.

"Monty," said Eric, "just watch for a minute or two. When I have got across, run to Ellan as hard as you can tear, and tell them that we are cut off by the tide on the Stack. They'll bring round the life-boat. It's our only chance."

"What are you going to do?" asked Montagu, terrified. "Why, Eric, it's death to attempt swimming that. Heavens!" And he drew Eric back hastily, as another vast swell of water came rolling along, shaking its white curled mane, like a sea-monster bent on destruction.

"Monty, it's no use," said Eric hastily, tearing off his jacket and waistcoat; "I'm not going to let Russell die on that ledge of rock. I shall try to reach him, whatever happens to me. Here; I want to keep these things dry. Be on the look out; if I get across, fling them over to me if you can, and then do as I told you."

He turned round; the wave had just spent its fury, and knowing that his only chance was to swim over before another came, he plunged in, and struck out like a man. He was a strong and expert swimmer, and as yet the channel was not more than a dozen yards across. He dashed over with the speed and strength of despair, and had just time to clutch the rocks on the other side before the next mighty swirl of the tide swept up in its white and tormented course. In another minute he was on the ledge by Russell's side.

He took him tenderly in his arms, and called to Montagu for the dry clothes. Montagu tied them skilfully with his neck-handkerchief round a fragment of rock, adding his own jacket to the bundle, and then flung it over. Eric wrapped up his friend in the clothes, and once more shouted to Montagu to go on his errand. For a short time the boy lingered, reluctant to leave them, and then started off at the run. Looking back after a few minutes, he caught, through the gathering dusk, his last glimpse of the friends in their perilous situation. Eric was seated supporting Russell across his knees; when he saw Montagu turn he waved his cap over his head as a signal of encouragement, and then began to carry Edwin higher up the rock for safety. It soon grew too dark to distinguish them, and Montagu at full speed flew to Ellan, which was a mile off. When he got to the harbor he told some sailors of the danger in which his friends were, and then ran on to the school. It was now eight o'clock, and quite dark. Tea was over, and lock-up time long past, when he stood excited, breathless, and without his jacket, at Dr. Rowlands' door.

"Good gracious! Master Montagu," said the servant; "what's the matter; have you been robbed?"

He pushed the girl aside, and ran straight to Dr. Rowlands' study. "O sir!" he exclaimed, bursting in, "Williams and Russell are on the Stack, cut off by the tide."

Dr. Rowlands started up hastily. "What! on this stormy night? Have you raised the alarm?"

"I told the life-boat people, sir, and then ran on."

"I will set off myself at once," said the Doctor, seizing his hat. "But, my poor boy, how pale and ill you look, and you are wet through too. You had better change your clothes at once, or go to bed."

"O no, sir," said Montagu, pleadingly; "do take me with you."

"Very well; but you must change first, or you may suffer in consequence. Make haste, and directly you are dressed, a cup of tea shall be ready for you down here, and we will start."

Montagu was off in an instant, and only stopped on his way to tell Duncan and the others of the danger which threatened their companions. The absence of the three boys from tea and lock-up had already excited general surmise, and Montagu's appearance, jacketless and wet, at the door of the boarders' room, at once attracted a group round him. He rapidly told them how things stood, and, hastening off, left them nearly as much agitated as himself. In a very short time he presented himself again before Dr. Rowlands, and when he had swallowed with difficulty the cup of tea, they sallied out.

It was pitch dark, and only one or two stars were seen at intervals struggling through the ragged masses of cloud. The wind howled in fitful gusts, and as their road led by the sea-side, Montagu shuddered to hear how rough and turbulent the sea was, even on the sands. He stumbled once or twice, and then the Doctor kindly drew his trembling arm through his own, and made him describe the whole occurrence, while the servant went on in front with the lantern. When Montagu told how Williams had braved the danger of reaching his friend at the risk of his life, Dr. Rowlands' admiration was unbounded. "Noble boy," he exclaimed, with enthusiasm; "I shall find it hard to believe any evil of him after this."

They reached Ellan, and went to the boat-house.

"Have you put out the life-boat?" said Dr. Rowlands anxiously.

"Ill luck, sir," said one of the sailors, touching his cap; "the life-boat went to a wreck at Port Vash two days ago, and she hasn't been brought round again yet."

"Indeed! but I do trust you have sent out another boat to try and save those poor boys."

"We've been trying, sir, and a boat has just managed to start; but in a sea like that it's very dangerous, and it's so dark and gusty that I doubt it's no use, so I expect they'll put back."

The Doctor sighed deeply. "Don't alarm any other people," he said; "it will merely raise a crowd to no purpose. Here, George," he continued to the servant, "give me the lantern; I will go with this boy to the Stack; you follow us with ropes, and order a carriage from the King's Head. Take care to bring anything with you that seems likely to be useful."

Montagu and Dr. Rowlands again started, and with difficulty made their way through the storm to the shore opposite the Stack. Here they raised the lantern and shouted; but the wind was now screaming with such violence that they were not sure that they heard any answering shout. Their eyes, accustomed to the darkness, could just make out the huge black outline of the Stack rising from the yeast of boiling waves, and enveloped every moment in blinding sheets of spray. On the top of it Montagu half thought that he saw something, but he was not sure.

