CHAPTER XV

HOME AGAIN

“O far beyond the waters

The fickle feet may roam,

But they find no light so pure and bright

As the one fair star of home;

The star of tender hearts, lady,

That glows in an English home,”

F.W.F.

That night when Eric returned to No. 7, full of grief, and weighed down

with the sense of desolation and mystery, the other boys were silent

from sympathy in his sorrow. Duncan and Llewellyn both knew and loved

Russell themselves, and they were awestruck to hear of his death; they

asked some of the particulars, but Eric was not calm enough to tell them

that evening. The one sense of infinite loss agitated him, and he

indulged his paroxysms of emotion unrestrained, yet silently. Reader, if

ever the life has been cut short which you most dearly loved, if ever

you have been made to feel absolutely lonely in the world, then, and

then only, will you appreciate the depth of his affliction.

But, like all affliction, it purified and sanctified. To Eric, as he

rested his aching head on a pillow wet with tears, and vainly sought for

the sleep whose blessing he had never learned to prize before, how

odious seemed all the vice which he had seen and partaken in since he

became an inmate of that little room. How his soul revolted with

infinite disgust from the language which he had heard, and the open

glorying in sin of which he had so often been a witness. The stain and

the shame of sin fell heavier than ever on his heart; it rode on his

breast like a nightmare; it haunted his fancy with visions of guilty

memory, and shapes of horrible regret. The ghosts of buried misdoings,

which he had thought long lost in the mists of recollection, started up

menacingly from their forgotten graves, and made him shrink with a sense

of their awful reality. Behind him, like a wilderness, lay years which

the locust had eaten; the intrusted hours which had passed away, and

been reckoned to him as they past.

And the thought of Russell mingled with all--Russell, as he fondly

imagined him now, glorified with the glory of heaven, crowned, and in

white robes, and with a palm in his hand. Yes, he had walked and talked

with one of the Holy Ones. Had Edwin’s death, quenched his human

affections, and altered his human heart? If not, might not he be there

even now, leaning over his friend with the beauty of his invisible

presence? The thought startled him, and seemed to give an awful lustre

to the moonbeam which fell into the room. No; he could not endure such a

presence now, with his weak conscience and corrupted heart; and Eric hid

his head under the clothes, and shut his eyes.

Once more the pang of separation entered like iron into his soul. Should

he ever meet Russell again? What if _he_ had died instead of Edwin,

where would he have been? “Oh, no! no!” he murmured aloud, as the

terrible thought came over him of his own utter unfitness for death, and

the possibility that he might never, never again hear the beloved

accents, or gaze on the cherished countenance of his school friend.

In this tumult of accusing thoughts he fell asleep; but that night the

dew of blessing did not fall for him on the fields of sleep. He was

frightened by unbidden dreams, in all of which his conscience obtruded

on him his sinfulness, and his affection called up the haunting

lineaments of the dear dead face. He was wandering down a path, at the

end of which Russell stood with open arms inviting him earnestly to join

him there; he saw his bright ingenuous smile, and heard, as of old, his

joyous words, and he hastened to meet him; when suddenly the boy-figure

disappeared, and in its place he saw the stern brow, and gleaming

garments, and drawn flaming sword of the Avenger. And then he was in a

great wood alone, and wandering, when the well-known voice called his

name, and entreated him to turn from that evil place; and he longed to

turn,--but, whenever he tried, ghostly hands seemed to wave him back

again, and irresistible cords to drag him into the dark forest, amid the

sound of mocking laughs. Then he was sinking, sinking, sinking into a

gulf, deep and darker even than the inner darkness of a sin-desolated

heart; sinking, helplessly, hopelessly, everlastingly; while far away,

like a star, stood the loved figure in light infinitely above him, and

with pleading hands implored his deliverance, but could not prevail; and

Eric was still sinking, sinking, infinitely, when the agony awoke him

with a violent start and stifled scream.

He could sleep no longer. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the pale,

dead, holy features of Edwin, and at last he fancied that he was praying

beside his corpse, praying to be more like _him_, who lay there so white

and calm; sorrowing beside it, sorrowing that he had so often rejected

his kind warnings, and pained his affectionate heart. So Eric began

again to make good resolutions about all his future life. Ah! how often

he had done so before, and how often they had failed. He had not yet

learned the lesson which David learned by sad experience; “Then I said,

it is mine own infirmity, _but I will remember the years of the right

hand of the Most High_.”

That, too, was an eventful night for Montagu. He had grown of late far

more thoughtful than before; under Edwin’s influence he had been laying

aside, one by one, the careless sins of school life, and his tone was

nobler and manlier than it had ever been. Montagu had never known or

heard much about godliness; his father, a gentleman, a scholar, and a

man of the world, had trained him in the principles of refinement and

good taste, and given him a high standard of conventional honor; but he

passed through life lightly, and had taught his son to do the same.

Possessed of an ample fortune, which Montagu was to inherit, he troubled

himself with none of the deep mysteries of life, and

“Pampered the coward heart

With feelings all too delicate for use;

Nursing in some delicious solitude

His dainty love and slothful sympathies.”

But Montagu in Edwin’s sick-room and by his death bed; in the terrible

storm at the Stack, and by contact with Dr. Rowlands’ earnestness, and

Mr. Rose’s deep, unaffected, sorrow-mingled piety; by witnessing Eric’s

failures and recoveries; and by beginning to take in his course the same

heartfelt interest which Edwin taught him--Montagu, in consequence of

these things, had begun to see another side of life, which awoke all his

dormant affections and profoundest reasonings. It seemed as though, for

the first time, he began to catch some of

“The still gad music of humanity,”

and to listen with deep eagerness to the strain. Hitherto, to be well

dressed, handsome, agreeable, rich, and popular, had been to him a

realised ideal of life; but now he awoke to higher and worthier aims;

and once, when Russell, whose intelligent interest in his work exceeded

that of any other boy, had pointed out to him that solemn question of

Euripides--

“[Greek: Ohiei su tous thanontas o Nichaezate

Tzuphaes hapasaes metalabontas en bips

Pepheugenai to theion];”

he fell into a train of reflection, which made a lasting impression upon

his character.

The holidays were approaching. Eric, to escape as much, as possible from

his sorrow, plunged into the excitement of working for the examination,

and rapidly made up for lost ground. He now spent most of his time with

the best of his friends, particularly Montagu, Owen, and Upton; for

Upton, like himself, had been much sobered by sorrow at their loss. This

time he came out _second_ in his form, and gained more than one prize.

This was his first glimpse of real delight since Russell’s death; and

when the prize-day came, and he stood with his companions in the

flower-decorated room, and went up amid universal applause to take his

prize-books, and receive a few words of compliment from the governor who

took the chair, he felt almost happy, and keenly entered into the

pleasure which his success caused, as well as into the honors won by his

friends. One outward sign only remained of his late bereavement--his

mourning dress. All the prize-boys wore rosebuds or lilies of the valley

in their button-holes on the occasion, but on this day Eric would not

wear them. Little Wright, who was a great friend of theirs, had brought

some as a present both to Eric and Montagu, as they stood together on

the prize-day morning; they took them with thanks, and, as their eyes

met, they understood each other’s thoughts.

“No,” said Eric to Wright, “we won’t wear these to-day, although we have

both got prizes. Come along I know what we will do with them.”

They all three walked together to the little green, quiet churchyard,

where, by his own request, Edwin had been buried. Many a silent visit

had the friends paid to that grave, on which the turf was now green

again, and the daisies had begun to bloom. A stone had just been placed

to mark the spot, and they read--

SACRED TO THE MEMORY

OF

AN ORPHAN,

WHO DIED AT ROSLYN SCHOOL, MAY 1847,

AGED FIFTEEN YEARS.

* * * * *

“_Is it well with the child? It is well_.”

2 KINGS iv. 26.

The three boys stood by the grave in silence and sorrow for a time.

“He would have been the gladdest at our success. Monty,” said Eric; “let

us leave the signs of it upon his grave.”

And, with reverent hand, scattering over that small mound the choice

rosebuds and fragrant lilies with their green leaves, they turned away

without another word.

The next morning the great piles of corded boxes which crowded the

passage were put on the coach, and the boys, gladly leaving the deserted

building, drove in every sort of vehicle to the steamer. What joyous

triumphant mornings those were! How the heart exulted and bounded with,

the sense of life and pleasure, and how universal was the gladness and

good humor of every one. Never were voyages so merry as those of the

steamer that day, and even the “good-byes” that had to be said at

Southpool were lightly borne. From thence the boys quickly scattered to

the different railways, and the numbers of those who were travelling

together got thinner and thinner as the distance increased. Wright and

one or two others went nearly all the way with Eric, and when he got

down at the little roadside station, from whence started the branch rail

to Ayrton, he bade them merry and affectionate farewell. The branch

train soon started, and in another hour he would be at Fairholm.

It was not till then that his home feelings woke in all their intensity.

He had not been there for a year. At Roslyn the summer holidays were

nine weeks, and the holidays at Christmas and Easter were short, so that

it had not been worth while to travel so far as Fairholm, and Eric had

spent his Christmas with friends in another part of the island. But now

he was once more to see dear Fairholm, and his aunt, his cousin Fanny,

and above all, his little brother. His heart was beating fast with joy,

and his eyes sparkling with pleasure and excitement. As he thrust his

head out of the window, each well-remembered landmark gave him the

delicious sensation of meeting again an old friend. “Ah! there’s the

white bridge, and there’s the canal, and the stile; and _there_ runs the

river, and there’s Velvet Lawn. Hurrah! here we are.” And springing out

of the train before it had well stopped, he had shaken hands heartily

with the old coachman, who was expecting him, and jumped up into the

carriage in a moment.

Through the lanes he knew so well, by whose hedgerows he had so often

plucked sorrel and wild roses; past the old church with its sleeping

churchyard; through, the quiet village, where every ten yards he met old

acquaintances who looked pleased to see him, and whom he greeted with

glad smiles and nods of recognition; past the Latin school, from which

came murmurs and voices as of yore (what a man he felt himself now by

comparison!);--by the old Roman camp, where he had imagined such heroic

things when he was a child; through all the scenes so rich with the

memories and associations of his happy childhood, they flew along; and

now they had entered the avenue, and Eric was painfully on the look-out.

