It was cold and very dark, and as on the March morning they stood out in the playground, all four would rather have been safe and harmlessly in bed. But the novelty and the excitement of the enterprise bore them up, and they started off quickly for the house at which Mr. Gordon and his pupils lived, which was about half a mile from the school. They went arm in arm to assure each other a little, for at first in their fright they were inclined to take every post and tree for a man in ambush, and to hear a recalling voice in every sound of wind and wave.

Not far from Mr. Gordon's was a carpenter's shop, and outside of this there was generally a ladder standing. They had arranged to carry this ladder with them (as it was only a short one), climb the low garden wall with it, and then place it against the house, immediately under the dovecot which hung by the first story-windows. Wildney, as the lightest of the four, was to take the birds, while the others held the ladder.

Slanting it so that it should be as far from the side of the window as possible, Wildney ascended and thrust both hands into the cot. He succeeded in seizing a pigeon with each hand, but in doing so threw the other birds into a state of such alarm that they fluttered about in the wildest manner, and the moment his hands were withdrawn, flew out with a great flapping of hurried wings.

The noise they made alarmed the plunderer, and he hurried down the ladder as fast as he could. He handed the pigeons to the others, who instantly wrung their necks.

"I'm nearly sure I heard somebody stir," said Wildney; "we haven't been half quiet enough. Here! let's crouch down in this corner."

All four shrank up as close to the wall as they could, and held their breath. Some one was certainly stirring, and at last they heard the window open. A head was thrust out, and Mr. Gordon's voice asked sternly—"Who's there?"

He seemed at once to have caught sight of the ladder, and made an endeavor to reach it; but though he stretched out his arm at full length, he could not do so.

"We must cut for it," said Eric; "it's quite too dark for him to see us, or even to notice that we are boys."

They moved the ladder to the wall, and sprang over, one after the other, as fast as they could. Eric was last, and just as he got to the top of the wall he heard the back door open, and some one run out into the yard.

"Run for your lives," said Eric hurriedly; "it's Gordon, and he's raising the alarm."

They heard footsteps following them, and an occasional shout of "thieves! thieves!"

"We must separate and run different ways, or we've no chance of escape. We'd better turn towards the town to put them off the right scent," said Eric again.

"Don't leave me," pleaded Wildney; "you know I can't run very fast."

"No, Charlie, I won't;" and grasping his hand, Eric hurried him over the style and through the fields, while Pietrie and Graham took the opposite direction.

Some one (they did not know who it was, but suspected it to be Mr. Gordon's servant-man) was running after them, and they could distinctly hear his footsteps, which seemed to be half a field distant. He carried a light, and they heard him panting. They were themselves tired, and in the utmost trepidation; the usually courageous Wildney was trembling all over, and his fear communicated itself to Eric. Horrible visions of a trial for burglary, imprisonment in the castle jail, and perhaps transportation, presented themselves to their excited imaginations, as the sound of the footsteps came nearer.

"I can't run any further, Eric," said Wildney. "What shall we do? don't leave me, for heaven's sake."

"Not I, Charlie. We must hide the minute we get t'other side of this hedge."

They scrambled over the gate, and plunged into the thickest part of a plantation close by, lying down on the ground behind some bushes, and keeping as still as they could, taking care to cover over their white collars.

The pursuer reached the gate, and no longer hearing footsteps in front of him, he paused. He went a little distance up the hedge on both sides and held up his light, but did not detect the cowering boys, and at last giving up the search in despair, went slowly home. They heard him plodding back over the field, and it was not until the sound of his footsteps had died away, that Eric cautiously broke cover, and looked over the hedge. He saw the man's light gradually getting more distant, and said, "All right now, Charlie. We must make the best of our way home."

"Are you sure he's gone?" said Wildney, who had not yet recovered from his fright.

"Quite; come along. I only hope Pietrie and Graham ain't caught."

They got back about half-past four, and climbed in unheard and undetected through the window pane. They then stole up stairs with beating hearts, and sat in Eric's room to wait for the other two. To their great relief they heard them enter the lavatory about ten minutes after.

"Were you twigged?" asked Wildney eagerly.

"No," said Graham; "precious near it though. Old Gordon and some men were after us, but at last we doubled rather neatly, and escaped them. It's all serene, and we shan't be caught."

"Well, we'd best to bed now," said Eric; "and, to my thinking, we should be wise to keep a quiet tongue in our heads about this affair."

"Yes, we had better tell no one." They agreed, and went off to bed again. So, next morning, they all four got up quite as if nothing had happened, and made no allusion to the preceding night, although, they could not help chuckling inwardly a little when the Gordonites came to morning school, brimful of a story about their house having been attacked in the night by thieves, who, after bagging some pigeons, had been chevied by Gordon and the servants. Wildney professed immense interest in the incident, and asked many questions, which showed that there was not a shadow of suspicion in any one's mind as to the real culprits.

Carter, the school servant, didn't seem to have noticed that the lavatory door was unlocked, and Mr. Harley never alluded again to his disturbance in the night. So the theft of the pigeons remained undiscovered, and remains so till this day. If any old Roslyn boy reads this veracious history, he will doubtless be astounded to hear that the burglars on that memorable night were Brio, Pietrie, Graham, and Wildney.



CHAPTER VIII

SOWING THE WIND

"Praepediuntur Crura vacillanti, tardescit lingua, madet mens, Nant oculi."