"Thank God, there is yet hope," said the Doctor, with difficulty making his young companion catch his words amid the uproar of the elements; "if they can but keep warm in their wet clothes, we may perhaps rescue them before morning."

Again he shouted to cheer them with his strong voice, and Montagu joined his clear ringing tones to the shout. This time they fancied that in one of the pauses of the wind they heard a faint cheer returned, was sound more welcome, and as they paced up and down they shouted at intervals, and held up the lantern, to show the boys that friends and help were near.

Eric heard them. When Montagu left, he had carried Russell to the highest point of the rock, and there, with gentle hands and soothing words, made him as comfortable as he could. He wrapped him in every piece of dry clothing he could find, and held him in his arms, heedless of the blood which covered him. Very faintly Russell thanked him, and pressed his hand; but he moaned in pain continually, and at last fainted away.

Meanwhile the wind rose higher, and the tide gained on the rocks, and the sacred darkness came down. At first Eric could think of nothing but storm and sea. Cold, and cruel, and remorseless, the sea beat up, drenching them to the skin continually with, its clammy spray; and the storm shrieked round them pitilessly, and flung about the wet hair on Eric's bare head, and forced him to plant himself firmly, lest the rage of the gusts should hurl them from their narrow resting-place. The darkness made everything more fearful, for his eyes could distinguish nothing but the gulfs of black water glistening here and there with hissing foam, and he shuddered as his ears caught the unearthly noises that came to him in the mingled scream of weltering tempest and plangent wave. It was fearful to be isolated on the black rent rock, and see the waves gaining on them higher, higher, higher, every moment and he was in ceaseless terror lest they should be swept away by the violence of the breakers. "At least," thought he, as he looked down and saw that the ledge on which they had been standing had long been covered with deep and agitated waves, "at least I have saved Edwin's life." And he bravely made up his mind to keep up heart and hope, and weather the comfortless night with Russell in his arms.

And then his thoughts turned to Russell, who was still unconscious; and stooping down he kissed fondly the pale white forehead of his friend. He felt then, how deeply he loved him, how much he owed him; and no mother could have nursed a child more tenderly than he did the fainting boy. Russell's head rested on his breast, and the soft hair, tangled with welling blood, stained his clothes. Eric feared that he would die, his fainting-fit continued so long, and from the helpless way in which one of his legs trailed on the ground he felt sure that he had received some dangerous hurt.

At last Russell stirred and groaned. "Where am I?" he said, and half opened his eyes; he started up frightened, and fell-back heavily. He saw only the darkness; felt only the fierce wind and salt mist; heard only the relentless yell of the blast. Memory had no time to wake, and he screamed and fainted once more.

Poor Eric knew not what to do but to shelter him to the best of his power, and when he showed any signs of consciousness again, he bent over him, and said, "Don't you remember, Edwin? We're quite safe. I'm with you, and Monty's gone for help."

"Oh! I daren't jump," sobbed Russell; "oh mother, I shall be drowned. Save me! save me! I'm so glad they're safe, mother; but my leg hurts so." And he moaned again. He was delirious.

"How cold it is, and wet too! where's Eric? are we bathing? run along, we shall be late. But stop, you're smoking. Dear Eric, don't smoke. Poor fellow, I'm afraid he's getting spoilt, and learning bad ways. Oh save him." And as he wandered on, he repeated a prayer for Eric, which evidently had been often on his lips.

Eric was touched to the heart's core, and in one rapid lightning-like glance, his memory revealed to him the faultful past, in all its sorrowfulness. And he, too, prayed wildly for help both for soul and body. Alone on the crag, with the sea tumbling and plashing round them, growing and gaining so much on their place of refuge, that his terror began to summon up the image of certain death; alone, wet, hungry, and exhausted, with the wounded and delirious boy, whose life depended on his courage, he prayed as he had never prayed before, and seemed to grow calmer by his prayer, and to feel God nearer him than ever he had done in the green cricket-field, or the safe dormitories of Roslyn school.

A shout startled him. Lights on the water heaved up and down, now disappearing, and now lifted high, and at intervals there came the sound of voices. Thank God! help was near; they were coming in a boat to save them.

But the lights grew more distant; he saw then disappearing towards the harbor. Yes! it was of no use; no boat could live in the surf at the foot of the Stack cliffs, and the sailors had given it up in despair. His heart sank again, all the more for the glimpse of hope, and his strength began to give way. Russell's delirium continued, and he grew too frightened even to pray.

A light from the land. The sound of shouts--yes, he could be sure of it; it was Dr. Rowlands' voice and Montagu's. He got convinced of this, and summoned all his strength to shout in return. The light kept moving up and down on the shore, not a hundred yards off. His fear vanished; they were no longer alone. The first moment that the tide suffered any one to reach them they would be rescued. His mind grew calm again, and he determined to hold up for Russell's sake until help should come; and every now and then, to make it feel less lonely, he answered the shouts which came from the friendly voices in the fitful pauses of the storm.