Yes! there they were all three--Mrs. Trevor, and Fanny, and Vernon, on

the mound at the end of the avenue; and the younger ones ran to meet

him. It was a joyous meeting; he gave Fanny a hearty kiss, and put his

arm round Vernon’s neck, and then held him in front to have a look

at him.

“How tall you’ve grown, Verny, and how well you look,” he said, gazing

proudly at him; and indeed the boy was a brother to be justly proud of.

And Vernon quite returned the admiration as he saw the healthy glow of

Eric’s features, and the strong graceful development of his limbs.

And so they quickly joined Mrs. Trevor, who embraced her nephew with a

mother’s love: and, amid all that nameless questioning of delightful

trifles, that “blossoming vein” of household talk, which gives such an

incommunicable charm to the revisiting of home, they all three turned

into the house, where Eric, hungry with his travels, did ample justice

to the “jolly spread” prepared for him, luxurious beyond anything he had

seen for his last year at school. When he and Vernon went up to their

room at night--the same little room in which they slept on the night

when they first had met--they marked their heights on the door again,

which showed Eric that in the last year he had grown two inches, a fact

which he pointed out to Vernon with no little exultation. And then they

went to bed, and to a sleep over which brooded the indefinite sensation

of a great unknown joy;--that rare heavenly sleep which only comes once

or twice or thrice in life, on occasions such as this.

He was up early next morning, and, opening his window, leaned out with

his hands among the green vine-leaves which encircled it. The garden

looked beautiful as ever, and he promised himself an early enjoyment of

those currants which hung in ruby clusters over the walls. Everything

was bathed in the dewy balm of summer morning, and he felt very happy

as, with his little spaniel frisking round him, he visited the great

Newfoundland in his kennel, and his old pet the pony in the stable. He

had barely finished his rounds when breakfast was ready, and he once

more met the home-circle from which he had been separated for a year.

And yet over all his happiness hung a sense of change and half

melancholy; they were not changed but _he_ was changed. Mrs. Trevor, and

Fanny, and Vernon were the same as ever, but over _him_, had come an

alteration of feeling and circumstance; an unknown or half-known

_something_ which cast a shadow between them and him, and sometimes made

him half shrink and start as he met their loving looks. Can no

schoolboy, who reads history, understand and explain the feeling which

I mean?

By that mail he wrote to his father and mother an account of Russell’s

death, and he felt that they would guess why the letter was so blurred.

“But,” he wrote, “I have some friends still; especially Mr. Rose among

the masters, and Monty and Upton among the boys. Monty you know; he is

more like Edwin than any other boy, and I like him very much. You didn’t

know Upton, but I am a great deal with him, though he is much older than

I am. He is a fine handsome fellow, and one of the most popular in the

school. I hope you will know him some day.”

The very next morning Eric received a letter which he at once recognised

to be in Upton’s handwriting He eagerly tore off the envelope,

and read--

“My dearest Eric--I have got bad news to tell you, at least, I feel it

to be bad news for me, and I flatter myself that you will feel it to be

bad news for you. In short, I am going to leave Roslyn, and probably we

shall never meet there again. The reason is, I have had a cadetship

given me, and I am to sail for India in September. I have already

written to the school to tell them to pack up and send me all my books

and clothes.

“I feel leaving very much; it has made me quite miserable. I wanted to

stay at school another year at least; and I will honestly tell you,

Eric, one reason: I’m very much afraid that I’ve done you, and Graham,

and other fellows, no good; and I wanted, if I possibly could, to undo

the harm I had done. Poor Edwin’s death opened my eyes to a good many

things, and now I’d give all I have never to have taught or encouraged

you in wrong things. Unluckily it’s too late;--only, I hope that you

already see, as I do, that the things I mean lead to evil far greater

than we ever used to dream of.

“Good-bye now, old fellow! Do write to me soon, and forgive me, and

believe me ever--Your most affectionate, HORACE UPTON.”

“P.S.--Is that jolly little Vernon going back to school with you this

time? I remember seeing him running about the shore with my poor cousin,

when you were a home-boarder, and thinking what a nice little chap he

looked. I hope you’ll look after him as a brother should, and keep him

out of mischief.”

Eric folded the letter sadly, and put it into his pocket; he didn’t

often show them his school letters, because, like this one, they often

contained allusions to things which he did not like his aunt to know.

The thought of Upton’s leaving him made him quite unhappy, and he wrote

him a long letter by that post, indignantly denying the supposition that

his friendship had ever done him anything but good.

The postscript about Vernon suggested a thought that had often been in

his mind. He could not but shudder in himself, when he thought of that

bright little brother of his being initiated in the mysteries of evil

which he himself had learnt, and sinking like himself into slow

degeneracy of heart and life. It puzzled and perplexed him, and at last

he determined to open his heart, partially at least, in a letter to Mr.

Rose. The master fully understood his doubts, and wrote him the

following reply:--

“My dear Eric--I have just received your letter about your brother

Vernon, and I think that it does you honor. I will briefly give you my

own opinion.

“You mean, no doubt, that, from your own experience, you fear that

Vernon will hear at school many things which will shock his modesty, and

much language which is evil and blasphemous; you fear that he will meet

with many bad examples, and learn to look on God and godliness in a way

far different from that to which he has been accustomed at home. You

fear, in short, that he must pass through the same painful temptations

to which you have yourself been subjected; to which, perhaps, you have

even succumbed.

“Well, Eric, this is all true. Yet, knowing this, I say, by all means

let Vernon come to Roslyn. The innocence of mere ignorance is a poor

thing; it _cannot_, under any circumstances, be permanent, nor is it at

all valuable as a foundation of character. The true preparation for

life, the true basis of a manly character, is not to have been ignorant

of evil, but to have known it and avoided it; not to hare been sheltered

from temptation, but to have passed through it and overcome it by God’s

help. Many have drawn exaggerated pictures of the lowness of public

school morality; the best answer is to point to the good and splendid

men that have been trained in public schools, and who lose no

opportunity of recurring to them with affection. It is quite possible to

be _in_ the little world of school-life, and yet not _of_ it. The ruin

of human souls can never be achieved by enemies from without, unless

they be aided by traitors from within. Remember our lost friend; the

peculiar lustre of his piety was caused by the circumstances under which

he was placed. He often told me before his last hour, that he rejoiced

to have been at Roslyn; that he had experienced there much real

happiness, and derived in every way lasting good.

“I hope you have been enjoying your holidays, and that you will come

back with the ‘spell of home affection’ alive in your heart. I shall

rejoice to make Vernon’s acquaintance, and will do for him all I can.

Bring him with you to me in the library as soon as you arrive.--Ever,

dear Eric,

“Affectionately yours,

“WALTER ROSA.”

END OF PART I

PART II

“Sed revocare gradum.”--VIRGIL.

* * * * *

CHAPTER I

ABDIEL

[Greek: Phtheirousin aethae chraesth’ omiliai kakai].--MENANDEB.

A year had passed since the events narrated in the last chapter, and had

brought with it many changes.

To Eric the changes were not for good. The memories of Russell were

getting dim; the resolutions made during his illness had vanished; the

bad habits laid aside after his death had been resumed. All this took

place very gradually; there were many inward struggles, much occasional

remorse, but the struggles by degrees grew weaker, and remorse lost its

sting, and Eric Williams soon learned again to follow the multitude

to do evil.

He was now sixteen years old, and high in the fifth form, and, besides

this, he was captain of the school eleven. In work he had fallen off and

no one now expected the fulfilment of that promise of genius which he

had given when he first came. But in all school sports he had improved,

and was the acknowledged leader and champion in matters requiring

boldness and courage. His popularity made him giddy; favor of man led

him to forgetfulness of God; and even a glance at his countenance showed

a self-sufficiency and arrogance which ill became the refinement of his

features, and ill replaced the ingenuous modesty of former years.

And Vernon Williams was no longer a new boy. The worst had happened to

him, which Eric in his better moments could have feared. He had fallen

into thoroughly bad hands, and Eric, who should have been his natural

guardian and guide, began to treat him with indifference, and scarcely

ever had any affectionate intercourse with him. It is by no means

unfrequent that brothers at school see but little of each other, and

follow their several pursuits, and choose their various companions, with

small regard to the relationship between them.

Yet Eric could not overlook or be blind to the fact, that Vernon’s chief

friend or leader was the most undesirable whom he could have chosen. It

was a new boy named Brigson. This boy had been expelled from one of the

most ill-managed schools in Ireland, although, of course, the fact had

been most treacherously concealed from the authorities at Roslyn; and

now he was let loose, without warning or caution, among the Roslyn boys.

Better for them if their gates had been open to the pestilence! the

pestilence could but have killed the body, but this boy--this fore-front

fighter in the devil’s battle--did ruin many an immortal soul. He

systematically, from the very first, called evil good and good evil,

put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter. He openly threw aside the

admission of any one moral obligation. Never did some of the Roslyn

boys, to their dying day, forget the deep, intolerable, unfathomable

flood of moral turpitude and iniquity which he bore with him; a flood,

which seemed so irresistible, and the influence of such boys as Montagu

and Owen to stay its onrush seemed as futile as the weight of a feather

to bar the fury of a mountain stream. Eric might have done much, Duncan

might have done much, to aid the better cause, had they tried; but they

resisted at first but faintly, and then not at all, until they too were

swept away in the broadening tide of degeneracy and sin.

Big, burly, and strong, though much younger than he looked (if he stated

his age correctly, which I doubt), Brigson, being low in the school,

naturally became the bully and the Coryphaeus of all the lower

forms--the bully if they opposed him, the Coryphaeus if they accepted

his guidance. A little army of small boys attended him, and were ever

ready for the schemes of mischief to which he deliberately trained them,

until they grew almost as turbulent, as disobedient, and as wicked, as

himself. He taught, both, by precept and example, that towards masters

neither honor was to be recognized, nor respect to be considered due. To

cheat them, to lie to them, to annoy them in every possible way--to

misrepresent their motives, mimic their defects, and calumniate their

actions--was the conduct which he inaugurated towards them; and for the

time that he continued at Roslyn the whole lower school was a

Pandemonium of evil passions and despicable habits.

