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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER SEVEN.

ERIC A BOARDER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

TAKING UP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I am sorry for it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Russell was silent.

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

Russell still said nothing.

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

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

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

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

He thought of all this, and hung his head. Pride struggled with him for a moment, but at length he answered, "Oh, Edwin, you're quite right, and I'm all in the wrong as usual. But I shall never be like you," he added in a low sad tone.

"Dear Eric, don't think that I'm always sermonising. But I hope that I know the difference between what's right and what's wrong, and do let me say that you will be so much happier, if you try not to yield to all the bad things round us. Remember, I know more of school than you."

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

And here let those scoff who deny "the sinfulness of little sins"—but I remember the words of one who wrote, that:

The most childish thing which man can do, Is yet a sin which Jesus never did When Jesus was a child,—and yet a sin For which in lowly pain he came to die That for the bravest sin that e'er was praised The King Eternal wore the crown of thorns.



VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER NINE.

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

In the twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night. Proverbs seven, 9.

At Roslyn, even in summer, the hour for going to bed was half-past nine. It was hardly likely that so many boys, overflowing with turbulent life, should lie down quietly, and get to sleep. They never dreamt of doing so. Very soon after the masters were gone, the sconces were often relighted, sometimes in separate dormitories, sometimes in all of them, and the boys amused themselves by reading novels or making a row. They would play various games about the bedrooms, vaulting or jumping over the beds, running races in sheets, getting through the windows upon the roofs, to frighten the study-boys with sham ghosts, or playing the thousand other pranks which suggested themselves to the fertile imagination of fifteen. But the favourite amusement was a bolstering match. One room would challenge another, and stripping the covers off their bolsters, would meet in mortal fray. A bolster well wielded, especially when dexterously applied to the legs, is a very efficient instrument to bring a boy to the ground; but it doesn't hurt very much, even when the blows fall on the head. Hence these matches were excellent trials of strength and temper, and were generally accompanied with shouts of laughter, never ending until one side was driven back to its own room. Many a long and tough struggle had Eric enjoyed, and his prowess was now so universally acknowledged, that his dormitory, Number 7, was a match for any other, and far stronger in this warfare than most of the rest. At bolstering. Duncan was a perfect champion; his strength and activity were marvellous, and his mirth uproarious. Eric and Graham backed him up brilliantly; while Llewellyn and Attlay, with sturdy vigour, supported the skirmishers. Ball, the sixth boy in Number 7, was the only faineant among them, though he did occasionally help to keep off the smaller fry.

Happy would it have been for all of them if Ball had never been placed in Number 7; happier still if he had never come to Roslyn School. Backward in work, overflowing with vanity at his supposed good looks, of mean disposition and feeble intellect, he was the very worst specimen of a boy that Eric had ever seen. Not even Barker so deeply excited Eric's repulsion and contempt. And yet, since the affair of Upton, Barker and Eric were declared enemies, and, much to the satisfaction of the latter, never spoke to each other; but with Ball—much as he inwardly loathed him—he was professedly and apparently on good terms. His silly love of universal popularity made him accept and tolerate the society even of this worthless boy.

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

"We've got a nice set in Number 7, haven't we?" said Duncan to Eric one day.

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

"Don't you like Ball, then?"

"Oh yes; pretty well."

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

"You know you detest him," said Duncan.

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

"Hm!—well, I detest him."

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

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

"Why do you dislike him, Duncan?"

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

"I don't know either."

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

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

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

"Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." Such was the temptation which assailed the other boys in dormitory Number 7; and Eric among the number. Ball was the tempter. Secretly, gradually, he dropped into their too willing ears the poison of his immorality.

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

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

The first time that Eric heard indecent words in dormitory Number 7, he was shocked beyond bound or measure. Dark though it was, he felt himself blushing scarlet to the roots of his hair, and then growing pale again, while a hot dew was left upon his forehead. Ball was the speaker; but this time there was a silence, and the subject instantly dropped. The others felt that a "new boy" was in the room; they did not know how he would take it; they were unconsciously abashed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He faltered, and answered humbly, "I hope you will never drop me, Edwin, whatever happens to me. But I particularly want to speak to you to-day."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," said Russell.

"Very little," said Montagu.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One evening they were telling each other stories in Number 7. Ball's turn came, and in his story the vile element again appeared. For a while Eric said nothing, but as the strain grew worse, he made a faint remonstrance.

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

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

He did for a time, but a general laugh awoke him. He pretended to be asleep, but he listened. Iniquity of this kind was utterly new to him; his curiosity was awakened; he no longer feigned indifference, and the poison of evil communication flowed deep into his veins.

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

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



VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TEN.

DORMITORY LIFE.