But Dr. Rowlands and Montagu paced up and down, and the master soothed the boy's fears, and talked to him so kindly, so gently, that Montagu began to wonder if this really could be the awful head-master, whose warm strong hand he was grasping, and who was comforting him as a father might. What a depth of genuine human kindness that stern exterior concealed! And every now and then, when the storm blew loudest, the Doctor would stand still for a moment, and offer up a short intense prayer, or ejaculation, that help and safety might come to his beloved charge in their exposure and peril.

Six or seven hours passed away; at last the wind began to sink, and the sea to be less violent. The tide was on the turn. The carriage drove up with, more men and lights, and the thoughtful servant brought with him the school surgeon, Dr. Underhay. Long and anxiously did they watch the ebbing tide, and when it had gone out sufficiently to allow of two stout planks being laid across the channel, an active sailor ventured over with a light, and in a few moments stood by Eric's side. Eric saw him coming, but was too weak and numb to move; and when the sailor lifted up the unconscious Russell from his knees, Eric was too much exhausted even to speak. The man returned for him, and lifting him on his back crossed the plank once more in safety, and carried them both to the carriage, where Dr. Underhay had taken care to have everything likely to revive and sustain them. They were driven rapidly to the school, and the Doctor raised to God tearful eyes of gratitude as the boys were taken to the rooms prepared for them. Mrs. Rowlands was anxiously awaiting their arrival, and the noise of wheels was the signal for twenty heads to be put through the dormitory windows, with many an anxious inquiry, "Are they safe?"

"Yes, thank God!" called Dr. Rowlands; "so now, boys, shut the windows, and get to sleep."

Russell was carefully undressed, and put to bed in the Doctor's own house, and the wound in his head was dressed. Eric and Montagu had beds provided them in another room by themselves, away from the dormitory: the room was bright and cheerful, with a blazing fire, and looked like home and when the two boys had drank some warm wine, and cried for weariness and joy, they sank to sleep after their dangers and fatigues, and slept the deep, calm, dreamless sleep of tired children.

So ended the perilous adventure of that eventful night of the Easter holidays.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SILVER CORD BROKEN

"Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now!
E'en while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow."--MRS. HEMANS.

They did not awake till noon. Montagu opened his eyes, and at first could not collect his thoughts, as he saw the carpeted little room, the bright fire, and the housekeeper seated in her arm-chair before it. But turning his head, he caught a glimpse of Eric, who was still asleep, and he then remembered all. He sprang out of bed, refreshed and perfectly well, and the sound of his voice woke Eric; but Eric was still languid and weak, and did not get up that day, nor was he able to go to work again for some days; but he was young and strong, and his vigorous constitution soon threw off the effects of his fast and exposure.

Their first inquiry was for Edwin. The nurse shook her head sadly. "He is very dangerously ill."

"Is he?" said they both, anxiously. And then they preserved a deep silence; and when Montagu, who immediately began to dress, knelt down to say his prayers, Eric, though unable to get up, knelt also over his pillow, and the two felt that their young earnest prayers were mingling for the one who seemed to have been taken while they were left.

The reports grew darker and darker about Edwin, At first it was thought that the blow on his head was dangerous, and that the exposure to wet, cold, fear, and hunger, had permanently weakened his constitution; and when his youth seemed to be triumphing over these dangers, another became more threatening. His leg never mended; he had both sprained the knee badly, and given the tibia an awkward twist, so that the least motion was agony to him.

In his fever he was constantly delirious. No one was allowed to see him, though many of the boys tried to do so, and many were the earnest inquiries for him day by day. It then became more fully apparent than ever, that, although Edwin was among them without being of them, no boy in the school was more deeply honored and fondly loved than he. Even the elastic spirits of boyhood could not quite throw off the shadow of gloom which his illness cast over the school.

Very tenderly they nursed him. All that human kindness could do was done for him by the stranger hands. And yet not all; poor Edwin had no father, no mother, hardly any relatives. His only aunt, Mrs. Upton, would have come to nurse him, but she was an invalid, and he was often left alone in his delirium and agony.

Alone, yet not alone. There was One with him--always in his thoughts, always leading, guiding, blessing him unseen--not deserting the hurt lamb of his flock; one who was once a boy himself, and who, when he was a boy, did his Father's business, and was subject unto his parents in the obscure home of the despised village. Alone! nay, to them whose eyes were opened, the room of sickness and pain was thronged and beautiful with angelic presences.

Often did Eric, and Upton, and Montagu, talk of their loved friend. Eric's life seemed absorbed in the thought of him, and in passionate, unspeakable longings for his recovery. Now he valued more than ever the sweet remembered hours spent with him; their games, and communnings, and walks, and Russell's gentle influence, and brave, kindly rebukes. Yet he must not even see him, must not whisper one word of soothing to him in his anguish; he could only pray for him, and that he did with a depth of hope.