Every one of the little boys became more or less amenable to his

influence, and among them. Vernon Williams. Had Eric done his duty this

would never have been; but he was half-ashamed to be often with his

brother, and disliked to find him so often creeping to his side. He

flattered himself that in this feeling he was only anxious that Vernon

should grow spirited and independent; but, had he examined himself, he

would have found selfishness at the bottom of it. Once or twice his

manner showed harshness to Vernon, and the little boy both observed and

resented it. Montagu and others noticed him for Eric’s sake; but, being

in the same form with Brigson, Vernon was thrown much with him, and

feeling, as he did, deserted and lonely, he was easily caught by the

ascendancy of his physical strength and reckless daring. Before three

months were over, he became, to Eric’s intolerable disgust, a ringleader

in the band of troublesome scapegraces, whose increasing numbers were

the despair of all who had the interests of the school at heart.

Unfortunately, Owen was now head of the school, and from his

constitutional want of geniality, he was so little of a boy that he had

no sympathy from the others, and little authority over them. He simply

kept aloof, holding his own way, and retiring into his own tastes and

pursuits, and the society of one or two congenial spirits in the school,

so as in no way to come in contact with the spreading corruption.

Montagu, now Owen’s chief friend, was also in the sixth, and fearlessly

expressed at once his contempt for Brigson, and his dread of the evil he

was effecting. Had the monitorial system existed, that contagion could

have been checked at once; but, as it was, brute force the unlimited

authority. Ill indeed are those informed who raise a cry, and join in

the ignorant abuse of that noble safeguard of English schools. Any who

have had personal and intimate experience of how schools work _with_ it

and _without_ it, know what a Palladium it is of happiness and morality;

how it prevents bullying, upholds manliness, is the bulwark of

discipline, and makes boys more earnest and thoughtful, often at the

most critical period of their lives, by enlisting all their sympathies

and interests on the side of the honorable and the just.

Brigson knew at a glance whom he had most to fear; Bull, Attlay,

Llewellyn, Graham, all tolerated or even approved of him. Owen did not

come in his way, so he left him unmolested. To Eric and Duncan he was

scrupulously civil, and by flattery and deference managed to keep

apparently on excellent terms with them. Eric pretended to be ignorant

of the harm he was bringing about, and in answer to the indignant and

measureless invectives of Montagu and others, professed to see in

Brigson a very good fellow; rather wild, perhaps, but still a very

good fellow.

Brigson hated Montagu, because he read on his features the unvarying

glance of withering contempt. He dared not come across him openly, since

Montagu was so high in the school; and besides, though much the bigger

of the two, Brigson was decidedly afraid of him. But he chose sly

methods of perpetual annoyance. He nick-named him “Rosebud;” he talked

_at_ him whenever he had an opportunity; he poisoned the minds of the

gang of youngsters against him; he spread malicious reports about him;

he diminished his popularity, and embittered his feelings, by every

secret and underhand means which, lay in his power.

One method of torment was most successful. As a study-boy, Montagu did

not come to bed till an hour later than _the_ lower part of the school,

and Brigson taught some of the little fellows to play all kinds of

tricks to his bed and room, so that, when he came down, it was with the

certainty of finding everything in confusion. Sometimes his bed would be

turned right on end, and he would have to put it to the ground and

remake it before he could lie down. Sometimes all the furniture in the

room would be thrown about in different corners, with no trace of the

offender. Sometimes he would find all sorts of things put inside the bed

itself. The intolerable part of the vexation was, to be certain that

this was done by Brigson’s instigation, or by his own hand, without

having the means of convicting or preventing him. Poor Monty grew very

sad at heart, and this perpetual dastardly annoyance weighed the more

heavily on his spirits, from its being of a kind which peculiarly grated

on his refined taste, and his natural sense of what was gentlemanly

and fair.

One night, coming down, as usual, in melancholy dread, he saw a light

under the door of his room. It struck him that he was earlier than

usual, and he walked up quickly and noiselessly. There they were at it!

The instant he entered, there was a rush through the opposite door, and

he felt convinced that one of the retreating figures was Brigson’s. In a

second he had sprung across, so as to prevent the rest from running, and

with heaving breast and flaming eyes, glared at the intruders as they

stood there, sheepish and afraid.

“What!” he said angrily, “so _you_ are the fellows who have had the

cowardice to annoy me thus, night after night, for weeks; you miserable,

degraded young animals!” And he looked at the four or five who had not

made their escape. “What! and _you_ among them,” he said with a start,

as he caught the eye of Vernon Williams--“Oh, this is too bad.” His tone

showed the deepest sorrow and vexation, and for a moment he said no

more. Instantly Vernon was by him.

“_Do_ forgive me, _do_ forgive me, Montagu,” he said; “I really didn’t

know it teased you so much.”

But Montagu shook him off, and at once recovered himself. “Wretched

boys! let me see what you have been doing to-night. Oh, as usual,” he

said, glancing at the complete disorder which they had been effecting.

“Ha! but what is this? So Brigson has introduced another vile secret

among you. Well, he shall rue it!” and he pointed to some small, almost

invisible flakes of a whitish substance scattered here and there over

his pillow. It was a kind of powder, which if once it touched the skin,

caused the most violent and painful irritation.

“By heavens, this is _too_ bad!” he exclaimed, stamping his foot with

anger. “What have I ever done to you young blackguards, that you should

treat me thus? Have I ever been a bully? Have I ever harmed one of you?

And _you_, too, Vernon Williams!”

The little boy trembled and looked ashamed under his noble glance of

sorrow and scorn.

“Well, I _know_ who has put you up to this; but you shall not escape so.

I shall thrash you every one.”

Very quietly he suited the action to the word, sparing none. They took

it patiently enough, conscious of richly deserving it; and when it was

over, Vernon said, “Forgive me, Montagu. I am very sorry, and will never

do so again.” Montagu, without deigning a reply, motioned them to go,

and then sat down, full of grief, on his bed. But the outrage was not

over for that night, and no sooner had he put out the light than he

became painfully aware that several boys were stealing into the room,

and the next moment he felt a bolster fall on his head. He was out of

bed in an instant, and with a few fierce and indignant blows, had

scattered the crowd of his cowardly assailants, and driven them away. A

number of fellows had set on him in the dark--on _him_, of all others.

Oh, what a change must have happened in the school that this should be

possible! He felt that the contagion of Brigson’s baseness had spread

far indeed.

He fought like a lion, and several of the conspirators had reason to

repent their miscalculation in assaulting so spirited an antagonist. But

this did not content him; his blood was up, and he determined to attack

the evil at its source. He strode through his discomfited enemies

straight into Brigson’s room, struck a match, and said, “Brigson, get

out of bed this instant.”

“Hullo!” grunted Brigson, pretending to be only just awake.

“None of that, you blackguard! Will you take a thrashing?”

“No!” roared Brigson, “I should think not.”

“Well, then, take _that_!” he shouted, striking him in the face.

The fight that followed was very short. In a single round Montagu had

utterly thrashed, and stricken to the earth, and forced to beg for

mercy, his cumbrous and brutal opponent. He seemed to tower above him

with a magnificent superiority, and there was a self-controlled passion

about him which gave tremendous energy to every blow. Brigson was

utterly dashed, confounded, and cowed, and took without a word the

parting kick of ineffable contempt which Montagu bestowed on him.

“There,” he said to the fellows, who had thronged in from all the

dormitories at the first hint of a fight, “I, a sixth-form fellow, have

condescended to thrash that base coward there, whom all you miserable

lower boys have been making an idol and hero of, and from whom you have

been so readily learning every sort of blackguardly and debasing trick.

But let me tell you and your hero, that if any of you dare to annoy or

lift a finger at me again, you shall do it at your peril. I despise you

all; there is hardly one gentlemanly or honorable fellow left among you

since that fellow Brigson has come here; yes, I despise you, and you

know that you deserve it.” And every one of them _did_ shrink before his

just and fiery rebuke.

The scene was not over when the door suddenly opened, and Mr. Rose

appeared. He stood amazed to see Montagu there in his night-shirt, the

boys all round, and Brigson washing his nose, which was bleeding

profusely, at his basin.

Montagu instantly stepped up to him. “You can trust me, sir; may I ask

you kindly to say nothing of this? I have been thrashing some one that

deserved it, and teaching these fellows a lesson.”

Mr. Rose saw and allowed for his excited manner. “I can trust you,” he

said, “Montagu, and shall take no farther notice of this irregularity.

And now get instantly to your beds.”

But Montagu, slipping on his clothes, went straight up to the studies,

and called the upper boys together. He briefly told them what had

occurred, and they rejoiced greatly, binding themselves for the future

to check, if they could, by all fair means, Brigson’s pernicious

influence and abominable example.

But it was too late now; the mischief was done.

“O Eric,” said Montagu, “why did you not make a stand against all this

before? Your own brother was one of them.”

“Little wretch. I’ll kick him well for it,” said Eric.

“No, no!” said Montagu, “that’ll do no good. Try rather to look after

him a little more.”

“I hope _you_ will forgive him, and try and rescue him.”

“I will do what I can,” said Montagu, coldly.

Eric sighed, and they parted.

Montagu had hoped that after this Eric would at least break off all open

connection with Brigson; and, indeed, Eric had meant to do so. But that

personage kept carefully out of his way until the first burst of

indignation against him had subsided, and after a time began to address

Eric as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile he had completely regained

his ascendancy over the lower part of the school, which was not

difficult, because they were wincing under Montagu’s contempt, and

mingled no little dislike with it; a dislike which all are too apt to

feel towards those whose very presence and moral superiority are a tacit

rebuke of their own failings. But while Montagu was hated, Eric was at

the zenith of popular favor, a favor which Brigson ostentatiously

encouraged. He was openly flattered and caressed, and if ever he got a

large score at cricket, it was chalked triumphantly over the walls. All

this he was weak enough to enjoy immensely, and it was one of the

reasons why he did not wish to risk his popularity by breaking with

Brigson. So, after a little constraint and coldness, he began to stand

in much the same relation to him as before.

