A quotation from Homer's Iliad, ix. 505.
Time, the great good angel, Time, the merciful healer, assuaged the
violence of Eric's grief, which seemed likely to settle down into a
sober sadness. At first his letters to his parents and to Fairholm were
almost unintelligible in their fierce abandonment of sorrow; but they
grew calmer in time,--and while none of his school-fellows ever ventured
in his presence to allude to Vernon, because of the emotion which the
slightest mention of him excited, yet he rarely wrote any letters to his
relations in which he did not refer to his brother's death, in language
which grew at length both manly and resigned.
A month after, in the summer term, he was sitting alone in his study in
the afternoon (for he could not summon up spirit enough to play
regularly at cricket), writing a long letter to his aunt. He spoke
freely and unreservedly of his past errors,--more freely than he had
ever done before,--and expressed not only deep penitence, but even
strong hatred of his previous unworthy courses. "I can hardly even yet
realise," he added, "that I am alone here, and that I am writing to my
aunt Trevor about the death of my little brother, my noble, only
brother, Vernon. Oh, how my whole soul yearns towards him. I _must_ be
a better boy, I _will_ be better than I have been, in the hopes of
meeting him again. Indeed, indeed, dear aunt, though I have been so
guilty, I am laying aside, with all my might, idleness and all bad
habits, and doing my very best to redeem the lost years. I do hope that
the rest of my time at Roslyn will be more worthily spent than any of it
has been as yet."
He finished the sentence, and laid his pen down to think, gazing quietly
on the blue hills and sunlit sea. A feeling of hope and repose stole
over him;--when suddenly he saw at the door, which was ajar, the leering
eyes and villainously cunning countenance of Billy.
"What do you want?" he said angrily, casting at the intruder a look of
intense disgust.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the man, pulling his hair. "Anything in my
line, sir, to-day?"
"No!" answered Eric, rising up in a gust of indignation. "What business
have you here? Get away instantly."
"Not had much custom from you lately, sir," said the man.
"What do you mean by having the insolence to begin talking to me? If
you don't make yourself scarce at once, I'll--"
"Oh well," said the man; "if it comes to that, I've business enough.
Perhaps you'll just pay me this debt," he continued, changing his
fawning manner into a bullying swagger. "I've waited long enough."
Eric, greatly discomfited, took the dirty bit of paper. It purported to
be a bill for various items of drink, all of which Eric _knew_ to have
been paid for, and among other things, a charge of 6 pounds for the
dinner at "The Jolly Herring."
"Why, you scoundrel, these have all been paid. What! six pounds for the
dinner! Why, Brigson collected the subscriptions to pay for it before
it took place."
"That's now't to me, sir. He never paid me; and as you was the young
gen'leman in the cheer, I comes to you."
_Now_ Eric knew for the first time what Brigson had meant by his
threatened revenge. He saw at once that the man had been put up to act
in this way by some one, and had little doubt that Brigson was the
instigator. Perhaps it might be even true, as the man said, that he had
never received the money. Brigson was quite wicked enough to have
embezzled it for his own purposes.
"Go," he said to the man; "you shall have the money in a week."
"And mind it bean't more nor a week. I don't chuse to wait for my money
no more," said Billy impudently, as he retired with an undisguised
chuckle, which very nearly made Eric kick him down stairs. With a
heart-rending sigh Eric folded and directed his letter to Mrs Trevor,
and then ran out into the fresh air to relieve the qualm of sickness
which had come over him.
What was to be done? To mention the subject to Owen or Montagu, who
were best capable of advising him, would have been to renew the memory
of unpleasant incidents, which he was most anxious to obliterate from
the memory of all. He had not the moral courage to face the natural
consequences of his past misconduct, and was now ashamed to speak of
what he had not then been ashamed to do. He told Graham and Wildney,
who were the best of his old associates, and they at once agreed that
they ought to be responsible for at least a share of the debt. Still,
between them they could only muster three pounds out of the six which
were required, and the week had half elapsed before there seemed any
prospect of extrication from the difficulty; so Eric daily grew more
miserable and dejected.
A happy thought struck him. He would go and explain the source of his
trouble to Mr Rose, his oldest, his kindest, his wisest friend. To him
he could speak without scruple and without reserve, and from him he knew
that he would receive nothing but the noblest advice and the warmest
sympathy.
He went to him after prayers that night, and told his story.
"Ah, Eric, Eric!" said Mr Rose; "you see, my boy, that sin and
punishment are twins."
"Oh but, sir, I was just striving so hard to amend, and it seems cruel
that I should be checked at once."
"Let it teach you a life-long lesson, dear Eric;--the lesson that when a
sin is committed _we_ may have done with _it_, but _it_ has by no means
done with _us_. It is always so, Eric when we drink the wine it is red
and sparkling, but we come afterwards to the ragged and bitter dregs."