LUCR. iii. 417.

Next evening, when preparation began, Pietrie and Graham got everything ready for a carouse in their class-room. Wildney, relying on the chance of names not being called over (which, was only done in case any one's absence was observed), had absented himself altogether from the boarders' room, and helped busily to spread the table for the banquet. The cook had roasted for them the fowls and pigeons, and Billy had brought an ample supply of beer and some brandy for the occasion. A little before eight o'clock everything was ready, and Eric, Attlay, and Llewellyn were summoned to join the rest.

The fowls, pigeons, and beer had soon vanished, and the boys were in the highest spirits. Eric's reckless gaiety was kindled by Wildney's frolicsome vivacity, and Graham's sparkling wit; they were all six in a roar of perpetual laughter at some fresh sally of fun elicited by the more phlegmatic natures of Attlay or Llewellyn, and the dainties of Wildney's parcel were accompanied by draughts of brandy and water, which were sometimes exchanged for potations of the raw liquor. It was not the first time, be it remembered, that the members of that young party had been present at similar scenes, and even the scoundrel Billy was astonished, and alarmed occasionally at the quantities of spirits and other inebriating drinks that of late had found their way to the studies. The disgraceful and deadly habit of tippling had already told physically on both Eric and Wildney. The former felt painfully that he was losing his clear-headedness, and that his intellectual tastes were getting not only blunted but destroyed; and while he perceived in himself the terrible effects of his sinful indulgence, he saw them still more indisputably in the gradual coarseness which seemed to be spreading, like a grey lichen, over the countenance, the mind, and the manners of his younger companion. Sometimes the vision of a Nemesis breaking in fire out of his darkened future, terrified his guilty conscience in the watches of the night; and the conviction of some fearful Erynnis, some discovery dawning out of the night of his undetected sins, made his heart beat fast with agony and fear. But he fancied it too late to repent. He strangled the half-formed resolutions as they rose, and trusted to the time when, by leaving school, he should escape, as he idly supposed, the temptations to which he had yielded. Meanwhile, the friends who would have rescued him had been alienated by his follies, and the principles which might have preserved him had been eradicated by his guilt. He had long flung away the shield of prayer, and the helmet of holiness, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God; and now, unarmed and helpless, Eric stood alone, a mark for the fiery arrows of his enemies, while, through the weakened inlet of every corrupted sense, temptation rushed in upon him perpetually and unawares.

As the class-room they had selected was in a remote part of the building, there was little immediate chance of detection. So the laughter of the party grew louder and sillier; the talk more foolish and random; the merriment more noisy and meaningless. But still most of them mingled some sense of caution with their enjoyment, and warned Eric and Wildney more than once that they must look out, and not take too much that night for fear of being caught. But it was Wildney's birth-day, and Eric's boyish mirth, suppressed by his recent troubles, was blazing out unrestrained. In the riot of their feasting, the caution had been utterly neglected, and the boys were far from being sober when the sound of the prayer-bell ringing through the great hall, startled them into momentary consciousness.

"Good heavens!" shouted Graham, springing up; "there's the prayer-bell; I'd no notion it was so late. Here, let's shove these brandy bottles and things into the cupboards and drawers, and then we must run down."

There was no time to lose. The least muddled of the party had cleared the room in a moment, and then addressed themselves to the more difficult task of trying to quiet Eric and Wildney, and conduct them steadily into the prayer-room.

Wildney's seat was near the door, so there was little difficulty in getting him to his place comparatively unobserved. Llewellyn took him by the arm, and after a little stumbling, helped him safely to his seat, where he assumed a look of preternatural gravity. But Eric sat near the head of the first table, not far from Dr. Rowlands' desk, and none of the others had to go to that part of the room. Graham grasped his arm tight, led him carefully down stairs, and, as they were reaching the door, said to him, in a most earnest and imploring tone—"Do try and walk sensibly to your place, Eric, or we shall all be caught."

It was rather late when they got down. Everybody was quietly seated, and most of the Bibles were already open, although the Doctor had not yet come in. Consequently, the room was still, and the entrance of Graham and Eric after the rest attracted general notice. Eric had just sense enough to try and assume his ordinary manner; but he was too giddy with the fumes of drink to walk straight, or act naturally.

Vernon was sitting next to Wright, and stared at his brother with great eyes and open lips. He was not the only observer.

"Wright," whispered he, in a timid voice; "just see how Eric walks. What can be the matter with him? Good gracious, he must be ill!" he said, starting up, as Eric suddenly made a great stagger to one side, and nearly fell in the attempt to recover himself.

Wright pulled the little boy down with a firm hand.

"Hush!" he whispered; "take no notice; he's been drinking, Verny, and I fear he'll be caught."

Vernon instantly sat down, and turned deadly pale. He thought, and he had hoped, that since the day at the "Jolly Herring," his brother had abandoned all such practices, for Eric had been most careful to conceal from him the worst of his failings. And now he trembled violently with fear for his discovery, and horror at his disgraceful condition.

The sound of Eric's unsteady footsteps had made Mr. Rose quickly raise his head; but at the same moment Duncan hastily made room for the boy on the seat beside him, and held out his hand to assist him. It was not Eric's proper place; but Mr. Rose, after one long look of astonishment, looked down at his book again, and said nothing.