The best-disposed of the upper boys disliked all this very much, and the

sixth and fifth forms began to be split up into two main parties--the

one, headed by Eric, and, to a much less degree, by Duncan, who devoted

themselves to the games and diversions of the school, and troubled

themselves comparatively little about anything else; the other, headed

by Montagu, who took the lead in intellectual pursuits, and endeavored,

by every means in their power, to counteract the pernicious effects of

the spreading immorality.

And so at Roslyn, owing mainly to the wickedness of one depraved boy,

and the weak fear of man which actuated others, all was disunion,

misery, and deterioration. The community which had once been peaceful,

happy, and united, was filled with violent jealousy and heart-burnings;

every boy’s hand seemed to be against his neighbor; lying, bad language,

dishonesty, grew fearfully rife, and the few who, like Owen and Montagu,

remained uncontaminated by the general mischief, walked alone and

despondent amid their uncongenial and degraded schoolfellow.

CHAPTER II

WILDNEY

“That punishment’s the best to bear

That follows soonest on the sin,

And guilt’s a game where losers fare

Better than those who seem to win.”

COV. PATMORE.

At the beginning of this quarter Eric and Duncan had succeeded to one of

the studies, and Owen shared with Montagu the one which adjoined it.

Latterly the small boys, in the universal spirit of disobedience, had

frequented the studies a good deal, but it was generally understood that

no study-boy might ask any one to be a regular visitor to his room

without the leave of its other occupant.

So one evening Duncan said to Eric, “Do you know little Wildney?”

“You mean that jolly fearless-looking little fellow, with, the great

black eyes, who came at the beginning of the quarter? No, I don’t

know him.”

“Well, he’s a very nice little fellow; a regular devil”

“Humph!” said Eric, laughing; “I shall bring out a new

Duncan-dictionary, in which. [Greek: chezchochezons chos] = very nice

little fellow.”

“Pooh!” said Duncan; “you know well enough what I mean; I mean he’s not

one of your white-faced, lily-hearted new boys, but has lots of fun

in him.”

“Well, what of him?”

“Have you any objection to my asking him to sit in the study when he

likes?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Very well, I’ll go and fetch him now. But wouldn’t you like to ask your

brother Vernon to come in too whenever he’s inclined?”

“No,” said Eric, “I don’t care. He does come every now and then.”

Duncan went to fetch Wildney, and while he was gone, Brie was thinking

_why_ he didn’t give Vernon the free run of his study. He would not

admit to himself the true reason, which was, that he had too much ground

to fear that his example would do his brother no good.

Eric soon learned to like Wildney, who was a very bright, engaging,

spirited boy, with a dash of pleasant impudence about him which took

Eric’s fancy. He had been one of the most mischievous of the lower

fellows, but, although clever, did little or nothing in school, and was

in the worst repute with the masters. Until he was “taken up” by Eric,

he had been a regular little hero among his compeers, because he was

game for any kind of mischief, and, in the new tone of popular morality,

his fearless disregard of rules made him the object of general

admiration. From this time, however, he was much in the studies, and

unhappily carried with him to those upper regions the temptation to a

deeper and more injurious class of transgressions than had yet

penetrated there.

It was an ill day for General Wildney when he sent his idolised little

son to Roslyn; it was an ill day for Eric when Duncan first asked the

child to frequent their study.

It was past nine at night, and the lower school had gone to bed, but

there was Wildney quietly sitting on Eric’s knee by the study fire,

while Duncan was doing some Arnold’s verses for him to be shown up

next day.

“Bother these verses,” said Duncan, “I shall have a whiff. Do you mind,

Eric?”

“No; not at all.”

“Give me a weed, too,” said Wildney.

“What! young un--you don’t mean to say you smoke?” asked Eric in

surprise.

“Don’t I, though? let me show you. Why, a whole lot of us went and

smoked two or three pipes by Riverbend only yesterday.”

“Phew!” said Eric, “then I suppose I must smoke too to keep you in

countenance;” and he took a cigar. It was the first time he had touched

one since the day at the Stack. The remembrance made him gloomy and

silent. “Tempora mutantur,” thought he, “nos et mutamur in illis.”

“Why, how glum you are,” said Wildney, patting him on the head.

“O no!” said Eric, shaking off unpleasant memories. “Look,” he

continued, pointing out of the window to change the subject, “what a

glorious night it is! Nothing but stars, stars, stars.”

“Yes,” said Duncan, yawning; “this smoking makes one very thirsty. I

wish I’d some beer.”

“Well, why shouldn’t we get some?” said Wildney “it would he very

jolly.”

“Get some! What! at this time of night?”

“Yes; I’ll go now, if you like, to Ellan, and be back before ten.”

“Nonsense,” said Eric; “it aint worth while.”

“I believe you think I’m afraid,” said Wildney, laughing, and looking at

Eric with his dark eyes; “and what’s more, I believe _you’re_ afraid.”

“Little whippersnapper!” said Eric, coloring, “as if I was afraid to do

anything _you_ dare do. I’ll go with you at once, if you like.”

“What are you thinking of?” asked Duncan. “I don’t care twopence about

the beer, and I hope you won’t go.”

“But I will, though,” said Eric, a little nettled that Wildney, of all

people, should think him wanting in pluck.

“But how will you get out?”

“Oh, _I’ll_ show you a dodge there,” said Wildney. “Come along. Have you

a dark lantern?”

“No, but I’ll get Llewellyn’s.”

“Come along then.”

So the little boy of twelve took the initiative, and, carrying the dark

lantern, instructed the two study-boys of sixteen in a secret which had

long been known to the lower part of the school.

“Ibant obscuri dubiâ sub luce.” He led them quietly down stairs, stole

with them noiselessly past the library door, and took them to a window

in the passage, where a pane was broken.

“Could you get through that?” he whispered to Eric, “if we broke away

the rest of the glass?”

“I don’t know. But, then, there’s the bar outside.”

“Oh, I’ll manage that. But will you go and peep through the key-hole of

the library, and see who’s there, Duncan?”

“No,” said Duncan, bluntly, “no key-holes for me.”

“Hush! then _I_ will,” and he glided away, while Eric, as quietly as he

could, broke away the glass until it was all removed.

“There’s only old Stupid,” whispered he, irreverently designating an

under-master named Harley, “and he’s asleep before the fire. Now, then,

just lift me up, Eric, will you?”

Eric lifted him, and he removed the nails which fastened the end of the

bar. They looked secure enough, and were nails an inch long driven into

the mortar; but they had been successfully loosened, and only wanted a

little pull to bring them out. In one minute Wildney had unfastened and

pushed down one end of the bar. He then got through the broken pane, and

dropped down outside. Eric followed with some little difficulty, for the

aperture would only just admit his passage; and Duncan, going back to

the study, anxiously awaited their return.

It was a bright moonlight night, and the autumn air was pleasant and

cool. But Eric’s first thought, as he dropped on to the ground, was one

of shame that he should suffer his new friend, a mere child, so easily

to tempt him into disobedience and sin. He had hardly thought till then

of what their errand was to be, but now his couldn’t help so strongly

disapproving of it, that he was half-inclined to turn back. He did not,

however, dare to suggest this, lest Wildney should charge him with

cowardice, and betray it to the rest. Besides, the adventure had its own

excitement, the stars looked splendid, and the stolen waters were sweet.

“I hope we shan’t be seen crossing the play-ground,” said Wildney. “My

eye, shouldn’t we catch it!”

He was obviously beginning to be afraid, so Eric assumed an air of

nonchalance, and played the part of protector.

“Here, take my arm,” he said; and as Wildney grasped it tight, instead

of feeling angry and ashamed at having been misled by one so much his

junior, Eric felt strongly drawn towards him by community of danger and

interest. Reaching Ellan, it suddenly struck him that he didn’t know

where they were going to buy the beer. He asked Wildney.

“Oh, I see you’re not half up to snuff,” said Wildney, whose courage had

risen; “I’ll show you.”

He led to a little low public-house, whence tipsy songs were booming,

and tapped at a side door three times. As they looked in they saw some

sailors boozing in a dirty tap-room, and enveloped in tobacco-smoke.

The side-door was opened, and a cunning wicked-looking man held up a

light to see who they were.

“Hollo, Billy,” said Wildney, confidentially, “all serene; give us two

bottles of beer--on tick, you know.”

“Yessir--d’reckly,” said the man, with a hateful twinkle of the eyes.

“So you’re out for a spree,” he continued, winking in a knowing way.

“Won’t you walk into the back-parlor while I get them?” And he showed

them into a dingy horrid room behind the house, stale with smoke, and

begrimed with dust.

Eric was silent and disgusted, but Wildney seemed quite at home. The

man soon returned with the beer. “Wouldn’t you like a glass of summat

now, young gen’lmen?” he asked, in an insinuating way.

“No, Billy! don’t jabber--we must be off. Here open the door.”

“Stop, I’ll pay,” said Eric. “What’s the damage?”

“Three shilling, sir,” said the man. “Glad to see a new customer, sir.”

He pocketed the money, and showed them, out, standing to look after them

with a malicious leer as they disappeared, and jerking his left thumb

over his shoulder.

“Faugh!” said Eric, taking a long breath as they got out again into the

moonlight, “what a poisonous place! Good gracious, Charlie, who

introduced you there?”

“Oh, I don’t think much of going _there_” said Wildney, carelessly; “we

go every-week almost.”

“We! who?”

“Oh, Brigson and a lot of us. We have a club there which we call the

‘Anti-muffs,’ and that’s our smoking-room.”

“And is that horrid beast the landlord?”

“Yes; he was an old school-servant, and there’s no harm in him that I

know of.”

But Eric only “phewed” again two or three times, and thought of Montagu.

Suddenly Wildney clutched him by the arm, and pulled him into the deep

shadow of a porch, whispering, in a low tone, “Look!”

