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

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

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

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

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

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

"Five Pounds Reward."

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

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

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

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

"Well?"

"I thinks I knows who took they pigeons."

"What's that to me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The curse is come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, thank you, I must go."

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

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

"God only knows."

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

"Have I?"

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

"Ah well! it matters very little."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Phee-ew!" Montagu gave a long whistle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does any fellow know anything about this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you know anything about it?"

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

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

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

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

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

But the boys still stood silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ees," grunted the man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE "STORMY PETREL."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Williams."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sick as death, Eric slowly obeyed, but did not get through his task without many blows and curses. He felt very ill; he had no means of washing or cleaning himself; no brush, or comb or soap, or clean linen; and even his sleep seemed unrefreshful when the waking brought no change in his condition. And then the whole life of the ship was odious to him. His sense of refinement was exquisitely keen, and now to be called Bill, and kicked and cuffed about by these gross-minded men, and to hear their rough, coarse, drunken talk, and sometimes endure their still more intolerable patronage, filled him with deeply-seated loathing. His whole soul rebelled and revolted from them all, and, seeing his fastidious pride, not one of them showed him the least glimpse of open kindness, though he observed that one of them did seem to pity him in heart.

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

The homeward voyage was even more intolerable, for the cattle on board greatly increased the amount of necessary menial and disgusting work which fell to his share, as well as made the atmosphere of the close little schooner twice as poisonous as before. And to add to his miseries, his relations with the crew got more and more unfavourable, and began to reach their climax.

One night the sailor who occupied the hammock next to his heard him winding up his watch. This he always did in the dark, as secretly and silently as he could, and never looked at it, except when no one could observe him; while, during the day, he kept both watch and chain concealed in his trousers.

Next morning the man made proposals to him to sell the watch, and tried by every species of threat and promise to extort it from him. But the watch had been his mother's gift, and he was resolute never to part with it into such hands.

"Very well, you young shaver, I shall tell the skipper, and he'll soon get it out of you as your footing, depend on it."

The fellow was as good as his word, and the skipper demanded the watch as pay for Eric's feed, for he maintained that he'd done no work, and was perfectly useless. Eric, grown desperate, still refused, and the man struck him brutally on the face, and at the same time aimed a kick at him, which he vainly tried to avoid. It caught him on the knee-cap, and put it out, causing him the most excruciating agony.

He now could do no work whatever, not even swab the deck. It was only with difficulty that he could limp along, and every move caused him violent pain. He grew listless and dejected, and sat all day on the vessel's side, eagerly straining his eyes to catch any sight of land, or gazing vacantly into the weary sameness of sea and sky.

Once, when it was rather gusty weather, all hands were wanted, and the skipper ordered him to furl a sail.

"I can't," said Eric, in an accent of despair, barely stirring, and not lifting his eyes to the man's unfeeling face.

"Can't, damn you! Can't! We'll soon see whether you can or no. You do it, or I shall have to mend your leg for you;" and he showered down a storm of oaths.

Eric rose, and resolutely tried to mount the rigging, determined at least to give no ground he could help to their wilful cruelty. But the effort was vain, and with a sharp cry of suffering he dropped once more on deck.

"Cursed young brat! I suppose you think we're going to bother ourselves with you, and yer impudence, and get victuals for nothing. It's all sham. Here, Jim, tie him up."

A stout sailor seized the unresisting boy, tied his hands together, and then drew them up above his head, and strung them to the rigging.

"Why didn't ye strip him first, damn you?" roared the skipper.

"He's only got that blue shirt on, and that's soon mended," said the man, taking hold of the collar of the shirt on both sides, and tearing it open with a great rip.

Eric's white back was bare, his hands tied up, his head hanging, and his injured leg slightly lifted from the ground. "And now for some rope-pie for the stubborn young lubber," said the skipper, lifting a bit of rope as he spoke.

Eric, with a shudder, heard it whistle through the air, and the next instant it had descended on his back with a dull thump, rasping away a red line of flesh. Now Eric knew for the first time the awful reality of intense pain; he had determined to utter no sound, to give no sign; but when the horrible rope fell on him, griding across his back, and making his body literally creak under the blow, he quivered like an aspen-leaf in every limb, and could not suppress the harrowing murmur, "O God, help me, help me."

Again the rope whistled in the air, again it grided across the boy's naked back, and once more the crimson furrow bore witness to the violent laceration. A sharp shriek of inexpressible agony rang from his lips, so shrill, so heart-rending, that it sounded long in the memory of all who heard it. But the brute who administered the torture was untouched. Once more, and again, the rope rose and fell, and under its marks the blood first dribbled, and then streamed from the white and tender skin.