At last Upton, in virtue of his relationship, was allowed to visit him. His delirium had become more infrequent, but he could not yet even recognise his cousin, and the visits to his sick-room were so sad and useless, that Upton forbore. "And yet you should hear him talk in his delirium," he said to Eric; "not one evil word, or bad thought, or wicked thing, ever escapes him. I'm afraid, Eric, it would hardly be so with you or me."

"No" said Eric, in a low and humble tone; and guilty conscience brought the deep color, wave after wave, of crimson into his cheeks.

"And he talks with such affection of you, Eric. He speaks sometimes of all of us very gently; but you seem to be always in his thoughts, and every now and then he prays for you quite unconsciously."

Eric turned his head to brush away a tear. "When do you think I shall be allowed too see him?"

"Not just yet, I fear."

After a week or two of most anxious suspense, Russell's mind ceased to wander, but the state of his sprain gave more cause for alarm. Fresh advice was called in, and it was decided that the leg must be amputated.

When Eric was told of this, he burst into passionate complaints. "Only think, Monty, isn't it hard, isn't it cruel? When we see our brave, bright Edwin again, he will be a cripple." Eric hardly understood that he was railing at the providence of a merciful God.

The day for the operation came. When it was over, poor Russell seemed to amend, and the removal of the perpetual pain gave him relief. They were all deeply moved at his touching resignation; no murmur, no cry escaped him; no words but the sweetest thanks for every little office of kindness done to him. A few days after, he asked Dr. Underhay "if he might see Eric?"

"Yes, my boy," said the doctor kindly, "you may see him, and one or two other of your particular friends if you like, provided you don't excite yourself too much. I trust you will get better now."

So Eric and Montagu were told by Dr. Rowlands that at six they might go and see their friend. "Be sure," he added, "that you don't startle or excite him."

They promised, and after school on that beautiful evening of early summer they went to the sick-room door Stopping, they held their breath, and knocked very gently. Yes! it was the well-known voice which gave the answer, but it was faint and low. Full of awe, they softly opened the door, which admitted them into the presence of the dear companion whom they had not seen for so long. Since then it seemed as though gulfs far deeper than the sea had been flowing between him and them.

Full of awe, and hand in hand, they entered the room on tiptoe--the darkened room where Russell was What a hush and oppression there seemed to them at first in the dim, silent chamber; what an awfulness in all the appliances which showed how long and deeply their schoolfellow had suffered. But all this vanished directly they caught sight of his face. There he lay, so calm, and weak, and still, with his bright, earnest eyes turned towards them, as though to see whether any of their affection for him had ceased or been forgotten!

In an instant they were kneeling in silence by the bed with bowed foreheads; and the sick boy tenderly put his hands on their heads, and pushed the frail white fingers through their hair, and looked at them tearfully without a word, till they hid their faces with their hands, and broke into deep suppressed sobs of compassion.

"Oh hush, hush!" he said, as he felt their tears dropping on his hands while they kissed him. "Dear Eric, dear Monty, why should you cry so for me? I am very happy."

But they caught the outline of his form as he lay on the bed, and had now for the first time realized that he was a cripple for life; and as the throng of memories came on them--memories of his skill and fame at cricket, and racquets, and football--of their sunny bathes together in sea and river, and all their happy holiday wanderings--they could not restrain their emotion, and wept uncontrollably. Neither of them could speak a word, or break the holy silence; and as he patted their heads and cheeks, his own tears flowed fast in sympathy and self-pity. But he felt the comforting affection which they could not utter; he felt it in his loneliness, and it did him good.

The nurse broke in upon the scene, which she feared would agitate Edwin too much; and with red eyes and heavy hearts the boys left, only whispering, "We will come again to-morrow, Edwin!"

They came the next day, and many days, and got to talk quite cheerfully with him, and read to him. They loved this occupation more than any game, and devoted themselves to it. The sorrow of the sick-room more than repaid them for the glad life without, when they heard Russell's simple and heartfelt thanks. "Ah! how good of you, dear fellows," he would say, "to give up the merry playground for a wretched cripple," and he would smile cheerfully to show that his trial had not made him weary of life. Indeed, he often told them that he believed they felt for him more than he did himself.

One day Eric brought him a little bunch of primroses and violets. He seemed much better, and Eric's spirits were high with the thoughts and hopes of the coming holidays. "There, Edwin," he said, as the boy gratefully and eagerly took the flowers, "don't they make you glad? They are one of our three signs, you know, of the approaching holidays. One sign was the first sight of the summer steamer going across the bay; another was May eve, when these island-fellows light big gorse fires all over the mountains, and throw yellow marsh-lilies at their doors to keep off the fairies. Do you remember, Eddy, gathering some last May eve, and sitting out in the playground till sunset, watching the fires begin to twinkle on Cronck-Irey and Barrule for miles away? What a jolly talk we had that evening about the holidays; but my father and mother were here then, you know, and we were all going to Fairholm. But the third sign--the first primrose and violet--was always the happiest. You can't think how I grabbed at the first primrose this year; I found it by a cave on the Ness. And though these are rather the last than the first, yet I knew you'd like them, Eddy, so I hunted for them everywhere. And how much better you're looking too; such shining eyes, and, yes! I positively declare, quite a ruddy cheek like your old one. You'll soon be out among us again, that's clear----"

He stopped abruptly: he had been rattling on just in the merry way that Russell now most loved to hear, but, as he was talking, he caught the touch of sadness on Russell's face, and saw his long, abstracted, eager look at the flowers.