Under a lamp-post, directly opposite them, stood Mr. Rose! He had heard

voices and footsteps a moment before, and, puzzled at their sudden

cessation in the noiseless street, he was looking round.

“We must run for it,” whispered Wildney hastily, as Mr. Rose approached

the porch; and the two boys took to their heels, and scampered away as

hard as they could, Eric helping on Wildney by taking his hand, and

neither of them looking behind. They heard Mr. Rose following them at

first, but soon distanced him, and reached a place where two roads met,

either of which would lead to the school.

“We won’t go by the road; I know a short cut by the fields. What fun!”

said Wildney, laughing.

“What an audacious little monkey you are; you know all sorts of dodges,”

said Eric.

They had no time to talk, but with, a speed winged by fear got to the

school, sprang on the buttress beneath the window, effected their

entrance, and vanished after replacing the bar--Eric to his study, and

Wildney to his dormitory.

“Here’s a go!” said the latter, as they ran up stairs; “I’ve smashed one

of the beer-bottles in getting through the window, and my trousers are

deluged with the stuff.”

They had hardly separated when Mr. Rose’s step was heard on the stairs.

He was just returning from a dinner-party, when the sight of two boys

and the sound of their voices startled him in the street, and their

sudden disappearance made him sure that they were Roslyn boys,

particularly when they began to run. He strongly suspected that he

recognised Wildney as one of them, and therefore made straight for his

dormitory, which he entered, just as that worthy had thrust the

beer-stained trousers under his bed. Mr. Rose, walked up quietly to his

bedside, and observed that he was not asleep, and that he still had half

has clothes on. He was going away when he saw a little bit of the

trousers protruding under the mattress, and giving a pull, out they

came, wringing wet with the streams of beer. He could not tell at first

what this imported, but a fragment of the bottle fell out of the pocket

with, a crash on the floor, and he then discovered. Taking no notice of

Wildney’s pretended sleep, he said, quietly, “Come to me before

breakfast tomorrow, Wildney,” and went down stairs.

Eric came in soon after, and found the little fellow vainly attempting

to appear indifferent, as he related to his admiring auditors the

night’s adventure; being evidently rather prouder of the “Eric and I,”

which he introduced every now and then into his story.

“Has he twigged you?”

“Yes.”

“And me?”

“I don’t know; we shall see to-morrow.”

“I hope not,” said Eric; “I’m sorry for you, Charlie.”

“Can’t be cured, must be endured,” said Wildney.

“Well, good night! and don’t lose heart.”

Eric went back to Duncan in the study, and they finished the other

bottle of beer between them, though without much enjoyment, because they

were full of surmises as to the extent of the discovery, and the nature

of the punishment.

Eric went in to tell Montagu of their escapade.

He listened very coldly, and said, “Well, Eric, it would serve you right

to be caught. What business have you to be going out at night, at the

invitation of contemptible small fry, like this little Wildney?”

“I beg you won’t speak of any friend of mine in those terms,” said Eric,

drawing up haughtily.

“I hope you don’t call a bad little boy like Wildney, who’d be no

credit to any one, _your_ friend, Eric?”

“Yes I do, though. He’s one of the pluckiest, finest, most promising

fellows in the lower school.”

“How I begin to hate that word plucky,” said Montagu; “it’s made the

excuse here for everything that’s wrong, base, and unmanly. It seems to

me it’s infinitely more ‘plucky’ just now to do your duty and not be

ashamed of it.”

“You’ve certainly required _that_ kind of pluck to bear you up lately,

Monty,” said Owen, looking up from his books.

“Pluck!” said Montagu, scornfully; “you seem to me to think it consists

in lowering yourself down to the level of that odious Brigson, and

joining hand and glove with the dregs of the school.”

“Dregs of the school! Upon my word, you’re cool, to speak of any of my

associates in that way,” said Eric, now thoroughly angry.

“Associates!” retorted Montagu, hotly; “pretty associates! How do you

expect anything good to go on, when fellows high in the school like you

have such dealings with the refined honorable Brigson, and the exemplary

intellectual Wildney?”

“You’re a couple of confounded muffs,” shouted Eric, banging the door,

and flinging into his own study again without farther reply.

“Hav’n’t you been a little hard on him, considering the row he’s in?”

asked Owen.

Montagu’s head was resting on his hand as he bent over the table.

“Perhaps I have, indeed. But who could help it, Owen, in the present

state of things? Yes, you’re right,” he said, after a pause; “_this_

wasn’t the time to speak. I’ll go and talk to him again. But how utterly

changed he is!”

He found Eric on the stairs going down to bed with an affectation of

noise and gaiety. He ran after him, and said--

“Forgive me my passion and sarcasm, Williams. You know I am apt to

express myself strongly.” He could not trust himself to say more, but

held out his hand.

Eric got red, and hesitated for a moment.

“Come, Eric, it isn’t _wholly_ my fault, is it, that we are not so warm

to each other as we were when ...”

“Oh, Monty, Monty!” said Eric, softened by the allusion; and warmly

grasped his friend’s proffered hand.

“Oh, Eric!”

The two shook hands in silence, and as they left each other they felt

that while things continued thus their friendship could not last. It was

a sad thought for both.

Next morning Wildney received a severe flogging, but gained great

reputation by not betraying his companion, and refusing to drop the

least hint as to their means of getting out, or their purpose in

visiting Ellan. So the secret of the bar remained undiscovered, and when

any boy wanted to get out at night--(unhappily the trick now became

common enough)--he had only to break a pane of glass in that particular

window, which, as it was in the passage, often remained unmended and

undiscovered for weeks.

After the flogging, Mr. Rose said shortly to Eric, “I want to speak to

you.”

The boy’s heart misgave him as they entered the familiar library.

“I think I suspect who was Wildney’s companion.”

Eric was silent.

“I have no proof, and shall not therefore act on vague suspicion; but

the boy whom I _do_ suspect is one whose course lately has given me the

deepest pain; one who has violated all the early promise he gave; one

who seems to be going farther and farther astray, and sacrificing all

moral principle to the ghost of a fleeting and most despicable

popularity--to the approval of those whom he cannot himself approve.”

Eric still silent.

“Whatever you do _yourself_, Williams”--(it was the first time for two

years that Mr. Rose had called him “Williams,” and he winced a

little)--“whatever you do _yourself_, Williams, rests with _you_; but

remember it is a ten-thousandfold heavier and more accursed crime to set

stumbling-blocks in the way of others, and abuse your influence to cause

any of Christ’s little ones to perish.”

“I wasn’t the tempter, however,” thought Eric, still silent.

“Well, you seem hardened, and give no sign. Believe me, Williams, I

grieve for you, and that bitterly. My interest in you is no less warm,

though my affection for you cannot be the same. You may go.”

“Another friend alienated, and oh, how true a one! He has not asked me

to see him once this term,” thought Eric, sadly; but a shout of pleasure

greeted him directly he joined the football in the play-ground, and,

half consoled, he hoped Mr. Rose had heard it, and understood that was

meant for the boy whom he had just been rebuking. “Well, after all,” he

thought, “I have _some_ friends still.”

Yes, friends, such as they were! Except Duncan, hardly one boy whom he

really respected ever walked with him now. Even little Wright, one of

the very few lower boys who had risen superior to Brigson’s temptations,

seemed to keep clear of him as much as he could; and, in absolute

vacuity, he was obliged to associate with fellows like Attlay, and

Graham, and Llewellyn, and Bull.

Even with Bull! All Eric’s repugnance for this boy seemed to have

evaporated; they were often together, and, to all appearance, were sworn

friends. Eric did not shrink now from such conversation as was pursued

unchecked in his presence by nearly every one; nay, worse, it had lost

its horror, and he was neither afraid nor ashamed to join in it himself.

This plague-spot had fretted more deeply than any other into the heart

of the school morality, and the least boys seemed the greatest

proficients in unbaring without a blush, its hideous ugliness.

CHAPTER III

“THE JOLLY HERRING”

“Velut unda supervenit undam.”--VIRGIL.

The Anti-muffs request the honor of Williams’ company to a spread they

are going to have to-morrow evening at half-past four, in their

smoking-room--

A note to this effect was put into Eric’s hands by Wildney after

prayers. He read it when he got into his study, and hardly knew whether

to be pleased or disgusted at it.

He tossed it to Duncan, and said, “What shall I do?”

Duncan turned up his nose, and chucked the note into the fire.

“I’d give them that answer, and no other.”

“Why?”

“Because, Eric,” said Duncan, with more seriousness than was usual with

him, “I can’t help thinking things have gone too far lately.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I’m no saint myself, Heaven knows; but I do think that the

fellows are worse now than I have ever known them--far worse. Your

friend Brigson reigns supreme out of the studies; he has laid down a law

that _no work_ is to be done down stairs ever under any pretence, and

it’s only by getting into one of the studies that good little chaps

like Wright can get on at all. Even in the class-rooms there’s so much

row and confusion that the mere thought of work is ridiculous.”

“Well, there’s no great harm in a little noise, if that’s all.”

“But it isn’t all. The talk of nearly the whole school is getting most

blackguardly; shamelessly so. Only yesterday Wildney was chatting with

Vernon up here (you were out, or Vernon would not have been here) while

I was reading; they didn’t seem to mind me, and I’m sure you’d have been

vexed to the heart if you’d heard how they talked to each other. At last

I couldn’t stand it any longer, and bouncing up, I boxed both their ears

smartly, and kicked them down stairs.”

As Eric said nothing, Duncan continued, “And I wish it ended in talk,

but----”

“But I believe you’re turning Owenite. Why, bless me, we’re only

schoolboys; it’ll be lots of time to turn saint some other day.”

Eric was talking at random, and in the spirit of opposition. “You don’t

want to make the whole school such a muffish set as the rosebuds,

do you?”

There was something of assumed bravado in Eric’s whole manner which

jarred on Duncan exceedingly. “Do as you like,” he said, curtly, and

went into another study.

Immediately after came a rap at the door, and in walked Wildney, as he

often did after the rest were gone to bed, merely slipping his trousers

over his nightshirt, and running up to the studies.

“Well, you’ll come to the Anti-muffs, won’t you?” he said.