But Eric felt no more; that scream had been the last effort of nature; his head had dropped on his bosom, and though his limbs still seemed to creep at the unnatural infliction, he had fainted away.

"Stop, master, stop, if you don't want to kill the boy outright," said Roberts, one of the crew, stepping forward, while the hot flush of indignation burned through his tanned and weather-beaten cheek. The sailors called him "Softy Bob," from that half-gentleness of disposition which had made him, alone of all the men, speak one kind or consoling word for the proud and lonely cabin-boy.

"Undo him then, and be damned," growled the skipper, and rolled off to drink himself drunk.

"I doubt he's well-nigh done for him already," said Roberts, quickly untying Eric's hands, round which the cords had been pulled so tight as to leave two blue rings round his wrists. "Poor fellow, poor fellow! it's all over now," he murmured soothingly, as the boy's body fell motionless into his arms, which he hastily stretched to prevent him from tumbling on the deck.

But Eric heard not and the man, touched with the deepest pity, carried him down tenderly into his hammock, and wrapped him up in a clean blanket, and sat by him till the swoon should be over.

It lasted very long, and the sailor began to fear that his words had been prophetic.

"How is the young varmint?" shouted the skipper, looking into the forecastle.

"You've killed him, I think."

The only answer was a volley of oaths; but the fellow was sufficiently frightened to order Roberts to do all he could for his patient.

At last Eric woke with a moan. To think was too painful, but the raw state of his back, ulcerated with the cruelty he had undergone, reminded him too bitterly of his situation. Roberts did for him all that could be done, but for a week Eric lay in that dark and foetid place, in the languishing of absolute despair. Often and often the unbidden tears flowed from very weakness from his eyes, and in the sickness of his heart, and the torment of his wounded body, he thought that he should die.

But youth is very strong, and it wrestled with despair, and agony, and death, and after a time, Eric could rise from his comfortless hammock. The news that land was in sight first roused him, and with the help of Roberts, he was carried on deck, thankful, with childlike gratitude, that God suffered him to breathe once more the pure air of heaven, and sit under the canopy of its gold-pervaded blue. The breeze and the sunlight refreshed him, as they might a broken flower; and, with eyes up-raised, he poured from his heart a prayer of deep unspeakable thankfulness to a Father in heaven.

Yes! at last he had remembered his Father's home. There, in the dark berth, where every move caused irritation, and the unclean atmosphere brooded over his senses like lead, when his forehead burned, and his heart melted within him, and he had felt almost inclined to curse his life, or even to end it by crawling up and committing himself to the deep cold water which he heard rippling on the vessel's side; then, even then, in that valley of the shadow of death, a Voice had come to him—a still small voice—at whose holy and healing utterance Eric had bowed his head, and had listened to the messages of God, and learned His will; and now, in humble resignation, in touching penitence, with solemn self-devotion, he had cast himself at the feet of Jesus, and prayed to be helped, and guided, and forgiven. One little star of hope rose in the darkness of his solitude, and its rays grew brighter and brighter, till they were glorious now. Yes, for Jesus' sake he was washed, he was cleansed, he was sanctified, he was justified, he would fear no evil, for God was with him, and underneath were the everlasting arms.

And while he sat there, undisturbed at last, and unmolested by harsh word or savage blow, recovering health with every breath of the sea wind, the skipper came up to him, and muttered something half like an apology.

The sight of him, and the sound of his voice, made Eric shudder again, but he listened meekly, and, with no flash of scorn or horror, put out his hand to the man to shake. There was something touching and noble in the gesture, and thoroughly ashamed of himself for once, the fellow shook the proffered hand, and slunk away.

They entered the broad river at Southpool.

"I must leave the ship when we get to port, Roberts," said Eric.

"I doubt whether yon'll let you," answered Roberts, jerking his finger towards the skipper's cabin.

"Why?"

"He'll be afeared you might take the law on him."

"He needn't fear."

Roberts only shook his head.

"Then I must run away somehow. Will you help me?"

"Yes, that I will."

That very evening Eric escaped from the Stormy Petrel unknown to all but Roberts. They were in the dock, and he dropped into the water in the evening, and swam to the pier, which was only a yard or two distant; but the effort almost exhausted his strength, for his knee was still painful, and he was very weak.

Wet and penniless, he knew not where to go, but spent the sleepless night under an arch. Early the next morning he went to a pawnbroker's, and raised 2 pounds 10 shillings on his watch, with which money he walked straight to the railway station.

It was July, and the Roslyn summer holidays had commenced. As Eric dragged his slow way to the station, he suddenly saw Wildney on the other side of the street. His first impulse was to spring to meet him, as he would have done in old times. His whole heart yearned towards him. It was six weeks now since Eric had seen one loving face, and during all that time he had hardly heard one kindly word. And now he saw before him the boy with whom he had spent so many happy hours of schoolboy friendship, with whom he had gone through so many schoolboy adventures, and who, he believed, was still his friend.