"Dear fellow, you're not worse, are you?" he said quickly. "What a fool I am to chatter so; it makes you ill."

"No, no, Eric, talk on; you can't think how I love to hear you. Oh, how very beautiful these primroses are! Thank you, thank you, for bringing them." And he again fixed on them the eager dreamy look which had startled Eric--as though he were learning their color and shape by heart.

"I wish I hadn't brought them, though," said Eric, "they are filling your mind with regrets. But, Eddy, you'll be well by the holidays--a month hence, you know--or else I shouldn't have talked so gladly about them."

"No, Eric," said Russell sadly, "these dear flowers are the last spring blossoms that I shall see--here at least. Yes, I will keep them, for your sake, Eric, till I die."

"Oh don't talk so," said Eric, shocked and flustered, "why everybody knows and says that you're getting better."

Russell smiled and shook his head. "No, Eric, I shall die. There stop, dear fellow, don't cry," said he, raising his hands quietly to Eric's face; "isn't it better for me so? I own it seemed sad at first to leave this bright world and the sea--yes, even that cruel sea," he continued smiling; "and to leave Roslyn, and Upton, and Monty, and, above all, to leave you, Eric, whom I love best in all the world. Yes, remember I've no home, Eric, and no prospects. There was nothing to be sorry for in this, so long as God gave me health and strength; but health went for ever into those waves at the Stack, where you saved my life, dear, gallant Eric; and what could I do now? It doesn't look so happy to halt through life. Oh Eric, Eric, I am young, but I am dying--dying, Eric," he said solemnly, "my brother; let me call you brother; I have no near relations, you know, to fill up the love in my yearning heart, but I do love you. Kiss me, Eric, as though I were a child, and you a child. There, that comforts me; I feel as if I were a child again, and had a dear brother;--and I shall be a child again soon, Eric, in the courts of a Father's house."

Eric could not speak. These words startled him; he never dreamt recently of Russell's death, but had begun to reckon on his recovery, and now life seemed darker to him than ever.

But Russell was pressing the flowers to his lips. "The grass withereth," he murmured, "the flower fadeth, and the glory of its beauty perisheth; but--but the word of the Lord endureth for ever." And here he too burst into natural tears, and Eric pressed his hand, with more than a brother's fondness, to his heart.

"Oh Eddy, Eddy, my heart is full," he said, "too full to speak to you. Let me read to you;" and with Russell's arm round his neck he sat down, beside his pillow, and read to him about "the pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb." At first sobs choked his voice, but it gathered firmness as he went on.

"In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.

"And there shall be no more curse"--and here the reader's musical voice rose into deeper and steadier sweetness--"but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads."

"And they shall see his face," murmured Russell, "and they shall see his face" Eric paused and looked at him; a sort of rapture seemed to be lighted in his eyes, as though they saw heavenly things, and his countenance was like an angel's to look upon. Eric closed the book reverently, and gazed.

"And now pray for me, Eric, will you?" Eric knelt down, but no prayer would come; his breast swelled; and his heart beat fast, but emotion prevented him from uttering a word. But Russell laid his hand on his head and prayed.

"O gracious Lord God, look down, merciful Father on us, two erring, weak, sinful boys; look down and bless us, Lord, for the love thou bearest unto thy children. One thou art taking; Lord, take me to the green pastures of thy home, where no curse is; and one remains--O Lord! bless him with the dew of thy blessing; lead and guide him, and keep him for ever in thy fear and love, that he may continue thine for ever, and hereafter we may meet together among the redeemed, in the immortal glory of the resurrection. Hear us, O Father, for thy dear Son's sake. Amen! Amen!"

The childlike, holy, reverent voice ceased, and Eric rose. One long brotherly kiss he printed on Russell's forehead, and, full of sorrowful forebodings, bade him good night.

He asked Dr. Underhay whether his fears were correct. "Yes," he said, "he may die at any time; he must die soon. It is even best that he should; besides the loss of a limb, that blow on the head would certainly affect the brain and the intellect if he lived."

Eric shuddered--a long cold shudder.

The holidays drew on; for Russell's sake, and at his earnest wish, Eric had worked harder than he ever did before. All his brilliant abilities, all his boyish ambition, were called into exercise; and, to the delight of every one, he gained ground rapidly, and seemed likely once more to dispute the palm with Owen. No one rejoiced more in this than Mr. Rose, and he often gladdened Russell's heart by telling him about it; for every day he had a long visit to the sick boy's room, which refreshed and comforted them both.