It made other hearts besides Vernon's ache to see the unhappy boy roll to his place in that helpless way.

Dr. Rowlands came in, and prayers commenced. When they were finished, the names were called, and Eric, instead of quietly answering his "adsum," as he should have done, stood up, with a foolish look, and said, "Yes, Sir." The head master looked at him for a minute; the boy's glassy eyes, and jocosely stupid appearance, told an unmistakable tale; but Dr. Rowlands only remarked, "Williams, you don't look well. You had better go at once to bed."

It was hopeless for Eric to attempt getting along without help, so Duncan at once got up, took him by the arm, and with much difficulty (for Eric staggered at every step) conducted him to his bed-room.

Wildney's condition was also too evident; and Mr. Rose, while walking up and down the dormitories, had no doubt left on his mind that both Eric and Wildney had been drinking. But he made no remarks to them, and merely went to the Doctor to talk over the steps which were to be taken.

"I shall summon the school," said Dr. Rowlands, "on Monday, and by that time we will decide on the punishment. Expulsion, I fear, is the only course open to us."

"Is not that a very severe line to take?"

"Perhaps; but the offence is of the worst character I must consider the matter."

"Poor Williams!" sighed Mr. Rose, as he left the room.

The whole of the miserable Sunday that followed was spent by Eric and his companions in vain inquiries and futile restlessness. It seemed clear that two of them at least were detected, and they were inexpressibly wretched with anxiety and suspense. Wildney, who had to stay in bed, was even more depressed; his head ached violently, and he was alone with his own terrified thoughts. He longed for the morrow, that at least he might have the poor consolation of knowing his fate. No one came near him all day. Eric wished to do so, but as he could not have visited the room without express leave, the rest dissuaded him from asking, lest he should excite further suspicion. His apparent neglect made poor Wildney even more unhappy, for Wildney loved Eric as much as it was possible for his volatile mind to love any one; and it seemed hard to be deserted in the moment of disgrace and sorrow by so close a friend.

At school the next morning the various masters read out to their forms a notice from Dr. Rowlands, that the whole school were to meet at ten in the great schoolroom. The object of the summons was pretty clearly understood; and few boys had any doubt that it had reference to the drinking on Saturday night. Still nothing had been said on the subject as yet; and every guilty heart among those 250 boys beat fast lest his sin too should have been discovered, and he should be called out for some public and heavy punishment.

The hour arrived. The boys thronging into the great school-room, took their places according to their respective forms. The masters in their caps and gowns were all seated on a small semicircular bench at the upper end of the room, and in the centre of them, before a small table, sate Dr. Rowlands.

The sound of whispering voices sank to a dead and painful hush. The blood was tingling consciously in many cheeks, and not even a breath could be heard in the deep expectation of that anxious and solemn moment.

Dr. Rowlands spread before him the list of the school, and said, "I shall first read out the names of the boys in the first-fifth, and upper-fourth forms."

This was done to ascertain formally whether the boys were present on whose account the meeting was convened; and it at once told Eric and Wildney that they were the boys to be punished, and that the others had escaped.

The names were called over, and an attentive observer might have told, from the sound of the boys' voices as they answered, which of them were afflicted with a troubled conscience.

Another slight pause, and breathless hush.

"Eric Williams and Charles Wildney, stand forward."

The boys obeyed. From his place in the fifth, where he was sitting with his head propped on his hand, Eric rose and advanced; and Wildney, from the other end of the room, where the younger boys sat, getting up, came and stood by his side.

Both of them fixed their eyes on the ground, whence they never once raised them; and in the deadly pallor of their haggard faces, you could scarcely have recognized the joyous high-spirited friends, whose laugh and shout had often rung so merrily through the play-ground, and woke the echoes of the rocks along the shore. Every eye was on them, and they were conscious of it, though they could not see it—painfully conscious of it, so that they wished the very ground to yawn beneath their feet for the moment, and swallow up their shame. Companionship in disgrace increased the suffering; had either of them been alone, he would have been less acutely sensible to the trying nature of his position; but that they, so different in their ages and position in the school, should thus have their friendship and the results of it blazoned, or rather branded, before their friends and enemies added keenly to the misery they felt. So, with eyes bent on the floor, Eric and Charlie awaited their sentence.

"Williams and Wildney," said Dr. Rowlands in a solemn voice, of which every articulation thrilled to the heart of every hearer, "you have been detected in a sin most disgraceful and most dangerous. On Saturday night you were both drinking, and you were guilty of such gross excess, that you were neither of you in a fit state to appear among your companions—least of all to appear among them at the hour of prayer. I shall not waste many words on an occasion like this; only I trust that those of your schoolfellows who saw you staggering and rolling into the room on Saturday evening in a manner so unspeakably shameful and degrading, will learn from that melancholy sight the lesson which the Spartans taught their children by exhibiting a drunkard before them—the lesson of the brutalising and fearful character of this most ruinous vice. Eric Williams and Charles Wildney, your punishment will be public expulsion, for which you will prepare this very evening. I am unwilling that for a single day either of you—especially the elder of you—should linger, so as possibly to contaminate others with the danger of so pernicious an example."

Such a sentence was wholly unexpected; it took boys and masters equally by surprise. The announcement of it caused an uneasy sensation, which was evident to all present, though no one spoke a word; but Dr. Rowlands took no notice of it, and only said to the culprits—

"You may return to your seats."