Forgetful for the moment of his condition, Eric moved across the street. Wildney was walking with his cousin, a beautiful girl, some four years older than himself, whom he was evidently patronising immensely. They were talking very merrily, and Eric overheard the word Roslyn. Like a lightning-flash the memory of the theft, the memory of his ruin, came upon him; he looked down at his dress—it was a coarse blue shirt, which Roberts had given him in place of his old one, and the back of it was stained and saturated with blood from his unhealed wounds; his trousers were dirty, tarred, and ragged, and his shoes, full of holes, barely covered his feet. He remembered too that for weeks he had not been able to wash, and that very morning, as he saw himself in a looking-glass at a shop window, he had been deeply shocked at his own appearance. His face was white as a sheet, the fair hair matted and tangled, the eyes sunken and surrounded with a dark colour, and dead and lustreless. No! he could not meet Wildney as a sick and ragged sailor boy; perhaps even he might not be recognised if he did. He drew back, and hid himself till the merry-hearted pair had passed, and it was almost with a pang of jealousy that he saw how happy Wildney could be while he was thus; but he cast aside the unworthy thought at once. "After all, how is poor Charlie to know what has happened to me?"



VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

HOME AT LAST.

I will arise and go to my Father.

Eric Williams pursued his disconsolate way to the station, and found that his money only just sufficed to get him something to eat during the day, and carry him third class by the parliamentary train to Charlesbury, the little station where he had to take the branch line to Ayrton.

He got into the carriage, and sat in the far corner, hiding himself from notice as well as he could. The weary train—(it carried poor people for the most part, so, of course, it could matter but little how tedious or slow it was!)—the weary train, stopping at every station, and often waiting on the rail until it had been passed by trains that started four or five hours after it,—dragged its slow course through the fair counties of England. Many people got in and out of the carriage, which was generally full, and some of them tried occasionally to enter into conversation with him. But poor Eric was too sick and tired, and his heart was too full to talk much, and he contented himself with civil answers to the questions put to him, dropping the conversation as soon as he could.

At six in the evening the train stopped at Charlesbury, and he got down.

"Ticket," said the station-man.

Eric gave it, turning his head away, for the man knew him well from having often seen him there. It was of no use; the man looked hard at him, and then, opening his eyes wide, exclaimed—

"Well, I never! what, Master Williams of Fairholm, can that be you?"

"Hush, John, hush yes, I am Eric Williams. But don't say a word, that's a good fellow; I'm going on to Ayrton this evening."

"Well, sir, I am hurt like to see you looking so ragged and poorly. Let me give you a bed to-night, and send you on by first train to-morrow."

"Oh no, thank you, John, I've got no money, and—"

"Tut, tut, sir I thought you'd know me better nor that. Proud I'd be any day to do anything for Mrs Trevor's nephew, let alone a young gentleman like you. Well, then, let me drive you, sir, in my little cart this evening."

"No, thank you, John, never mind; you are very, very good, but," he said, and the tears were in his eyes, "I want to walk in alone to-night."

"Well, God keep and bless you, sir," said the man, "for you look to need it," and touching his cap he watched the boy's painful walk across some fields to the main road.

"Who'd ha' thought it, Jenny!" he said to his wife. "There's that young Master Williams, whom we've always thought so noble like, just been here as ragged as ragged, and with a face the colour o' my white signal flag."

"Lawks!" said the woman; "well, well! poor young gentleman, I'm afeard he's been doing something bad."

Balmily and beautiful the evening fell, as Eric, not without toil, made his way along the road towards Ayrton, which was ten miles off. The road wound through the valley, across the low hills that encircled it, sometimes spanning or running parallel to the bright stream that had been the delight of Eric's innocent childhood. There was something enjoyable at first to the poor boy's eyes, so long accustomed to the barren sea, in resting once more on the soft undulating green of the summer fields, which were intertissued with white and yellow flowers, like a broidery of pearls and gold. The whole scene was bathed in the exquisite light, and rich with the delicate perfumes of a glorious evening, which filled the sky over his head with every perfect gradation of rose and amber and amethyst, and breathed over the quiet landscape a sensation of unbroken peace. But peace did not remain long in Eric's heart; each well-remembered landmark filled his soul with recollections of the days when he had returned from school, oh! how differently; and of the last time when he had come home with Vernon by his side. "O Verny, Verny, dear little Verny, would to God that I were with you now! But you are resting, Verny, in the green grave by Russell's side, and I—O God, be merciful to me now!"