“To that pestilential place again?--not I.”

Wildney looked offended. “Not after we’ve all asked you? The fellows

won’t half like your refusing.”

He had touched Eric’s weak point.

“Do come,” he said, looking up in Eric’s face.

“Confound it all,” answered Eric, hastily. “Yes, I’ve no friends, I’ll

come, Charlie. Anything to please you, boy.”

“That’s a brick. Then I shall cut down and tell the fellows. They’ll be

no end glad. No friends! why all the school like you.” And he scampered

off, leaving Eric ill at ease.

Duncan didn’t re-enter the study that evening.

The next day, about half-past four, Eric found himself on the way to

Ellan. As he was starting, Bull caught him up, and said--

“Are you going to the Anti-muffs?”

“Yes; why? are you going too?”

“Yes; do you mind our going together?”

“Not at all.”

In fact, Eric was very glad of some one--no matter who--to keep him in

countenance, for he felt considerably more than half ashamed

of himself.

They went to “The Jolly Herring,” as the pot-house was called, and

passed through the dingy beery tap-room into the back parlor, to which

Eric had already been introduced by Wildney. About a dozen boys were

assembled, and there was a great clapping on the table as the two

new-comers entered. A long table was laid down the room, which was

regularly spread for dinner.

“Now then, Billy; make haste with the goose,” called Brigson. “I vote,

boys, that Eric Williams takes the chair.”

“Hear! hear!” said half a dozen; and Eric, rather against his will,

found himself ensconced at the end of the table, with Brigson and Bull

on either hand. The villainous-low-foreheaded man, whom they called

Billy, soon brought in a tough goose at one end of the table, and some

fowls at the other; and they fell to, doing ample justice to the [Greek:

daiz heisae] while Billy waited on them. There was immense uproar during

the dinner, every one eating as fast, and talking as loud, as he could.

The birds soon vanished, and were succeeded by long rolly-polly

puddings, which the boys called Goliahs; and they, too, rapidly

disappeared. Meanwhile beer was circling only too plentifully.

“Now for the dessert, Billy,” called several voices; and that worthy

proceeded to put on the table some figs, cakes, oranges, and four black

bottles of wine. There was a general grab for these dainties, and one

boy shouted, “I say, I’ve had no wine.”

“Well, it’s all gone. We must get some brandy--it’s cheaper,” said

Brigson; and accordingly some brandy was brought in, which the boys

diluted with hot water, and soon despatched.

“Here! before you’re all done swilling,” said Brigson, “I’ve got a

health; ‘Confound muffs and masters, and success to the anti’s.’”

“And their chairman,’ suggested Wildney.

“And their chairman, the best fellow in the school,” added Brigson.

The health was drunk with due clamor, and Eric got up to thank them.

“I’m not going to spout,” he said; “but boys must be boys, and there’s

no harm in a bit of fun. I for one have enjoyed it, and am much obliged

to you for asking me; and now I call for a song.”

“Wildney! Wildney’s song,” called several.

Wildney had a good voice, and struck up, without the least bashfulness--

“Come, landlord, fill the flowing bowl,

Until it does run overt

Come, landlord, fill,” &c

“Now,” he said, “join in the chorus!” The boys, all more or less

excited, joined in heartily and uproariously--

“For to-night we’ll merry merry be!

For to-night we’ll merry merry be!

For to-night we’ll merry merry be!

To-morrow we’ll be sober!”

While Wildney sang, Eric had time to think. As he glanced round the

room, at the flushed faces of the boys, some of whom he could not

recognise in the dusky atmosphere, a qualm of disgust and shame passed

over him. Several of them were smoking, and, with Bull and Brigson

heading the line on each, side of the table, he could not help observing

what a bad set they looked. The remembrance of Russell came back to him.

Oh, if Edwin could have known that he was in such company at such a

place! And by the door stood Billy, watching them all like an evil

spirit, with a leer of saturnine malice on his evil face.

But the bright little Wildney, unconscious of Eric’s bitter thoughts,

sang on with overflowing mirth. As Eric looked at him, shining out like

a sunbeam among the rest, he felt something like blood-guiltiness on his

soul, when, he felt that he was sanctioning the young boy’s presence in

that degraded assemblage.

Wildney meanwhile was just beginning the next verse, when he was

interrupted by a general cry of “cavé, cavé.” In an instant the room was

in confusion; some one dashed the candles upon the floor, the table was

overturned with a mighty crash, and plates, glasses, and bottles rushed

on to the ground in shivers. Nearly every one bolted for the door, which

led through the passage into the street; and in their headlong flight

and selfishness, they stumbled over each other, and prevented all

egress, several being knocked down and bruised in the crush. Others made

for the tap-room; but, as they opened the door leading into it, there

stood Mr. Ready and Mr. Gordon! and as it was impossible to pass without

being seen, they made no further attempt at escape. All this was the

work of a minute. Entering the back parlor, the two masters quickly took

down the names of full half the boys who, in the suddenness of the

surprise, had been unable to make their exit.

And Eric?

The instant that the candles were knocked over, he felt Wildney seize

his hand, and whisper, “This way all serene;” following, he groped his

way in the dark to the end of the room, where Wildney, shoving aside a

green baize curtain, noiselessly opened a door, which at once let them

into a little garden. There they both crouched down, under a lilac tree

beside the house, and listened intently.

There was no need for this precaution; their door remained unsuspected,

and in five minutes the coast was clear. Creeping into the house again,

they whistled, and Billy coming in, told them that the masters had gone,

and all was safe.

“Glad ye’re not twigged, gen’lmen,” he said; “but there’ll be a pretty

sight of damage for all this glass and plates.”

“Shut up with your glass and plates,” said Wildney. “Here, Eric, we must

cut for it again.”

It was the dusk of a winter evening when they got out from the close

room into the open air, and they had to consider which way they would

choose to avoid discovery. They happened to choose the wrong, but

escaped by dint of hard running, and Wildney’s old short cut. As they

ran they passed several boys (who having been caught, were walking home

leisurely), and managed to get back undiscovered, when they both

answered their names quite innocently at the roll-call, immediately

after lock up.

“What lucky dogs you are to get off,” said many boys to them.

“Yes, it’s precious lucky for me,” said Wildney. “If I’d been caught at

this kind of thing a second time, I should have got something worse than

a swishing.”

“Well, it’s all through you I escaped,” said Eric, “you knowing little

scamp.”

“I’m glad of it, Eric,” said Wildney in his fascinating way, “since it

is all through me you went. It’s rather too hazardous though; we must

manage better another time.”

During tea-time Eric was silent, as he felt pretty sure that none of the

sixth form or other study boys would particularly sympathise with his

late associates. Since the previous evening he had been cool with

Duncan, and the rest had long rather despised him as a boy who’d do

anything to be popular; so he sat there silent, looking as disdainful as

he could, and not touching the tea, for which he felt disinclined after

the recent potations. But the contemptuous exterior hid a self-reproving

heart, and he felt how far more noble Owen and Montagu were than he. How

gladly would he have changed places with them! how much he would have

given to recover some of their forfeited esteem!

The master on duty was Mr. Rose, and after tea he left the room for a

few minutes while the tables were cleared for “preparation,” and the

boys were getting out their books and exercises. All the study and

class-room boys were expected to go away during this interval; but Eric,

not noticing Mr. Rose’s entrance, sat gossipping with Wildney about the

dinner and its possible consequences to the school.

He was sitting on the desk carelessly, with one leg over the other, and

bending down towards Wildney. He had just told him that he looked like a

regular little sunbeam in the smoking-room of the Jolly Herring, and

Wildney was pretending to be immensely offended by the simile.

“Hush! no more talking,” said Mr. Rose, who did everything very gently

and quietly. Eric heard him, but he was inclined to linger, and had

always received such mild treatment from Mr. Rose, that he didn’t think

he would take much notice of the delay. For the moment he did not, so

Wildney began to chatter again.

“All study boys to leave the room,” said Mr. Rose.

Eric just glanced round and moved slightly; he might have gone away,

but that he caught a satirical look in Wildney’s eye, and besides wanted

to show off a little indifference to his old master, with whom he had

had no intercourse since their last-mentioned conversation.

“Williams, go away instantly; what do you mean by staying after I have

dismissed you?” said Mr. Rose sternly.

Every one knew what a favorite Eric had once been, so this speech

created a slight titter. The boy heard it just as he was going out of

the room, and it annoyed him, and called to arms all his proud and

dogged obstinacy. Pretending to have forgotten something, he walked

conceitedly back to Wildney, and whispered to him, “I shan’t go if he

chooses to speak like that.”

A red flush passed over Mr. Rose’s cheek; he took two strides to Eric,

and laid the cane sharply once across his back.

Eric was not quite himself, or he would not have acted as he had done.

His potations, though not deep, had, with the exciting events of the

evening, made his head giddy, and the stroke of the cane, which he had

not felt now for two years, roused him to madness. He bounded up, sprang

towards Mr. Rose, and almost before he knew what he was about, had

wrenched the cane out of his hands, twisted it violently in the middle

until it broke, and flung one of the pieces furiously into the fire.

For one instant, boy and master--Eric Williams and Mr. Rose--stood

facing each other amid breathless silence, the boy panting and

passionate, with his brain swimming, and his heart on fire; the master

pale, grieved, amazed beyond measure, but perfectly self-collected.

“After that exhibition,” said Mr. Rose, with cold and quiet dignity,

“you had better leave the room.”

“Yes, I had,” answered Eric bitterly; “there’s your cane.” And, flinging

the other fragment at Mr. Rose’s head, he strode blindly out of the

room, sweeping books from the table, and overturning several boys in his

way. He then banged the door with all his force, and rushed up into

his study.

Duncan was there, and remarking his wild look and demeanor, asked, after

a moment’s awkward silence, “Is anything the matter, Williams?”

“Williams!” echoed Eric with a scornful laugh; “yes, that’s always the

way with a fellow when he’s in trouble. I always know what’s coming when

you begin to leave off calling me by my Christian name.”

“Very well, then,” said Duncan, good-humoredly, “what’s the matter,

Eric?”