The two boys found their way back instinctively, they hardly knew how. They seemed confounded and thunderstruck by their sentence, and the painful accessories of its publicity. Eric leaned over the desk with his head resting on a book, too stunned even to think; and Wildney looked straight before him with his eyes fixed in a stupid and unobserved stare.

Form by form the school dispersed, and the moment he was liberated Eric sprang away from the boys, who would have spoken to him, and rushed wildly to his study, where he locked the door. In a moment, however, he re-opened it, for he heard Wildney's step, and, after admitting him, locked it once more.

Without a word Wildney, who looked very pale, flung his arms round Eric's neck, and, unable to bear up any longer, burst into a flood of tears. Both of them felt relief in giving the reins to their sorrow.

"O my father! my father!" sobbed Wildney at length. "What will he say? He will disown me, I know; he is so stern always with me when he thinks I bring disgrace on him."

Eric thought of Fairholm, and of his own far-distant parents, and of the pang which his disgrace would cause their loving hearts; but he could say nothing, and only stroked Wildney's dark hair again and again with a soothing hand.

They sat there long, hardly knowing how the time passed; Eric could not help thinking how very, very different their relative positions might have been; how, while he might have been aiding and ennobling the young boy beside him, he had alternately led and followed him into wickedness and disgrace. His heart was full of misery and bitterness, and he felt almost indifferent to all the future, and weary of his life.

A loud knocking at the door disturbed them. It was Carter, the school servant.

"You must pack up to go this evening, young gentlemen."

"O no! no! no!" exclaimed Wildney; "cannot be sent away like this. It would break my father's heart. Eric, do come and entreat Dr. Rowlands to forgive us only this once."

"Yes," said Eric, starting up with sudden energy; "he shall forgive us—you at any rate. I will not leave him till he does. Cheer up, Charlie, cheer up, and come along."

Filled with an irresistible impulse, he pushed Carter aside, and sprang down stairs three steps at a time, with Wildney following him. They went straight for the Doctor's study, and without waiting for the answer to their knock at the door, Eric walked up to Dr. Rowlands, who sate thinking in his arm-chair by the fire, and burst out passionately, "O sir, forgive us this once."

The Doctor was completely taken by surprise, so sudden was the intrusion, and so intense was the boy's manner. He remained silent a moment from astonishment, and then said with asperity—

"Your offence is one of the most dangerous possible. There could be no more perilous example for the school, than the one you have been setting, Williams. Leave the room," he added, with an authoritative gesture, "my mind is made up."

But Eric was too excited to be overawed by the master's manner; an imperious passion blinded him to all ordinary considerations, and, heedless of the command, he broke out again—

"O sir, try me but once, only try me. I promise you most faithfully that I will never again commit the sin. O sir, do, do trust me, and I will be responsible for Wildney too."

Dr. Rowlands, seeing that in Eric's present mood he must and would be heard, unless he were ejected by actual force, began to pace silently up and down the room in perplexed and anxious thought; at last he stopped and turned over the pages of a thick school register, and found Eric's name.

"It is not your first offence, Williams, even of this very kind. That most seriously aggravates your fault."

"O sir! give us one more chance to mend. O, I feel that I could do such great things, if you will be but merciful, and give me time to change. O, I entreat you, sir, to forgive us only this once, and I will never ask again. Let us bear any other punishment but this. O sir," he said, approaching the doctor in an imploring attitude, "spare us this one time for the sake of our friends."

The head-master made no reply for a time, but again paced the room in silence. He was touched, and seemed hardly able to restrain his emotion.

"It was my deliberate conclusion to expel you, Williams. I must not weakly yield to entreaty. You must go."

Eric wrung his hands in agony. "O, sir, then, if you must do so, expel me only, and not Charlie, I can bear it, but do not let me ruin him also. O I implore you, sir, for the love of God do, do forgive him. It is I who have misled him;" and he flung himself on his knees, and lifted his hands entreatingly towards the Doctor.

Dr. Rowlands looked at him—at his blue eyes drowned with tears, his agitated gesture, his pale, expressive face, full of passionate supplication. He looked at Wildney, too, who stood trembling with a look of painful and miserable suspense, and occasionally added his wild word of entreaty, or uttered sobs more powerful still, that seemed to come from the depth of his heart. He was shaken in his resolve, wavered for a moment, and then once more looked at the register.

"Yes," he said, after a long pause, "here is an entry which shall save you this time. I find written here against your name, 'April 3. Risked his life in the endeavor to save Edwin Russell at the Stack.' That one good and noble deed shall be the proof that you are capable of better things. It may be weak perhaps—I know that it will be called weak—and I do not feel certain that I am doing right; but if I err it shall be on the side of mercy. I shall change expulsion into some other punishment. You may go."

Wildney's face lighted up as suddenly and joyously as when a ray of sun-light gleams for an instant out of a dark cloud.

"O thank you, thank you, sir," he exclaimed, drying his eyes, and pouring into the words a world of expression, which it was no light pleasure to have heard. But Eric spoke less impulsively, and while the two boys were stammering out their deep gratitude, a timid hand knocked at the door, and Vernon entered.