It was evening, and the stars came out and shone by hundreds, and Eric walked on by the moonlight. But the exertion had brought on the pain in his knee, and he had to sit down a long time by the roadside to rest. He reached Ayrton at ten o'clock, but even then he could not summon up courage to pass through the town where he was so well-known, lest any straggler should recognise him, and he took a detour in order to get to Fairholm. He did not arrive there till eleven o'clock; and then he could not venture into the grounds, for he saw through the trees of the shrubbery that there was no light in any of the windows, and it was clear that they were all gone to bed.

What was he to do? He durst not disturb them so late at night. He remembered that they would not have heard a syllable of or from him since he had run away from Roslyn, and he feared the effect of so sudden an emotion as his appearance at that hour might excite.

So, under the starlight he lay down to sleep on a cold bank beside the gate, determining to enter early in the morning. It was long before he slept, but at last weary nature demanded her privilege with importunity, and gentle sleep floated over him like a dark dewy cloud, and the sun was high in heaven before he woke.

It was about half-past nine in the morning, and Mrs Trevor, with Fanny, was starting to visit some of her poor neighbours, an occupation full of holy pleasure to her kind heart, and in which she had found more than usual consolation during the heavy trials which she had recently suffered; for she had loved Eric and Vernon as a mother does her own children, and now Vernon, the little cherished jewel of her heart, was dead—Vernon was dead, and Eric, she feared not dead but worse than dead, guilty, stained, dishonoured. Often had she thought to herself, in deep anguish of heart, "Our darling little Vernon dead—and Eric fallen and ruined!"

"Look at that poor fellow asleep on the grass," said Fanny, pointing to a sailor boy, who lay coiled up on the bank beside the gate. "He has had a rough bed, mother, if he has spent the night there, as I fear."

Mrs Trevor had grasped her arm. "What is Flo doing?" she said, stopping, as the pretty little spaniel trotted up to the boy's reclining figure, and began snuffing about it, and then broke into a quick short bark of pleasure, and fawned and frisked about him, and leapt upon him, joyously wagging his tail.

The boy rose with the dew wet from the flowers upon his hair;—he saw the dog, and at once began playfully to fondle it, and hold its little silken head between his hands; but as yet he had not caught sight of the Trevors.

"It is—O good heavens it is Eric," cried Mrs Trevor, as she flew towards him. Another moment and he was in her arms, silent, speechless, with long arrears of pent-up emotion.

"Oh, my Eric, our poor, lost, wandering Eric—come home; you are forgiven, more than forgiven, my own darling boy. Yes, I knew that my prayers would be answered; this is as though we received you from the dead." And the noble lady wept upon his neck, and Eric, his heart shaken with accumulated feelings, clung to her and wept.

Deeply did that loving household rejoice to receive back their lost child. At once they procured him a proper dress and a warm bath, and tended him with every gentle office of female ministering hands. And in the evening, when he told them his story in a broken voice of penitence and remorse, their love came to him like a sweet balsam, and he rested by them, "seated, and clothed, and in his right mind."

The pretty little room, fragrant with sweet flowers from the greenhouse, was decorated with all the refinement of womanly taste, and its glass doors opened on the pleasant garden. It was long, long since Eric had seen anything like it, and he had never hoped to see it again. "Oh, dearest aunty," he murmured, as he rested his weary head upon her lap, while he sat on a low stool at her feet, "O aunty, you will never know how different this is from the foul horrible hold of the Stormy Petrel, and its detestable inmates."

When Eric was dressed once more as a gentleman, and once more fed on nourishing and wholesome food, and was able to move once more about the garden by Fanny's side, he began to recover his old appearance, and the soft bloom came back to his cheek again, and the light to his blue eye. But still his health gave most serious cause for apprehension; weeks of semi-starvation, bad air, sickness, and neglect, followed by two nights of exposure and wet, had at last undermined the remarkable strength of his constitution, and the Trevors soon became aware of the painful fact that he was sinking to the grave, and had come home only to die.

Above all, there seemed to be some great load at his heart which he could not remove; a sense of shame, the memory of his disgrace at Roslyn, and of the dark suspicion that rested on his name. He avoided the subject, and they were too kind to force it on him, especially as he had taken away the bitterest part of their trial in remembering it, by explaining to them that he was far from being so wicked in the matter of the theft as they had at first been (how slowly and reluctantly!) almost forced to believe.

"Have you ever heard—oh, how shall I put it?—have you ever heard, aunty, how things went on at Roslyn after I ran away?" he asked one evening, with evident effort.

"No, love, I have not. After they had sent home your things, I heard no more; only two most kind and excellent letters—one from Dr Rowlands, and one from your friend Mr Rose—informed me of what had happened about you."

"Oh, have they sent home my things?" he asked eagerly. "There are very few among them that I care about; but there is just one—"

"I guessed it, my Eric, and, but that I feared to agitate you, should have given it you before;" and she drew out of a drawer the little likeness of Vernon's sweet childish face.