“Matter?” answered Brie, pacing up and down the little room with an

angry to-and-fro like a caged wild beast, and kicking everything which

came in his way. “Matter? hang you all, you are all turning against me,

because you are a set of muffs, and----”

“Take care!” said Duncan; but suddenly he caught Eric’s look, and

stopped.

“And I’ve been breaking Rose’s cane over his head, because he had the

impudence to touch, me with it, and----”

“Eric, you’re not yourself to-night,” said Duncan, interrupting, but

speaking in the kindest tone; and taking Eric’s hand, he looked him

steadily in the face.

Their eyes met; the boy’s false self once more slipped off. By a strong

effort he repressed the rising passion which the fumes of drink had

caused, and flinging him self on his chair, refused to speak again, or

even to go down stairs when the prayer-bell rang.

Seeing that in his present mood there was nothing to be done with him,

Duncan, instead of returning to the study, went after prayers into

Montagu’s, and talked with him over the recent events, of which the

boys’ minds were all full.

But Eric sat lonely, sulky, and miserable, in his study, doing nothing,

and when Montagu came in to visit him, felt inclined to resent

his presence.

“So!” he said, looking up at the ceiling, “another saint come to cast a

stone at me! Well! I suppose I must be resigned,” he continued, dropping

his cheek on his hand again; “only don’t let the sermon be long.”

But Montagu took no notice of his sardonic harshness, and seated himself

by his side, though Eric pettishly pushed him away.

“Come, Eric,” said Montagu, taking the hand which was repelling him; “I

won’t be repulsed in this way. Look at me. What? won’t you even look? Oh

Eric, one wouldn’t have fancied this in past days, when we were so much

together with one who is dead. It’s a long long time since we’ve eyen

alluded to him, but _I_ shall never forget those happy days.”

Eric heaved a deep sigh.

“I’m not come to reproach you. You don’t give me a friend’s right to

reprove. But still, Eric, for your own sake, dear fellow, I can’t help

being sorry for all this. I did hope you’d have broken with Brigson

after the thrashing I gave him, for the way in which he treated me. I

don’t think you _can_ know the mischief he is doing.”

The large tears began to soften the fire of Eric’s eye, “Ah!” he said,

“it’s all of no use; you’re all giving me the cold shoulder, and I’m

going to the bad, that’s the long and short of it.”

“Oh, Eric! for your own sake, for your parents’ sake, for the school’s

sake, for all your real friends’ sake, don’t talk in that bitter

hopeless way. You are too noble a fellow to be made the tool or the

patron of the boys who lead, while they seem to follow you. I _do_ hope

you’ll join us even yet in resisting them.”

Eric had laid his head on the table, which shook with his emotion. “I

can’t talk, Monty,” he said, in an altered tone; “but leave me now; and

if you like, we will have a walk to-morrow.”

“Most willingly, Eric.” And again, warmly pressing his hand, Montagu

returned to his own study.

Soon after, there came a timid knock at Eric’s door. He expected Wildney

as usual; a little before, he had been looking out for him, and hoping

he would come, but he didn’t want to see him now, so he answered rather

peevishly, “Come in; but I don’t want to be bothered to-night.”

Not Wildney, but Vernon appeared at the door. “May I come in? not if it

bothers you, Eric,” he said, gently.

“Oh, Verny, I didn’t know it was you; I thought it would be Wildney. You

_never_ come now.”

The little boy came in, and his pleading look seemed to say, “Whose

fault is that?”

“Come here, Verny;” and Eric drew him towards him, and put him on his

knee, while the tears trembled large and luminous in the child’s eyes.

It was the first time for many a long day that the brothers had been

alone together, the first time for many a long day that any acts of

kindness had passed between them. Both seemed to remember this, and, at

the same time, to remember home, and their absent parents, and their

mother’s prayers, and all the quiet half-forgotten vista of innocent

pleasures, and sacred relationships, and holy affections. And why did

they see each other so little at school? Their consciences told them

both, that either wished to conceal from the other his wickedness and

forgetfulness of God.

They wept together; and once more, as they had not done since they were

children, each brother put his arm round the other’s neck, and

remorseful Eric could not help being amazed, how, in his cruel heartless

selfishness, he had let that fair child go so far astray; left him as a

prey to such boys as were his companions in the lower school.

“Eric, did you know I was caught to-night at the dinner?”

“You!” said Brie, with a start and a deep blush. “Good heavens! I didn’t

notice you, and should not have dreamt of coming, if I’d known you were

there. Oh, Vernon, forgive me for setting you such, a bad example.”

“Yes, I was there, and I was caught.”

“Poor boy! but never mind; there are such a lot that you can’t get much

done to you.”

“It isn’t _that_ I care for; I’ve been flogged before, you know.

But--may I say something?”

“Yes, Vernon, anything you like.”

“Well, then,--oh, Eric! I am so, so sorry that you did that to Mr. Rose

to-night. All the fellows are praising you up, of course; but I could

have cried to see it, and I did. I wouldn’t have minded if it had been

anybody but Rose.”

“But why?”

“Because, Eric, he’s been so good, so kind to both of us. You’ve often

told me about him, you know, at Fairholm, and he’s done such, lots of

kind things to me. And only to-night, when he heard I was caught, he

sent for me to the library, and spoke so firmly, yet so gently, about

the wickedness of going to such low places, and about so young a boy as

I am learning to drink, and the ruin of it and--and”--His voice was

choked by sobs for a time,--“and then he knelt down and prayed for me,

so as I have never heard any one pray but mother;--and do you know,

Eric, it was strange, but I thought I _did_ hear our mother’s voice

praying for me too, while he prayed, and”--He tried in vain to go on;

but Eric’s conscience continued for him; “and just as he had ceased

doing this for one brother, the other brother, for whom he has often

done the same, treated him with coarseness, violence, and insolence.”

“Oh, I am utterly wretched, Verny. I hate myself And to think that while

I am like this, they are yet loving and praising me at home. And, oh,

Verny, I was so sorry to hear from Duncan, how you were talking the

other day.”

Vernon hid his face on Eric’s shoulder; and as his brother stooped over

him, and folded him to his heart, they cried in silence, until wearied

with sorrow, the younger fell asleep; and then Eric carried him tenderly

down stairs, and laid him, still half-sleeping, upon his bed.

He laid him down, and looked at him as he slumbered. The other boys had

not been disturbed by their noiseless entrance, and he sat down on his

brother’s bed to think, shading off the light of the candle with his

hand. It was rarely now that Eric’s thoughts were so rich with the

memories of childhood, and sombre with the consciousness of sin, as they

were that night, while he gazed on his brother Vernon’s face. He did not

know what made him look so long and earnestly; an indistinct sorrow, an

unconjectured foreboding, passed over his mind, like the shadow of a

summer cloud. Vernon was now slumbering deeply; his soft childish curls

fell off his forehead, and his head nestled in the pillow; but there was

an expression of uneasiness on his sleeping features, and the long

eyelashes were still wet with tears.

“Poor child,” thought Eric; “dear little Vernon; and he is to be

flogged, perhaps birched, to-morrow.”

He went off sadly to bed, and hardly once remembered, that _he_ too

would come in for certain punishment the next day.

CHAPTER IV

MR. ROSE AND BRIGSON

“Raro antecedentem scelestum

Deseruit pede Poena claudo.”--HOR.

After prayers the next morning Dr. Rowlands spoke to his boarders on the

previous day’s discovery, and in a few forcible vivid words set before

them, the enormity of the offence. He ended by announcing that the boys

who were caught would be birched,--“except the elder ones, Bull and

Brigson, who will bring me one hundred lines every hour of the

half-holidays till further notice. There are some,” he said, “I am well

aware, who, though present yesterday, were not detected. I am sorry for

it, for _their_ sakes; they will be more likely to sin again. In cases

like this, punishment is a blessing, and impunity a burden.” On leaving

the room he bade Eric follow him into his study. Eric obeyed, and stood

before the head-master with downcast eyes.

“Williams,” he said, “I have had a great regard for you, and felt a deep

interest in you from the day I first saw you, and knew your excellent

parents. At one time I had conceived great hopes of your future course,

and your abilities seemed likely to blossom into noble fruit. But you

fell off greatly, and grew idle and careless. At last an event happened,

in which for a time you acted worthily of yourself, and which seemed to

arouse you from your negligence and indifference. All my hopes in you

revived; but as I continued to watch your course (more closely, perhaps,

than you supposed), I observed with pain that those hopes must be again

disappointed. It needs but a glance at your countenance to be sure that

you are not so upright or right-minded a boy as you were two years ago.

I can judge only from your outward course; but I deeply fear, Williams,

I deeply fear, that in _other_ respects also you are going the down-hill

road. And what am I to think now, when on the _same_ morning, you and

your little brother _both_ come before me for such serious and heavy

faults? I cannot free you from blame even for _his_ misdoings, for you

are his natural guardian here; I am only glad that you were not involved

with him in that charge.”

“Let _me_ bear the punishment, sir, instead of him,” said Eric, by a

sudden impulse; “for I misled him, and was there myself.”

Dr. Rowlands paced the room in deep sorrow. “You, Williams! on the verge

of the sixth form. Alas! I fear, from this, that the state of things

among you is even worse than I had supposed.”

Eric again hung his head.

“No; you have confessed the sin voluntarily, and therefore at present I

shall not notice it; only, let me entreat you to beware. But I must turn

to the other matter. What excuse have you for your intolerable conduct

to Mr. Rose, who, as I know, has shown you from the first the most

unusual and disinterested kindness?”

“I cannot defend myself, sir. I was excited, and could not control my

passion.”

“Then you must sit down here, and write an apology, which I shall make

you read aloud before the whole school at twelve to-day.”

Eric, with trembling hand, wrote his apology, and Dr. Rowlands glanced at

it. “Come to me again at twelve,” he said.

At twelve all the school were assembled, and Eric, pale and miserable,

followed the Doctor into the great school-room. The masters stood at one

end of the room, and among them Mr. Rose, who, however, appeared an

indifferent and uninterested spectator of the transaction. Every eye was

fixed on Eric, and every one pitied him.