"I have come, sir, to speak for poor Eric," he said in a low voice, and trembling with emotion, as, with downcast eyes, he modestly approached towards Dr. Rowlands, not even observing the presence of the others in the complete absorption of his feelings. He stood in a sorrowful attitude, not venturing to look up, and his hand played nervously with the ribbon of his straw hat.

"I have just forgiven him, my little boy," said the Doctor kindly, patting his stooping head; "there he is, and he has been speaking for himself."

"O, Eric, I am so, so glad, I don't know what to say for joy. O Eric, thank God that you are not to be expelled;" and Vernon went to his brother, and embraced him with the deepest affection.

Dr. Rowlands watched the scene with moist eyes. He was generally a man of prompt decision, and he well knew that he would incur by this act the charge of vacillation. It was a noble self-denial in him to be willing to do so, but it would have required an iron heart to resist such earnest supplications, and he was more than repaid when he saw how much anguish he had removed by yielding to their entreaties.

Once more humbly expressing their gratitude, the boys retired.

They did not know that other influences had been also exerted in their favor, which, although ineffectual at the time, had tended to alter the Doctor's intention. Immediately after school Mr. Rose had been strongly endeavoring to change the Doctor's mind, and had dwelt forcibly on all the good points in Eric's character, and the promise of his earlier career. And Montagu had gone with Owen and Duncan to beg that the expulsion might be commuted into some other punishment. They had failed to convince him; but, perhaps, had they not thus exerted themselves, Dr. Rowlands might have been unshaken, though he could not be unmoved by Vernon's gentle intercession and Eric's passionate prayers.

Wildney, full of joy, and excited by the sudden revulsion of feeling, only shook Eric's hand with all his might, and then darted out into the playground to announce the happy news. The boys all flocked round him, and received the intelligence with unmitigated pleasure. Among them all there was not one who did not rejoice that Eric and Wildney were yet to continue of their number.

But the two brothers returned to the study, and there, sorrowful in his penitence, with his heart still aching with remorse, Eric sat down on a chair facing the window, and drew Vernon to his side. The sun was setting behind the purple hills, flooding the green fields and silver sea with the crimson of his parting rays. The air was fall of peace and coolness, and the merry sounds of the cricket field blended joyously with the whisper of the evening breeze. Eric was fond of beauty in every shape, and his father had early taught him a keen appreciation of the glories of nature. He had often gazed before on that splendid scene, as he was new gazing on it thoughtfully with his brother by his side. He looked long and wistfully at the gorgeous pageantry of quiet clouds, and passed his arm more fondly round Vernon's shoulder.

"What are you thinking of, Eric? Why, I declare you are crying still," said Vernon playfully, as he wiped a tear which had overflowed on his brother's cheek, "aren't you glad that the Doctor has forgiven you?"

"Gladder, far gladder than I can say, Verny. O Verny, Verny, I hope your school-life may be happier than mine has been. I would give up all I have, Verny, to have kept free from the sins I have learnt. God grant that I may yet have time and space to do better."

"Let us pray together, Eric," whispered his brother reverently, and they knelt down and prayed; they prayed for their distant parents and friends; they prayed for their schoolfellows and for each other, and for Wildney, and they thanked God for all his goodness to them; and then Eric poured out his heart in a fervent prayer that a holier and happier future might atone for his desecrated past, and that his sins might be forgiven for his Saviour's sake.

The brothers rose from their knees calmer and more light-hearted, and gave each other a solemn affectionate kiss, before they went down again to the play-ground. But they avoided the rest of the boys, and took a stroll together along the sands, talking quietly, and happily, and hoping bright hopes for future days.



CHAPTER IX

WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG

"Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair? A tress of maiden's hair, Of drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea?"—KINGSLEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By the bye, I forgot; I'm engaged to Wildney to-morrow."

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

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

"Do you mind my bringing Montagu?"

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

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

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

With Jim's assistance they shoved a boat into the water, and sprang into it in the highest spirits. Just as they were pushing off they saw Wright and Vernon running down to the shore towards them, and they waited to see what they wanted. "Couldn't you take us with you?" asked Vernon, breathless with his run.

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

"No, sir, not safely."

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

"Then Wright shall take mine," said Wildney.

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

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

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

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

"But we've got no towels."

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

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

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

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

"I bet you he's spouting

'Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll! Ten thousand fleets, etc.'"

said Graham laughing.

"What do you say to putting in to shore there?" said Duncan; "it's only two miles to Starhaven, and I dare say we could make shift to take them in for that distance. If Jim says anything we'll chuck him overboard."

They rowed towards Avon Glen, and to their surprise Wright, who stood there alone (for with a pocket telescope they clearly made out that it was Wright), still continued to wave his arms and beckon them in a manner which they at first thought ridiculous, but which soon make them feel rather uneasy. Jim took an oar, and they soon got within two hundred yards of the beach. Wright had ceased to make signals, but appeared to be shouting to them, and pointing towards one corner of the glen; but though they caught the sound of his voice they could not hear what he said.

"I wonder why Vernon isn't with him," said Eric anxiously; "I hope—why, what are you looking at, Charlie?"

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

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

"O do let me look," said Eric.

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

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

"O never mind; I'll get Wildney another. I really daren't let you look, for fear you should fancy the same as I did, for it must be fancy. O don't let us put in there—at least not all of us."

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

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

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

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

"I must bag that nest; it's pretty sure to have eggs in it," said Vernon, "and I can get at it easy enough." He immediately began to descend towards the place where the nest was built, but he found it harder than he expected.