Eric gazed at it till the sobs shook him, and tears blinded his eyes.

"Do not weep, my boy," said Mrs Trevor, kissing his forehead. "Dear little Verny, remember, is in a land where God Himself wipes away all tears from off all eyes."

"Is there anything else you would like?" asked Fanny, to divert his painful thoughts. "I will get you anything in a moment."

"Yes, Fanny dear, there is the medal I got for saving Russell's life, and one or two things which he gave me;—ah, poor Edwin, you never knew him!"

He told her what to fetch, and when she brought them it seemed to give him great pleasure to recall his friends to mind by name, and speak of them—especially of Montagu and Wildney.

"I have a plan to please you, Eric," said Mrs Trevor. "Shall I ask Montagu and Wildney here? we have plenty of room for them."

"Oh, thank you," he said, with the utmost eagerness. "Thank you, dearest aunt." Then suddenly his countenance fell. "Stop—shall we?— yes, yes, I am going to die soon, I know; let me see them before I die."

The Trevors did not know that he was aware of the precarious tenure of his life, but they listened to him in silence, and did not contradict him; and Mrs Trevor wrote to both the boys (whose directions Eric knew), telling them what had happened, and begging them, simply for his sake, to come and stay with her for a time. She hinted clearly that it might be the last opportunity they would ever have of seeing him.

Wildney and Montagu accepted the invitation and they arrived together at Fairholm on one of the early autumn evenings. They both greeted Eric with the utmost affection; and he seemed never tired of pressing their hands, and looking at them again. Yet every now and then a memory of sadness would pass over his face, like a dark ripple on the clear surface of a lake.

"Tell me, Monty," he said one evening, "all about what happened after I left Roslyn."

"Gladly, Eric; now that your name is cleared, there is—"

"My name cleared!" said Eric, leaning forward eagerly. "Did you say that?"

"Yes, Eric. Didn't you know, then, that the thief had been discovered?"

"No," he murmured faintly, leaning back again; "oh, thank God, thank God! Do tell me all about it, Monty."

"Well, Eric, I will tell you all from the beginning. You may guess how utterly astonished we were in the morning, when we heard that you had run away. Wildney here was the first to discover it, for he went early to your bedroom—"

"Dear little Sunbeam," interrupted Eric, resting his hand against Wildney's cheek; but Wildney shook his fist at him when he heard the forbidden name.

"He found the door locked," continued Montagu, "and called to you, but there came no answer; this made us suspect the truth, and we were certain of it when some one caught sight of the sheet hanging from your window. The masters soon heard the report, and sent Carter to make inquiries, but they did not succeed in discovering anything definite about you. Then, of course, everybody assumed as a certainty that you were guilty, and I fear that my bare assertion on the other side had little weight."

Eric's eyes glistened as he drank in his friend's story.

"But, about a fortnight after, more money and several other articles disappeared from the studies, and all suspicion as to the perpetrator was baffled; only now the boys began to admit that, after all, they had been premature in condemning you. It was a miserable time; for every one was full of distrust, and the more nervous boys were always afraid lest any one should on some slight grounds suspect them. Still things kept disappearing.

"We found out at length that the time when the robberies were effected must be between twelve and one, and it was secretly agreed that some one should be concealed in the studies for a day or two during those hours. Carter undertook the office, and was ensconced in one of the big cupboards in a study which had not yet been touched. On the third day he heard some one stealthily mount the stairs. The fellows were more careful now, and used to keep their doors shut, but the person was provided with keys, and opened the study in which Carter was. He moved about for a little time—Carter watching him through the key-hole, and prepared to spring on him before he could make his escape. Not getting much, the man at last opened the cupboard door, where Carter had just time to conceal himself behind a greatcoat. The greatcoat took the plunderer's fancy; he took it down off the peg, and there stood Carter before him! Billy—for it was he—stood absolutely confounded, as though a ghost had suddenly appeared; and Carter, after enjoying his unconcealed terror, collared him, and hauled him off to the police station. He was tried soon after, and finally confessed that it was he who had taken the cricket-money too; for which offences he was sentenced to transportation. So, Eric, dear Eric, at last your name was cleared."

"As I always knew it would be, dear old boy," said Wildney.