In other respects, too, Eric seemed to be turning over a new leaf. He and Upton, by common consent, had laid aside smoking, and every bad habit or disobedient custom which would have grieved the dying boy, whom they both loved so well. And although Eric's popularity, after the romantic Stack adventure and his chivalrous daring, was at its very zenith,--although he had received a medal and flattering letter from the Humane Society, who had been informed of the transaction by Dr. Rowlands,--although his success both physical and intellectual was higher than ever,--yet the dread of the great loss he was doomed to suffer, and the friendship which was to be snapped, overpowered every other feeling, and his heart was ennobled and purified by contact with his suffering friend.

It was a June evening, and he and Russell were alone; he had drawn up the blind, and through the open window the summer breeze, pure from the sea and fragrant from the garden, was blowing refreshfully into the sick boy's room. Russell was very, very happy. No doubt, no fear, assailed him; all was peace and trustfulness. Long and earnestly that evening did he talk to Eric, and implore him to shun evil ways, striving to lead him gently to that love of God which was his only support and refuge now. Tearfully and humbly Eric listened, and every now and then the sufferer stopped to pray aloud.

"Good night, Eric," he said, "I am tired, so tired. I hope we shall meet again; I shall give you my desk and all my books, Eric, except a few for Horace, Owen, Duncan, and Monty. And my watch, that dear watch your mother, my mother, gave me, I shall leave to Rose as a remembrance of us both. Good night, brother."

A little before ten that night Eric was again summoned with Upton and Montagu to Russell's bedside. He was sinking fast; and as he had but a short time to live, he expressed a desire to see them, though he could see no others.

They came, and were amazed to see how bright the dying boy looked. They received his last farewells--he would die that night. Sweetly he blessed them, and made them promise to avoid all evil, and read the Bible, and pray to God. But he had only strength to speak at intervals. Mr. Rose, too, was there; it seemed as though he held the boy by the hand, as fearlessly now, yea, joyously, he entered the waters of the dark river.

"Oh, I should so like to stay with you, Monty, Horace, dear, dear Eric, but God calls me. I am going--a long way--to my father and mother--and to the light. I shall not be a cripple there--nor be in pain." His words grew slow and difficult. "God bless you, dear fellows; God bless you, dear Eric; I am going--to God."

He sighed very gently; there was a slight sound in his throat, and he was dead. A terrible scene of boyish anguish followed, as they kissed again and again the lifeless brow. But quietly, calmly, Mr. Rose checked them, and they knelt down with streaming eyes while he prayed.

CHAPTER XV

HOME AGAIN

"O far beyond the waters
The fickle feet may roam,
But they find no light so pure and bright
As the one fair star of home;
The star of tender hearts, lady,
That glows in an English home,"
F.W.F.

That night when Eric returned to No. 7, full of grief, and weighed down with the sense of desolation and mystery, the other boys were silent from sympathy in his sorrow. Duncan and Llewellyn both knew and loved Russell themselves, and they were awestruck to hear of his death; they asked some of the particulars, but Eric was not calm enough to tell them that evening. The one sense of infinite loss agitated him, and he indulged his paroxysms of emotion unrestrained, yet silently. Reader, if ever the life has been cut short which you most dearly loved, if ever you have been made to feel absolutely lonely in the world, then, and then only, will you appreciate the depth of his affliction.

But, like all affliction, it purified and sanctified. To Eric, as he rested his aching head on a pillow wet with tears, and vainly sought for the sleep whose blessing he had never learned to prize before, how odious seemed all the vice which he had seen and partaken in since he became an inmate of that little room. How his soul revolted with infinite disgust from the language which he had heard, and the open glorying in sin of which he had so often been a witness. The stain and the shame of sin fell heavier than ever on his heart; it rode on his breast like a nightmare; it haunted his fancy with visions of guilty memory, and shapes of horrible regret. The ghosts of buried misdoings, which he had thought long lost in the mists of recollection, started up menacingly from their forgotten graves, and made him shrink with a sense of their awful reality. Behind him, like a wilderness, lay years which the locust had eaten; the intrusted hours which had passed away, and been reckoned to him as they past.

And the thought of Russell mingled with all--Russell, as he fondly imagined him now, glorified with the glory of heaven, crowned, and in white robes, and with a palm in his hand. Yes, he had walked and talked with one of the Holy Ones. Had Edwin's death, quenched his human affections, and altered his human heart? If not, might not he be there even now, leaning over his friend with the beauty of his invisible presence? The thought startled him, and seemed to give an awful lustre to the moonbeam which fell into the room. No; he could not endure such a presence now, with his weak conscience and corrupted heart; and Eric hid his head under the clothes, and shut his eyes.

Once more the pang of separation entered like iron into his soul. Should he ever meet Russell again? What if he had died instead of Edwin, where would he have been? "Oh, no! no!" he murmured aloud, as the terrible thought came over him of his own utter unfitness for death, and the possibility that he might never, never again hear the beloved accents, or gaze on the cherished countenance of his school friend.