"Hallo," he said, "this is a failure. I must climb up again to reconnoitre if there isn't a better dodge for getting at it." He reached the top, and, looking down, saw a plan of reaching the ledge which promised more hope of success.

"You'd better give it up, Verny," said Wright. "I'm sure it's harder than we fancied, I couldn't manage it, I know."

"O no, Wright, never say die. Look; if I get down more towards the right the way's plain enough, and I shall have reached the nest in no time." Again his descended in a different direction, but again he failed. The nest could only be seen from the top, and he had lost the right route.

"You must keep more to the right."

"I know," answered Vernon; "but, bother take it, I can't manage it, now I'm so far down. I must climb up again."

"Do give it up, Verny, there's a good fellow. You can't reach it, and really it's dangerous."

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

"Well, do take care, that's a dear fellow."

"Never fear," said Vernon, who was already commencing his third attempt. This time he got to the tree, and placed his foot on a part of the root, while with his hands he clung on to a clump of heather. "Hurrah!" he cried, "it's got two eggs in it, Wright;" and he stretched downwards to take them. Just as he was doing so, he heard the root on which his foot rested give a great crack, and with a violent start he made a spring for one of the lower branches. The motion caused his whole weight to rest for an instant on his arms;—unable to sustain the wrench, the heather gave way, and with a wild shriek he fell headlong down the surface of the cliff.

With, a wild shriek!—but silence followed it.

"Vernon! Vernon!" shouted the terrified Wright, creeping close up to the edge of the precipice. "O Vernon! for heaven's sake speak!"

There was no answer, and leaning over, Wright saw the young boy outstretched on the stones three hundred feet below. For some minutes he was horrorstruck beyond expression, and made wild attempts to descend the cuff and reach him. But he soon gave up the attempt in despair. There was a tradition in the school that the feat had once been accomplished by an adventurous and active boy, but Wright at any rate found it hopeless for himself. The only other way to reach the glen was by a circuitous route which led to the entrance of the narrow gorge, along the sides of which it was possible to make way with difficulty down the bank of the river to the place where it met the sea. But this would have taken him an hour and a half, and was far from easy when the river was swollen with high tide. Nor was there any house within some distance at which assistance could be procured, and Wright, in a tumult of conflicting emotions, determined to wait where he was, on the chance of seeing the boat as it returned from St. Catherine's Head. It was already three o'clock, and he knew that they could not now be longer than an hour at most; so with eager eyes he sat watching the headland, round which he knew they would first come in sight. He watched with wild eager eyes, absorbed in the one longing desire to catch sight of them; but the leaden-footed moments crawled on like hours, and he could not help shivering with agony and fear. At last he caught a glimpse of them, and springing up, began to shout at the top of his voice, and wave his handkerchief and his arms in the hope of attracting their attention. Little thought those blithe merry-hearted boys in the midst of the happy laughter which they sent ringing over the waters, little they thought how terrible a tragedy awaited them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They reached Starhaven, and got into the cart with the lifeless boy, and heard from Wright how the accident had taken place. Few boys were about the play-ground, so they got unnoticed to Roslyn, and Dr. Underhay, who had been summoned, was instantly in attendance. He looked at Vernon for a moment, and then shook his head in a way that could not be mistaken. Eric saw it, and flung himself with uncontrollable agony on his brother's corpse. "O Vernon, Vernon, my own dear brother! oh God, then he is dead." And, unable to endure the blow, he fainted away.

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



CHAPTER X

THE LAST TEMPTATION

[Greek: 'Ae d' Atae sthenazae te chai 'aztipos sunecha pasas Pollou 'upechpzotheei, phthaneei d' de te pasan ep' aiach Blaptous' anthxopous.] Hom Il. ix. 505.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eric, greatly discomfited, took the dirty bit of paper. It purported to be a bill for various items of drink, all of which Eric knew to have been paid for, and among other things, a charge of L6 for the dinner at the "Jolly Herring."

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

"That's now't to me, sir. He never paid me; and as you was the young gen'lman in the cheer, I comes to you."

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

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

"And mind it bean't more nor a week. I don't chuse to wait for my money no more," said Billy, impudently, as he retired with an undisguised chuckle, which very nearly made Eric kick him down stairs.

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

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

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

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

"O but, sir, I was just striving so hard to amend, and it seems cruel that I should receive at once so sad a check."

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

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

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

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

The money came, and walking off straight to the Jolly Herring, he dashed it down on the table before Billy, and imperiously bade him write a receipt. The man did so, but with so unmistakable an air of cunning and triumph that Eric was both astonished and dismayed. Could the miscreant have any further plot against him? At first he fancied that Billy might attempt to extort money by a threat of telling Dr. Rowlands; but this supposition he banished as unlikely since it might expose Billy himself to very unpleasant consequences. Eric snatched the receipt, and said contemptuously, "Never come near me again; next time you come up to the studies I'll tell Carter to turn you out."

"Ho, ho, ho!" sneered Billy. "How mighty we young gents are all of a sudden. Unless you buy of me sometimes, you shall hear of me again; never fear, young gen'lman." He shouted out the latter words, for Eric had turned scornfully on his heel, and was already in the street. Obviously more danger was to be apprehended from this quarter. At first the thought of it was disquieting, but three weeks glided away, and Eric, now absorbed heart and soul in school work, began to remember it as a mere vague and idle threat. But one afternoon, to his horror, he again heard Billy's step on the stairs, and again saw the hateful iniquitous face at the door.