Montagu and Wildney found plenty to make them happy at Fairholm, and were never tired of Eric's society, and of his stories about all that befell him on board the Stormy Petrel. They perceived a marvellous change in him. Every trace of recklessness and arrogance had passed away; every stain of passion had been removed; every particle of hardness had been calcined in the flame of trial. All was gentleness, love, and dependence, in the once bright, impetuous, self-willed boy; it seemed as though the lightning of God's anger had shattered and swept away all that was evil in his heart and life, and left all his true excellence, all the royal prerogatives of his character, pure and unscathed. Eric, even in his worst days, was, as I well remember, a lovable and noble boy; but at this period there must have been something about him, for which to thank God, something unspeakably winning and irresistibly attractive. During the day, as Eric was too weak to walk with them, Montagu and Wildney used to take boating and fishing excursions by themselves, but in the evening the whole party would sit out reading and talking in the garden till twilight fell. The two visitors began to hope that Mrs Trevor had been mistaken, and that Eric's health would still recover; but Mrs Trevor would not deceive herself with a vain hope, and the boy himself shook his head when they called him convalescent.

Their hopes were never higher than one evening about a week after their arrival, when they were all seated, as usual, in the open-air, under a lime-tree on the lawn. The sun was beginning to set, and the rain of golden sunlight fell over them through the green ambrosial foliage of the tree, whose pale blossoms were still murmurous with bees. Eric was leaning back in an easy chair, with Wildney sitting on the grass beside his feet, while Montagu, resting on one of the mossy roots, read to them the Midsummer Night's Dream, and the ladies were busy with their work.

"There—stop now," said Eric, "and let's sit out and talk until we see some of 'the fiery a'es and o'es of light' which he talks of."

"I'd no idea Shakespeare was such immensely jolly reading," remarked Wildney naively. "I shall take to reading him through when I get home."

"Do you remember, Eric," said Montagu, "how Rose used to chaff us in old days for our ignorance of literature, and how indignant we used to be when he asked if we'd ever heard of an obscure person called William Shakespeare?"

"Yes, very well," answered Eric, laughing heartily. And in this strain they continued to chat merrily, while the ladies enjoyed listening to their schoolboy mirth.

"What a perfectly delicious evening. It's almost enough to make me wish to live," said Eric.

He did not often speak thus; and it made them sad. But Eric half sang, half murmured to himself, a hymn with which his mother's sweet voice had made him familiar in their cottage-home at Ellan—

"There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found; They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground.

"The storm that wrecks the winter sky, No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose."

The last two lines lingered pleasantly in his fancy, and he murmured to himself again in low tones—

"Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose."

"Oh, hush, hush, Eric!" said Wildney, laying his hand upon his friend's lips; "don't let's spoil to-night by forebodings."

It seemed, indeed, a shame to do so, for it was almost an awful thing to be breathing the splendour of the transparent air, as the sun broadened and fell, and a faint violet glow floated over soft meadow and silver stream. One might have fancied that the last rays of sunshine loved to linger over Eric's face, now flushed with a hectic tinge of pleasure, and to light up sudden glories in his bright hair, which the wind just fanned off his forehead as he leaned back and inhaled the luxury of evening perfume, which the flowers of the garden poured on the gentle breeze. Ah, how sad that such scenes should be so rare and so short-lived!

"Hark—tirra-la-lirra-lirra!" said Wildney, "there goes the postman's horn! Shall I run and get the letter-bag as he passes the gate?"

"Yes, do," they all cried; and the boy bounded off full of fun, greeting the postman with such a burst of merry apostrophe, that the man shook with laughing at him.

"Here it is at last," said Wildney. "Now, then, for the key. Here's a letter for me, hurrah!—two for you, Miss Trevor—what people you young ladies are for writing to each other! None for you, Monty—oh yes! I'm wrong, here's one; but none for Eric."

"I expected none," said Eric, sighing; but his eye was fixed earnestly on one of Mrs Trevor's letters. He saw that it was from India, and directed in his father's hand.

Mrs Trevor caught his look. "Shall I read it aloud to you, dear? Do you think you can stand it? Remember it will be in answer to ours, telling them of—"

"Oh yes, yes," he said eagerly, "do let me hear it."

With instinctive delicacy Montagu and Wildney rose, but Eric pressed them to stay. "It will help me to bear what mother says, if I see you by me," he pleaded.

God forbid that I should transcribe that letter. It was written from the depths of such sorrow as He only can fully sympathise with, who for thirty years pitched his tent in the valley of human misery. By the former mail Mrs Williams had heard of Verny's melancholy death; by the next she had been told that her only other child, Eric, was not dead indeed, but a wandering outcast, marked with the brand of terrible suspicion. Let her agony be sacred; it was God who sent it, and He only enabled her to endure it. With bent head, and streaming eyes, and a breast that heaved involuntarily with fitful sobs, Eric listened as though to his mother's voice, and only now and then he murmured low to himself, "O mother, mother, mother—but I am forgiven now. O mother, God and man have forgiven me, and we shall be at peace again once more."

Mrs Trevor's eyes grew too dim with weeping to read it all, and Fanny finished it. "Here is a little note from your father, Eric, which dropped out when we opened dear aunt's letter. Shall I read it too?"