Aspasie trillistos epeluthe nux erebenne.—Homer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that, particularly as Dr Rowlands was absent, the boys knew that they were safe from disturbance, and the occupants of Number 7 were the first to stir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stood for a moment to survey the scene. All the dormitory doors were wide open; the sheet which had formed the stage curtain lay torn on the floor of Number 7; the beds in all the adjoining rooms were in the strangest positions; and half-extinguished wicks still smouldered in several of the sconces. Every boy was in bed, but the extraordinary way in which the bed-clothes were huddled about told an unmistakable tale.

He glanced quickly round, but the moment he had passed into Number 8 he heard a run, and, turning, just caught sight of Upton's figure vanishing into the darkness of the lavatory, towards the study stairs.

He said not a word, but stalked hastily through all the dormitories, again stopping at Number 7 on his return. He heard nothing but the deep snores of Duncan, and instantly fixed on him as a chief culprit.

"Duncan!"

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

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

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

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

Dr Rowlands swung round on his heel—

"What! Williams! get out of bed, sir, this instant."

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

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

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

Meanwhile the dormitory boys were aghast, and as soon as they heard the Doctor's retreating footsteps, began flocking in the dark to Number 7, not daring to relight their candles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your exercises used to be far better—even incomparably better," said Mr Rose; "what is the cause of this falling off?"

Eric was silent.

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

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

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

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



VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

ERIC IN COVENTRY.

And either greet him not, Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more Than if not looked on. Troilus and Cressida, Act Three, Scene 3.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice startled the two boys from their pleasant discussion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"GORDON IS A SURLY DEVIL."

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

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

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

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

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

"No. Why?"

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

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

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

During this conversation, Dr Rowlands came in with Mr Rose. He read the paper, frowned, pondered a moment, and then said to Mr Rose—

"Would you kindly summon the lower-school into the hall? As it would be painful to Mr Gordon to be present, you had better explain to him how matters stand."

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

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

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

Dr Rowlands continued—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eric Williams, stand out in the room!"

Blushing scarlet, and deeply agitated, the boy obeyed.

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

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

"Nothing whatever?"

"Nothing whatever, sir."

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

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

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

"I wonder who did it," said a dozen voices at once. "The writing was undoubtedly Williams's," suggested some.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A transient gleam passed over Eric's face.

"Oh, I do so long for home again," he said. "I hate this place. Except you, I have no friend."

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

Eric was overcome; he sat down on the grass, while intense pride and the consciousness of innocence struggled with the burning sense of painful injustice. Russell sat silent and pitying beside him, till at last Eric, with sudden energy, sprang to his feet, and said, "Now, Edwin! I've been conquering my cowardice, thanks to you, so come along home. After all, the fellows are in the wrong, not I," and so saying he took Russell's arm, and walked across the playground with almost a haughty look.

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

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

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

Another was from Mr Rose—

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

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

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

"Dear Williams—We have been cool to each other lately; naturally, perhaps. But yet I think that it will be some consolation to you to be told, even by a rival, that I, for one, feel certain of your innocence,—and, moreover, think that I can prove it, as I will tell you in time. If you want company, I shall be delighted to have a walk.—Yours truly, D. Owen."

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

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

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

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

"I wonder at your speaking to that fellow," said Ball, as the two newcomers joined the group at the fireplace.

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

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

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

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



VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE TRIAL.

A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all. Tennyson, The Princess.

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

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

"I think so, sir," said Avonley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," said Eric, glancing round indifferently.

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

Another pause, and Upton got up.

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

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

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

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

"Very willingly," they all three said, and went to take their seats by him. They conversed eagerly for a few minutes, seeming to make more than one discovery during their discussion, and then declared themselves ready.

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

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

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

Examined by Gibson—

"Was any boy in the room when you did lock the door?"

"No one."

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

"No."

Cross-examined by Russell—

"Do boys ever get into the room after the door is locked?"

"Yes."

"By what means?"

"Through the side windows."

"That will do."

Russell here whispered something to Duncan, who at once left the room, and on returning, after a few minutes' absence, gave Russell a nod so full of significance that, like Lord Burleigh's shake of the head, it seemed to speak whole volumes at once.

Barker was next brought forward, and questioned by Gibson.

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

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

"Could you recognise anything written with it?"

"Yes."

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

"Is that the kind of ink?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the handwriting on that paper?"

"Yes; it is Williams's hand."

"How can you tell?"

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

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

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

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

"No."

Cross-examined by Duncan—

"How do you know that Williams has wafers like those?"

"I have seen him use them."

"For what purpose?"

"To fasten letters."

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

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

Upton was the next witness. Gibson began—

"You have seen a good deal of Williams?"

"Yes," said Upton, smiling.

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

"Often."

"Of what kind?"

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

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

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

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

"When did he say this?"

"On Friday afternoon."

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

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

"Never."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The desk was brought, but it was found to be already unlocked, and Russell looked at some of the note-paper which it contained. He then rose—nervously at first, and with a deep blush lighting up his face, but soon showing a warmth and sarcasm, which few expected from his gentle nature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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