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

"Didn't I tell you never to come near me again, you foul villain? Go this instant, or I'll call Carter;" and, opening the window, he prepared to put his threat into execution.

"Ho, ho, ho! Better look at summat I've got first." It was a printed notice to the following effect—

"FIVE POUNDS REWARD.

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

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

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

Billy's only answer was to pass his finger slowly along the words "Five pounds reward!"

"Well?"

"I thinks I knows who took them pigeons."

"What's that to me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"O put it down, put it down, Eric," said Conscience; "what business have you with it?"

"Pooh! it is merely curiosity; as if I couldn't trust myself!"

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

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

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

Very slowly Eric took the three sovereigns and put them in his pocket, and then he took up one of the heaps of shillings and sixpences which he had counted, and dropped them also into his trousers; they fell into the pocket with a great jingle....

"Eric, you are a thief!" He thought he heard his brother Vernon's voice utter the words thrillingly distinct; but it was conscience who had borrowed the voice, and, sick with horror, he began to shake the money out of his pockets again into the box. He was only just in time; he had barely locked the box, and put it in its place, when he heard the sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. He had no time to take out the key and put it back where he found it, and had hardly time to slip into his own study again, when the boys had reached the landing.

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

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

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

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

He closed his books with, a bang, flew down stairs, and away through the play-ground towards the shore But he could not so escape his thoughts. "Eric, you are a thief! Eric, you are a thief!" rang in his ear. "Yes," he thought; "I am even a thief. Oh, good God, yes, even a thief, for I had actually stolen the money, until I changed my mind. What if they should discover the key in the box, knowing that I was the only fellow up stairs? Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy!"

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

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



CHAPTER XI

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND

"For alas! alas! with me The light of life is o'er; No more—no more—no more (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar!"

EDGAR A. POE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, well; at least do hope the best, Eric," said Graham.

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

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

"Poor Eric! what shall I do if you leave?" said Wildney, putting his arm round Eric's neck. "Besides it's all my fault, hang it, that you got into this cursed row."

"'The curse is come upon, me, cried The Lady of Shallott,'

"those words keep ringing in my ears," murmured Eric.

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

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

Eric winced visibly at this remark, but his companions did not notice it. "Ah," thought he, "there's one passage of my life which I never shall be able to reveal to any human soul."

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

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

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

"There's no refusing you," said Eric with the ghost of a laugh, as he boxed Wildney's ears. "O you dear little rogue, Charlie, I wish I were you."

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

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

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

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

"Just listen to that, Eric," said Montagu; "why, you're out-doing every body to-day, yourself included, and taking us by storm."

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

"Not you. You're too much in luck to come out with a duck," answered Montagu. "You see I've already become the Homer of your triumphs, and vaticinate in rhyme."

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

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

"Oh, well hit! well hit! A three'r for Eric," cried Wildney to the scorer; and he began to clap his hands and dance about with excitement at his friend's success.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Modest Eric!" said Wildney chaffingly, "you don't acknowledge your honors."

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

"'The curse has come upon me, cried The Lady of Shallott.'"

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

"Yes, thank you, I must go."

"Oh, then, I'll come too."

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

"God only knows."

"Well, let's change the subject. You've being playing brilliantly, old fellow."

"Have I?"

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

"Ah well! it matters very little."

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

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

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

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

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

They entered his study, and he looked about everywhere for the key. "Hallo," he said, "I'm nearly sure I left it in the corner of this drawer, under some other things; but it isn't there now. What can have become of it?"

"Where's the box?" said Duncan; "let's see if any of my keys will fit it. Hallo! why you're a nice treasurer, Monty! here's the key in the box!"

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

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

"Phew-w-w-w!" Montagu gave a long whistle.

"By Jove!" was Duncan's only comment.

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

"A bad, bad business! what's to be done, Monty?"

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

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

"I've got something unpleasant to say," he announced, raising his voice.

"Hush! hush! hush! what's the row?" asked half a dozen at once.

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

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

"Does any fellow know anything about this?"

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

"Where is Williams?" asked one of the sixth form casually.

"He's taking tea with the Doctor," said Wildney.

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

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

"I think we've all had a lesson once before not to suspect too hastily. Still, in a matter like this," said Montagu, "one must take notice of apparent cues."

"I know what you're thinking of, Monty," said Duncan.

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

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

"I heard more—though at the time it didn't strike me particularly. I distinctly heard the jingle of money."

"Well, it's no good counting up suspicious circumstances; we must ask him about it, and act accordingly.'

"Will he come up to the studies again to-night?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you know anything about it?"

"No!" he sobbed convulsively. "No, no, no! Yet stop; don't let me add a lie.... Let me think. No, Duncan!" he said, looking up, "I do not know who stole it."

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

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

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

"Yes, I know it must. Yet, oh, do be merciful, and don't yet condemn me. I have denied it. Am I a liar Monty? Oh Monty, Monty, believe me in this"

But the boys still stood silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once more he deliberated. Yes, there could be no doubt about the decision. He could, not endure another public expulsion, or even another birching; he could not endure the cold faces of even his best friends. No, no! he could not face the horrible phantom of detection, and exposure, and shame. Escape he must.