"Perhaps not now, love," said Mrs Trevor. "Poor Eric is too tired and excited already."

"Well, then, let me glance at it myself, aunty," he said. He opened it, read a line or two, and then, with a scream, fell back swooning, while it dropped out of his hands.

Terrified, they picked up the fallen paper; it told briefly, in a few heart-rending words, that, after writing the letter, Mrs Williams had been taken ill; that her life was absolutely despaired of, and that, before the letter reached England, she would, in all human probability, be dead. It conveyed the impression of a soul resigned indeed, and humble, but crushed down to the very earth with the load of mysterious bereavement and irretrievable sorrow.

"Oh, I have killed her, I have killed my mother!" said Eric, in a hollow voice, when he came to himself. "O God, forgive me, forgive me!"

They gathered round him they soothed, and comforted, and prayed for him; but his soul refused comfort, and all his strength appeared to have been broken down at once like a feeble reed. At last a momentary energy returned; his eyes were lifted to the gloaming heaven where a few stars had already begun to shine, and a bright look illuminated his countenance. They listened deeply—"Yes, mother," he murmured, in broken tones, "forgiven now, for Christ's dear sake. Oh, Thou merciful God! Yes, there they are, and we shall meet again. Verny—oh, happy, happy at last—too happy!"

The sounds died away, and his head fell back; for a transient moment more the smile and the brightness played over his fair features like a lambent flame. It passed away, and Eric was with those he dearliest loved, in the land where there is no more curse.

"Yes, dearest Eric, forgiven and happy now," sobbed Mrs Trevor; and her tears fell fast upon the dead boy's face, as she pressed upon it a long, last kiss.

But Montagu, as he consoled the poignancy of Wildney's grief, was reminded by Mrs Trevor's words of that sweet German verse—

Doch sonst an keinem Orte Wohnt die ersehnte Ruh, Nur durch die dunkle Pforte Seht man der Heimath zu.



VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

CONCLUSION.

And hath that early hope been blessed with truth? Hath he fulfilled the promise of his youth? And borne unscathed through danger's stormy field Honour's white wreath and virtue's stainless shield? Harrow. A Prize Poem.

The other day I was staying with Montagu. He has succeeded to his father's estate, and is the best loved landlord for miles around. He intends to stand for the county at the next general election, and I haven't the shadow of a doubt that he will succeed. If he does, Parliament will have gained a worthy addition. Montagu has the very soul of honour, and he can set off the conclusions of his vigorous judgment, and the treasures of his cultivated taste, with an eloquence that rises to extraordinary grandeur when he is fulminating his scorn at any species of tyranny or meanness.

It was very pleasant to talk with him about our old schooldays in his charming home. We sate by the open window (which looks over his grounds, and then across one of the richest plains in England) one long summer evening, recalling all the vanished scenes and figures of the past, until we almost felt ourselves boys again.

"I have just been staying at Trinity," said I, "and Owen, as I suppose you know, is doing brilliantly. He has taken a high first class, and they have already elected him fellow and assistant tutor."

"Is he liked?"

"Yes, very much. He always used to strike me at school as one of those fellows who are much more likely to be happy and successful as men than they had ever any chance of being as boys. I hope the greatest things of him; but have you heard anything of Duncan lately?"

"Yes, he's just been gazetted as lieutenant. I had a letter from him the other day. He's met two old Roslyn fellows, Wildney and Upton, the latter of whom is now Captain Upton; he says that there are not two finer or manlier officers in the whole service, and Wildney, as you may easily guess, is the favourite of the mess-room. You know, I suppose, that Graham is making a great start at the bar."

"Is he? I'm delighted to hear it."

"Yes. He had a 'mauvais sujet' to defend the other day, in the person of our old enemy Brigson, who having been at last disowned by his relations, is at present a policeman in London."

"On the principle, I suppose, of 'Set a thief to catch a thief'" said Montagu, with a smile.

"Yes; but he exemplifies the truth, 'chassez le naturel, il revient an galop;' for he was charged with abetting a street fight between two boys, which very nearly ended fatally. However, he was penitent, and Graham got him off with wonderful cleverness—"

"Ah!" said Montagu, sighing, "there was one who would have been the pride of Roslyn had he lived. Poor, poor Eric!"

We talked long of our loved friend; his bright face, his winning words, his merry smile, came back to us with the memory of his melancholy fate, and a deep sadness fell over us.

"Poor boy, he is at peace now," said Montagu; and he told me once more the sorrowful particulars of his death. "Shall I read you some verses," he asked, "which he must have composed, poor fellow, on board the Stormy Petrel though he probably wrote them at Fairholm afterwards?"

"Yes, do."