In this tumult of accusing thoughts he fell asleep; but that night the dew of blessing did not fall for him on the fields of sleep. He was frightened by unbidden dreams, in all of which his conscience obtruded on him his sinfulness, and his affection called up the haunting lineaments of the dear dead face. He was wandering down a path, at the end of which Russell stood with open arms inviting him earnestly to join him there; he saw his bright ingenuous smile, and heard, as of old, his joyous words, and he hastened to meet him; when suddenly the boy-figure disappeared, and in its place he saw the stern brow, and gleaming garments, and drawn flaming sword of the Avenger. And then he was in a great wood alone, and wandering, when the well-known voice called his name, and entreated him to turn from that evil place; and he longed to turn,--but, whenever he tried, ghostly hands seemed to wave him back again, and irresistible cords to drag him into the dark forest, amid the sound of mocking laughs. Then he was sinking, sinking, sinking into a gulf, deep and darker even than the inner darkness of a sin-desolated heart; sinking, helplessly, hopelessly, everlastingly; while far away, like a star, stood the loved figure in light infinitely above him, and with pleading hands implored his deliverance, but could not prevail; and Eric was still sinking, sinking, infinitely, when the agony awoke him with a violent start and stifled scream.

He could sleep no longer. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the pale, dead, holy features of Edwin, and at last he fancied that he was praying beside his corpse, praying to be more like him, who lay there so white and calm; sorrowing beside it, sorrowing that he had so often rejected his kind warnings, and pained his affectionate heart. So Eric began again to make good resolutions about all his future life. Ah! how often he had done so before, and how often they had failed. He had not yet learned the lesson which David learned by sad experience; "Then I said, it is mine own infirmity, but I will remember the years of the right hand of the Most High."

That, too, was an eventful night for Montagu. He had grown of late far more thoughtful than before; under Edwin's influence he had been laying aside, one by one, the careless sins of school life, and his tone was nobler and manlier than it had ever been. Montagu had never known or heard much about godliness; his father, a gentleman, a scholar, and a man of the world, had trained him in the principles of refinement and good taste, and given him a high standard of conventional honor; but he passed through life lightly, and had taught his son to do the same. Possessed of an ample fortune, which Montagu was to inherit, he troubled himself with none of the deep mysteries of life, and

"Pampered the coward heart
With feelings all too delicate for use;
Nursing in some delicious solitude
His dainty love and slothful sympathies."

But Montagu in Edwin's sick-room and by his death bed; in the terrible storm at the Stack, and by contact with Dr. Rowlands' earnestness, and Mr. Rose's deep, unaffected, sorrow-mingled piety; by witnessing Eric's failures and recoveries; and by beginning to take in his course the same heartfelt interest which Edwin taught him--Montagu, in consequence of these things, had begun to see another side of life, which awoke all his dormant affections and profoundest reasonings. It seemed as though, for the first time, he began to catch some of

"The still gad music of humanity,"

and to listen with deep eagerness to the strain. Hitherto, to be well dressed, handsome, agreeable, rich, and popular, had been to him a realised ideal of life; but now he awoke to higher and worthier aims; and once, when Russell, whose intelligent interest in his work exceeded that of any other boy, had pointed out to him that solemn question of Euripides--

"[Greek: Ohiei su tous thanontas o Nichaezate
Tzuphaes hapasaes metalabontas en bips
Pepheugenai to theion];"

he fell into a train of reflection, which made a lasting impression upon his character.

The holidays were approaching. Eric, to escape as much, as possible from his sorrow, plunged into the excitement of working for the examination, and rapidly made up for lost ground. He now spent most of his time with the best of his friends, particularly Montagu, Owen, and Upton; for Upton, like himself, had been much sobered by sorrow at their loss. This time he came out second in his form, and gained more than one prize. This was his first glimpse of real delight since Russell's death; and when the prize-day came, and he stood with his companions in the flower-decorated room, and went up amid universal applause to take his prize-books, and receive a few words of compliment from the governor who took the chair, he felt almost happy, and keenly entered into the pleasure which his success caused, as well as into the honors won by his friends. One outward sign only remained of his late bereavement--his mourning dress. All the prize-boys wore rosebuds or lilies of the valley in their button-holes on the occasion, but on this day Eric would not wear them. Little Wright, who was a great friend of theirs, had brought some as a present both to Eric and Montagu, as they stood together on the prize-day morning; they took them with thanks, and, as their eyes met, they understood each other's thoughts.

"No," said Eric to Wright, "we won't wear these to-day, although we have both got prizes. Come along I know what we will do with them."

They all three walked together to the little green, quiet churchyard, where, by his own request, Edwin had been buried. Many a silent visit had the friends paid to that grave, on which the turf was now green again, and the daisies had begun to bloom. A stone had just been placed to mark the spot, and they read--

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
AN ORPHAN,
WHO DIED AT ROSLYN SCHOOL, MAY 1847,
AGED FIFTEEN YEARS.
———
"Is it well with the child? It is well."
2 KINGS iv. 26.

The three boys stood by the grave in silence and sorrow for a time.