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

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

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

"Why, your'n is, bean't it, Maister Davey!" she asked, turning to a rough-looking sailor, who sat smoking in the bar.

"Ees," grunted the man.

"Will you take me on board?" said Eric.

"You be a runaway, I'm thinking?"

"Never mind. I'll come as cabin-boy—anything."

The sailor glanced at his striking appearance and neat dress. "Hardly in the cabun-buoy line I should say."

"Will you take me?" said Eric. "You'll find me strong and willing enough."

"Well—if the skipper don't say no. Come along."

They went down to a boat, and "Maister Davey" rowed to a schooner in the harbor, and took Eric on board.

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

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



CHAPTER XII

THE STORMY PETREL

"They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league, but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind grew high, And gurly grew the sea."

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

"Hilloa!" exclaimed the skipper with a sudden start, next morning, as he saw Eric's recumbent figure on the ratlin-stuff, "Who be this young varmint!"

"Oh, I brought him aboord last night," said Davey; "he wanted to be cabun-buoy."

"Precious like un he looks. Never mind, we've got him and we'll use him."

The vessel was under way when Eric woke, and collected his scattered thoughts to a remembrance of his new position. At first, as the Stormy Petrel dashed its way gallantly through the blue sea, he felt one absorbing sense of joy to have escaped from Roslyn. But before he had been three hours on board, his eyes were opened to the trying nature of his circumstances, which were, indeed, so trying that anything in the world seemed preferable to enduring them. He had not been three hours on board when he would have given everything in his power to be back again; but such regrets were useless, for the vessel was now fairly on her way for Corunna, where she was to lake in a cargo of cattle.

There were eight men belonging to the crew; and as the ship was only a little trading schooner, these were sailors of the lowest and meanest grade. They all seemed to take their cue from the captain, who was a drunken, blaspheming, and cruel vagabond.

This man from the first took a savage hatred to Eric, partly because he was annoyed with Davey for bringing him on board. The first words he addressed to him were—

"I say, you young lubber, you must pay your footing."

"I've got nothing to pay with. I brought no money with me."

"Well, then, you shall give us your gran' clothes. Them things isn't fit for a cabin-boy."

Eric saw no remedy, and making a virtue of necessity, exchanged his good cloth suit for a rough sailor's shirt and trowsers, not over clean, which the captain gave him. His own clothes were at once appropriated by that functionary, who carried them into his cabin. But it was lucky for Eric that, seeing how matters were likely to go, he had succeeded in secreting his watch.

The day grew misty and comfortless, and towards evening the wind rose to a storm. Eric soon began to feel very sick, and, to make his case worse, could not endure either the taste, smell, or sight of such coarse food as was contemptuously flung to him.

"Where am I to sleep?" he asked, "I feel very sick."

"Babby," said one of the sailors, "what's your name?"

"Williams."

"Well, Bill, you'll have to get over your sickness pretty soon, I can tell ye. Here," he added, relenting a little, "Davey's slung ye a hammock in the forecastle."

He showed the way, but poor Eric in the dark, and amid the lurches of the vessel, could hardly steady himself down the companion-ladder, much less get into his hammock. The man saw his condition, and, sulkily enough, hove him into his place.

And there, in that swinging bed, where sleep seemed impossible, and out of which, he was often thrown, when the ship rolled and pitched through the dark, heaving, discolored waves, and with dirty men sleeping round him at night, until the atmosphere of the forecastle became like poison, hopelessly and helplessly sick, and half-starved, the boy lay for two days. The crew neglected him shamefully. It was nobody's business to wait on him, and he could procure neither sufficient food, nor any water; they only brought him some grog to drink, which in his weakness and sickness was nauseous to him as medicine.

"I say, you young cub down there," shouted the skipper to him from the hatchway, "come up and swab this deck."

He got up, and after bruising himself severely, as he stumbled about to find the ladder, made an effort to obey the command. But he staggered from feebleness when he reached the deck, and had to grasp for some fresh support at every step.

"None of that 'ere slobbering and shamming, Bill. Why, d—— you, what d'ye think you're here for, eh? You swab the deck, and in five minutes, or I'll teach you, and be d——d."

Sick as death, Eric slowly obeyed, but did not get through his task without many blows and curses. He felt very ill—he had no means of washing or cleaning himself; no brush, or comb, or soap, or clean linen; and even his sleep seemed unrefreshful when the waking brought no change in his condition. And then the whole life of the ship was odious to him. His sense of refinement was exquisitely keen, and now to be called Bill, and kicked and cuffed about by these gross-minded men, and to hear their rough, coarse, drunken talk, and sometimes endure their still, more intolerable familiarities, filled him with deeply-seated loathing.

His whole soul rebelled and revolted from them all, and, seeing his fastidious pride, not one of them showed him the least glimpse of open kindness, though he observed that one of them did seem to pity him in heart.

Things grew worse and worse. The perils which he had to endure at first, when ordered about the rigging, were what affected him least; he longed for death, and often contemplated flinging himself into those cold deep waves which he gazed on daily over the vessel's side. Hope was the only thing which supported him. He had heard from one of the crew that the vessel would be back in not more than six weeks, and he made a deeply seated resolve to escape the very first day that they again anchored in an English harbor.