"But what shall I do, sir?" said Eric sadly.
"There is only one way that I see, Eric. You must write home for the
money, and confess the truth to them honestly, as you have to me."
It was a hard course for Eric's proud and loving heart to write and tell
his aunt the full extent of his guilt. But he did it faithfully,
extenuating nothing, and entreating her, as she loved him, to send the
money by return of post.
It came, and with it a letter full of deep and gentle affection. Mrs
Trevor knew her nephew's character, and did not add by reproaches to the
bitterness which she perceived he had endured; she simply sent him the
money, and told him, that in spite of his many failures, "she still had
perfect confidence in the true heart of her dear boy."
Touched by the affection which all seemed to be showing him, it became
more and more the passionate craving of Eric's soul to be worthy of that
love. But it is far far harder to recover a lost path than to keep in
the right one all along; and by one more terrible fall the poor erring
boy was to be taught for the last time the fearful strength of
temptation, and the only source in earth and heaven from which
deliverance can come. Theoretically he knew it, but as yet not
practically. Great as his trials had been, and deeply as he had
suffered, it was God's will that he should pass through a yet fiercer
flame ere he could be purified from pride and passion and
self-confidence, and led to the cross of a suffering Saviour, there to
fling himself down in heart-rending humility, and cast his great load of
cares and sins upon Him who cared for him through all his wanderings,
and was leading him back through thorny places to the green pastures and
still waters, where at last he might have rest.
The money came, and walking off straight to "The Jolly Herring," he
dashed it down on the table before Billy, and imperiously bade him write
a receipt.
The man did so, but with so unmistakable an air of cunning and triumph
that Eric was both astonished and dismayed. Could the miscreant have
any further plot against him? At first he fancied that Billy might
attempt to extort money by a threat of telling Dr Rowlands; but this
supposition he banished as unlikely, since it might expose Billy himself
to very unpleasant consequences.
Eric snatched the receipt, and said contemptuously, "Never come near me
again; next time you come up to the studies I'll tell Carter to turn you
out."
"Ho, ho, ho!" sneered Billy. "How mighty we young gents are all of a
sudden. Unless you buy of me sometimes, you shall hear of me again;
never fear, young gen'leman." He shouted out the latter words, for Eric
had turned scornfully on his heel, and was already in the street.
Obviously more danger was to be apprehended from this quarter. At first
the thought of it was disquieting, but three weeks glided away, and
Eric, now absorbed heart and soul in school work, began to remember it
as a mere vague and idle threat.
But one afternoon, to his horror, he again heard Billy's step on the
stairs, and again saw the hateful iniquitous face at the door.
"Not much custom from you lately, sir," said Billy mockingly. "Anything
in my line to-day?"
"Didn't I tell you never to come near me again, you foul villain?" cried
Eric, springing up in a flame of wrath. "Go this instant, or I'll call
Carter," and opening the window, he prepared to put his threat into
execution.
"Ho, ho, ho! Better look at summat I've got first." It was a printed
notice to the following effect:--
"Five Pounds Reward."
"Whereas some evil-disposed persons stole some pigeons on the evening
of April 6th from the Reverend H Gordon's premises; the above reward
will be given for any such information as may lead to the apprehension
of the offenders."
Soon after the seizure of the pigeons there had been a rumour that
Gordon had offered a reward of this kind, but the matter had been
forgotten, and the boys had long fancied their secret secure, though at
first they had been terribly alarmed.
"What do you show me that for?" he asked, reddening and then growing
pale again.
Billy's only answer was to pass his finger slowly along the words, "Five
pounds reward."
"Well?"
"I thinks I knows who took they pigeons."
"What's that to me?"
"Ho, ho, ho! that's a good 'un," was Billy's reply; and he continued to
cackle as though enjoying a great joke.
"Unless you gives me five pound, anyhow, I knows where to get 'em. I
know who them evil-disposed persons be! So I'll give ye another week to
decide."
Billy shambled off in high spirits; but Eric sank back into his chair.
Five pounds! The idea haunted him. How could he ever get them? To
write home again was out of the question. The Trevors, though liberal,
were not rich, and after just sending him so large a sum, it was
impossible, he thought, that they should send him five pounds more at
his mere request. Besides, how could he be sure that Billy would not
play upon his fears to extort further sums? And to explain the matter
to them fully was more than he could endure. He remembered now how
easily his want of caution might have put Billy in possession of the
secret, and he knew enough of the fellow's character to feel quite sure
of the use he would be inclined to make of it. Oh, how he cursed that
hour of folly!
Five pounds! He began to think of what money he could procure. He
thought again and again, but it was no use; only one thing was clear--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!"