"He would have been the gladdest at our success. Monty," said Eric; "let us leave the signs of it upon his grave."

And, with reverent hand, scattering over that small mound the choice rosebuds and fragrant lilies with their green leaves, they turned away without another word.

The next morning the great piles of corded boxes which crowded the passage were put on the coach, and the boys, gladly leaving the deserted building, drove in every sort of vehicle to the steamer. What joyous triumphant mornings those were! How the heart exulted and bounded with, the sense of life and pleasure, and how universal was the gladness and good humor of every one. Never were voyages so merry as those of the steamer that day, and even the "good-byes" that had to be said at Southpool were lightly borne. From thence the boys quickly scattered to the different railways, and the numbers of those who were travelling together got thinner and thinner as the distance increased. Wright and one or two others went nearly all the way with Eric, and when he got down at the little roadside station, from whence started the branch rail to Ayrton, he bade them merry and affectionate farewell. The branch train soon started, and in another hour he would be at Fairholm.

It was not till then that his home feelings woke in all their intensity. He had not been there for a year. At Roslyn the summer holidays were nine weeks, and the holidays at Christmas and Easter were short, so that it had not been worth while to travel so far as Fairholm, and Eric had spent his Christmas with friends in another part of the island. But now he was once more to see dear Fairholm, and his aunt, his cousin Fanny, and above all, his little brother. His heart was beating fast with joy, and his eyes sparkling with pleasure and excitement. As he thrust his head out of the window, each well-remembered landmark gave him the delicious sensation of meeting again an old friend. "Ah! there's the white bridge, and there's the canal, and the stile; and there runs the river, and there's Velvet Lawn. Hurrah! here we are." And springing out of the train before it had well stopped, he had shaken hands heartily with the old coachman, who was expecting him, and jumped up into the carriage in a moment.

Through the lanes he knew so well, by whose hedgerows he had so often plucked sorrel and wild roses; past the old church with its sleeping churchyard; through, the quiet village, where every ten yards he met old acquaintances who looked pleased to see him, and whom he greeted with glad smiles and nods of recognition; past the Latin school, from which came murmurs and voices as of yore (what a man he felt himself now by comparison!);--by the old Roman camp, where he had imagined such heroic things when he was a child; through all the scenes so rich with the memories and associations of his happy childhood, they flew along; and now they had entered the avenue, and Eric was painfully on the look-out.

Yes! there they were all three--Mrs. Trevor, and Fanny, and Vernon, on the mound at the end of the avenue; and the younger ones ran to meet him. It was a joyous meeting; he gave Fanny a hearty kiss, and put his arm round Vernon's neck, and then held him in front to have a look at him.

"How tall you've grown, Verny, and how well you look," he said, gazing proudly at him; and indeed the boy was a brother to be justly proud of. And Vernon quite returned the admiration as he saw the healthy glow of Eric's features, and the strong graceful development of his limbs.

And so they quickly joined Mrs. Trevor, who embraced her nephew with a mother's love: and, amid all that nameless questioning of delightful trifles, that "blossoming vein" of household talk, which gives such an incommunicable charm to the revisiting of home, they all three turned into the house, where Eric, hungry with his travels, did ample justice to the "jolly spread" prepared for him, luxurious beyond anything he had seen for his last year at school. When he and Vernon went up to their room at night--the same little room in which they slept on the night when they first had met--they marked their heights on the door again, which showed Eric that in the last year he had grown two inches, a fact which he pointed out to Vernon with no little exultation. And then they went to bed, and to a sleep over which brooded the indefinite sensation of a great unknown joy;--that rare heavenly sleep which only comes once or twice or thrice in life, on occasions such as this.

He was up early next morning, and, opening his window, leaned out with his hands among the green vine-leaves which encircled it. The garden looked beautiful as ever, and he promised himself an early enjoyment of those currants which hung in ruby clusters over the walls. Everything was bathed in the dewy balm of summer morning, and he felt very happy as, with his little spaniel frisking round him, he visited the great Newfoundland in his kennel, and his old pet the pony in the stable. He had barely finished his rounds when breakfast was ready, and he once more met the home-circle from which he had been separated for a year. And yet over all his happiness hung a sense of change and half melancholy; they were not changed but he was changed. Mrs. Trevor, and Fanny, and Vernon were the same as ever, but over him, had come an alteration of feeling and circumstance; an unknown or half-known something which cast a shadow between them and him, and sometimes made him half shrink and start as he met their loving looks. Can no schoolboy, who reads history, understand and explain the feeling which I mean?

By that mail he wrote to his father and mother an account of Russell's death, and he felt that they would guess why the letter was so blurred. "But," he wrote, "I have some friends still; especially Mr. Rose among the masters, and Monty and Upton among the boys. Monty you know; he is more like Edwin than any other boy, and I like him very much. You didn't know Upton, but I am a great deal with him, though he is much older than I am. He is a fine handsome fellow, and one of the most popular in the school. I hope you will know him some day."

The very next morning Eric received a letter which he at once recognised to be in Upton's handwriting He eagerly tore off the envelope, and read--