And Montagu, in his pleasant musical voice, read me, with much feeling, these lines, written in Eric's boyish hand, and signed with his name—

Alone, Yet Not Alone.

Alone, alone! ah, weary soul, In all the world alone I stand, With none to wed their hearts to mine, Or link in mine a loving hand.

Ah! tell me not that I have those Who own the ties of blood and name; Or pitying friends who love me well, And dear returns of friendship claim.

I have, I have! but none can heal, And none shall see my inward woe, And the deep thoughts within me veiled No other heart but mine shall know.

And yet amid my sins and shames The shield of God is o'er me thrown And 'neath its awful shade I feel Alone,—yet, ah, not all alone!

Not all alone! and though my life Be dragged along the stained earth, O God! I feel thee near me still, And thank thee for my birth!

EW.

Montagu gave me the paper, and I cherish it as my dearest memorial of my erring but noble schoolboy friend.

Knowing how strong an interest Mr Rose always took in Eric, I gave him a copy of these verses when last I visited him at his pleasant vicarage of Seaford, to which he was presented a year or two ago by Dr Rowlands, now Bishop of Roslyn, who has also appointed him examining chaplain. I sat and watched Mr Rose while he read them. A mournful interest was depicted on his face, his hand trembled a little, and I fancied that he bent his grey hair over the paper to hide a tear. We always knew at school that Eric was one of his greatest favourites, as indeed he and Vernon were with all of us; and when the unhappy boy had run away without even having the opportunity for bidding any one farewell, Mr Rose displayed such real grief, that for weeks he was like a man who went mourning for a son. After those summer holidays, when we returned to school, Montagu and Wildney brought back with them the intelligence of Eric's return to Fairholm, and of his death. The news plunged many of us in sorrow, and when, on the first Sunday in chapel, Mr Rose alluded to this sad tale, there were few dry eyes among those who listened to him. I shall never forget that Sunday afternoon. A deep hush brooded over us, and before the sermon was over, many a face was hidden to conceal the emotion which could not be suppressed.

"I speak," said Mr Rose, "to a congregation of mourners, for one who but a few weeks back was sitting among you as one of yourselves. But, for myself, I do not mourn over his death. Many a time have I mourned for him in past days, when I marked how widely he went astray—but I do not mourn now, for after his fiery trials he died penitent and happy, and at last his sorrows are over for ever, and the dreams of ambition have vanished, and the fires of passion have been quenched, and for all eternity the young soul is in the presence of its God. Let none of you think that his life has been wasted. Possibly, had it pleased Heaven to spare him, he might have found great works to do among his fellow-men, and he would have done them as few else could. But do not let us fancy that our work must cease of necessity with our lives. Not so; far rather must we believe that it will continue for ever, seeing that we are all partakers of God's unspeakable blessing, the common mystery of immortality. Perhaps it may be the glorious destiny of very many here to recognise that truth more fully when we meet and converse with our dear departed brother in a holier and happier world."

I have preserved some faint echo of the words he used, but I can give no conception of the dignity and earnestness of his manner, or the intense pathos of his tones.

The scene passed before me again as I looked at him, while he lingered over Eric's verses, and seemed lost in a reverie of thought.

At last he looked up and sighed. "Poor Eric!—But no, I will not call him poor! After all, he is happier now than we. You loved him well," he continued; "why do you not try and preserve some records of his life?"

The suggestion took me by surprise, but I thought over it, and at once began to accomplish it. My own reminiscences of Eric were numerous and vivid, and several of my old school-fellows and friends gladly supplied me with other particulars, especially the Bishop of Roslyn, Mr Rose, Montagu, and Wildney. So the story of Eric's ruin has been told, and told, as he would have wished it done, with simple truth. Poor Eric! I do not fear that I have wronged your memory, and you, I know, would rejoice to think how sorrowful hours have lost something of their sorrow, as I wrote the scenes in so many of which we were engaged together in our schoolboy days.

I visited Roslyn a short time ago, and walked for hours along the sands, picturing in my memory the pleasant faces, and recalling the joyous tones of the many whom I had known and loved. Other boys were playing by the sea-side, who were strangers to me and I to them; and as I marked how wave after wave rolled up the shore, with its murmur and its foam, each sweeping farther than the other, each effacing the traces of the last, I saw an emblem of the passing generations, and was content to find that my place knew me no more.

Ah me! the golden time:— But its hours have passed away, With the pure and bracing clime, And the bright and merry day. And the sea still laughs to the rosy shells ashore, And the shore still shines in the lustre of the wave; But the joyaunce and the beauty of the boyish days is o'er, And many of the beautiful lie quiet in the grave; And he who comes again Wears a brow of toil and pain, And wanders sad and silent by the melancholy main.

THE END.