“We are assembled,” said Dr. Rowlands, “for an act of justice. One of

your number has insulted a master publicly, and is ashamed of his

conduct, and has himself written the apology which he will read. I had

intended to add a still severer punishment, but Mr. Rose has earnestly

begged me not to do so, and I have succumbed to his wishes. Williams,

read your apology.”

There was a dead hush, and Eric tried once or twice in vain to utter a

word. At last, by a spasmodic effort, he regained his voice, and read,

but in so low and nervous a tone, that not even those nearest him heard

what he was saying.

Dr. Rowlands took the paper from him. “Owing,” he said, “to a very

natural and pardonable emotion, the apology has been read in such a way

that you could not have understood it. I will therefore read it myself.

It is to this effect--

“‘I, Eric Williams, beg humbly and sincerely to apologise for my

passionate and ungrateful insult to Mr. Rose.’

“You will understand that he was left quite free to choose his own

expressions; and as he has acknowledged his shame and compunction for

the act, I trust that none of you will be tempted to elevate him into a

hero, for a folly which he himself so much regrets. This affair,--as I

should wish all bad deeds to be after they have once been

punished,--will now be forgiven, and I hope forgotten.”

They left the room and dispersed, and Eric fancied that all shunned and

looked coldly on his degradation But not so: Montagu came, and taking

his arm in the old friendly way, went a walk with him. It was a

constrained and silent walk, and they were both glad when it was over,

although Montagu did all he could to show that he loved Eric no less

than before. Still it was weeks since they had been much together, and

they had far fewer things in common now than they used to have.

“I’m so wretched, Monty,” said Eric at last; “do you think Rose despises

me?”

“I am _sure_ of the contrary. Won’t you go to him, Eric, and say all you

feel?”

“Heigh ho! I shall never get right again. Oh, to recover the last two

years!”

“You can redeem them, Eric, by a nobler present. Let the same words

comfort you that have often brought hope to me--‘I will restore the

years which the locust hath eaten.’”

They reached the school-door, and Eric went straight to the library. Mr.

Rose was there alone. He received him kindly, as usual, and Eric went up

to the fire-place where he was standing. They had often stood by that

library fire on far different terms.

“Forgive me, sir,” was all Eric could say, as the tears rushed to his

eyes.

“Freely, my boy,” said Mr. Rose, sadly. “I wish you could feel how fully

I forgive you; but,” he added, laying his hand for the last time on

Eric’s head, “you have far more, Eric, to forgive yourself. I will not

talk to you, Eric; it would be little good, I fear; but you little know

how much I pity and tremble for you.”

While these scenes were being enacted with Eric, a large group was

collected round the fire-place in the boarders’ room, and many tongues

were loudly discussing the recent events.

Alas for gratitude! there was not a boy in that group to whom Mr. Rose

had not done many an act of kindness; and to most of them far more than

they ever knew. Many a weary hour had he toiled for them in private,

when his weak frame was harassed by suffering; many a sleepless night

had he wrestled for them in prayer, when, for their sakes, his own many

troubles were laid aside. Work on, Walter Rose, and He who seeth in

secret will reward you openly! but expect no gratitude from those for

whose salvation you, like the great tenderhearted apostle, would almost

be ready to wish yourself accursed.

Nearly every one in that noisy group was abusing Mr. Rose. It had long

been Brigson’s cue to do so; he derided him on every opportunity, and

delighted to represent him as hypocritical and insincere. Even his weak

health was the subject of Brigson’s coarse ridicule, and the bad boy

paid, in deep hatred, the natural tribute which vice must ever accord to

excellence.

“You see how he turns on his pets if they offend him,” said Brigson;

“why, even that old beast Gordon isn’t as bad.”

“Yes; while poor Eric was reading, Rose reminded me of Milton’s

serpent,” drawled Bull;

“Hope elevates and joy brightens his crest.”

“He-e-ar! He-e-ar!” said Pietrie; “_vide_ the last fifth form Rep.”

“I expect Eric won’t see everything so much _couleur de Rose_ now, as

the French frog hath it,” remarked Graham.

“It was too bad to stand by and triumph, certainly,” observed Wildney.

“I say, you fellows,” remonstrated Wright, who, with Vernon, was sitting

reading a book at one of the desks, “all that isn’t fair. I’m sure you

all saw how really sorry Rose looked about it; and he said, you know,

that it was merely for the sake of school discipline that he put the

matter in Rowlands’ hands.”

“Discipline be hanged,” shouted Brigson; “we’ll have our revenge on him

yet, discipline or no.”

“I hope you won’t, though,” said Vernon; “I know Eric will be sorry if

you do.”

“The more muff he. We shall do as we like.”

“Well, I shall tell him; and I’m sure he’ll ask you not. You know how he

tries to stick up for Rose.”

“If you say a word more,” said Brigson, unaccustomed to being opposed

among his knot of courtiers, “I’ll kick you out of the room; you and

that wretched little fool there with you.”

“You may do as you like,” answered Wright, quietly, “but you won’t go

on like this long, I can tell you.”

Brigson tried to seize him, but failing, contented himself with flinging

a big coal at him as he ran out of the room, which narrowly missed

his head.

“I have it!” said Brigson; “that little donkey’s given me an idea. We’ll

_crust_ Rose to-night.”

“To crust,” gentle reader, means to pelt an obnoxious person with

crusts.

“Capital!” said some of the worst boys present; “we will.”

“Well, who’ll take part?”

No one offered. “What! are we all turning sneaks and cowards? Here,

Wildney, won’t you? you were abusing Rose just now.”

“Yes, I will,” said Wildney, but with no great alacrity. “You’ll not

have done till you’ve got us all expelled, I believe.”

“Fiddle-stick end! and what if we are? besides, he can’t expel half the

school.”

First two or three more offered, and then a whole lot, gaining courage

by numbers. So the plot was regularly laid. Pietrie and Graham were to

put out the lights at each end of one table immediately after tea, and

Wildney and Brooking at the other, when the study fellows had gone out.

There would then be only Mr. Rose’s candle burning, and the two middle

candles, which, in so large a room, would just give enough light for

their purpose. Then all the conspirators were to throng around the door,

and from it aim their crusts at Mr. Rose’s head, Not nearly so many

would have volunteered to join, but that they fancied Mr. Rose was too

gentle to take up the matter with vigor, and they were encouraged by

his quiet leniency towards Eric the night before. It was agreed that no

study-boy should be told of the intention, lest any of them should

interfere.

Many hearts beat fast at tea that night as they observed that numbers of

boys, instead of eating all their bread, were cutting off the crusts,

and breaking them into good-sized bits.

Tea finished, Mr. Rose said grace, and then sat down quietly reading in

his desk. The signal agreed on was the (accidental) dropping of a plate

by Brigson. The study-boys left the room.

Crash!--down fell a plate on the floor, breaking to pieces in the fall.

Instantly the four candles went out, and there was a hurried movement

towards the door, and a murmur of voices.

“Now then,” said Brigson, in a loud whisper, “what a funky set you are!

Here goes?”

The master, surprised at the sudden gloom and confusion, had just looked

up, unable to conjecture what was the matter. Brigson’s crust caught him

a sharp rap on the forehead as he moved.

In an instant he started up, and ten or twelve more crusts flew by or

hit him on the head, as he strode out of the desk towards the door.

Directly he stirred, there was a rush of boys into the passage, and if

he had once lost his judgment or temper, worse harm might have followed.

But he did not. Going to the door, he said, “Preparation will be in five

minutes; every boy not then in his place will be punished.”

During that five minutes the servants had cleared away the tea, full of

wonder; but Mr. Rose paced up and down the room, taking no notice of any

one. Immediately after, all the boys were in their places, with their

books open before them, and in the thrilling silence you might have

heard a pin drop. Every one felt that Mr. Rose was master of the

occasion, and awaited his next step in terrified suspense.

They all perceived how thoroughly they had mistaken their subject. The

ringleaders would have given all they had to be well out of the scrape.

Mr. Rose ruled by kindness, but he never suffered his will to be

disputed for an instant. He governed with such consummate tact, that

they hardly felt it to be government at all, and hence arose their

stupid miscalculation. But he felt that the time was now come to assert

his paramount authority, and determined to do so at once and for ever.

“Some of you have mistaken me,” he said, in a voice so strong and stern

that it almost startled them. “The silly display of passion in one boy

yesterday has led you to presume that you may trifle with me. You are

wrong. For Williams’ sake, as a boy who has, or at least once _had_,

something noble in him, I left that matter in the Doctor’s hands. I

shall _not_ do so to-night. Which of you put out the candles?”

Dead silence. A pause.

“Which of you had the audacity to throw pieces of bread at me?”

Still silence.

“I warn you that I _will_ know, and it will be far worse for the guilty

if I do not know at once.” There was unmistakeable decision in the tone.

“Very well. I know many boys who were _not_ guilty because I saw them

in parts of the room where to throw was impossible. I shall now _ask_

all the rest, one by one, if they took any part in this. And beware of

telling me a lie.”

There was an uneasy sensation in the room, and several boys began to

whisper aloud, “Brigson! Brigson!” The whisper grew louder, and Mr. Rose

heard it. He turned on Brigson like a lion, and said--

“They call your name; stand out!”

The awkward, big, ungainly boy, with his repulsive countenance, shambled

out of his place into the middle of the room. Mr. Rose swept him with

one flashing glance. “_That_ is the boy,” thought he to himself, “who

has been like an ulcer to this school. These boys shall have a good look

at their hero.” It was but recently that Mr. Rose knew all the harm

which Brigson had been doing, though he had discovered, almost from the

first, what _sort_ of character he had.

So Brigson stood out in the room, and as they looked at him, many a boy

cursed him in their hearts for evil taught them, such as a lifetime’s

struggle could not unteach. And it was _that_ fellow, that stupid,

clumsy, base compound of meanness and malice, that had ruled like a king

among them. Faugh!

“They call your name! Do you know anything of this?”

“No!” said Brigson; “I’ll swear I’d nothing to do with it.”

“Oh-h-h-h!” the long, intense, deep-drawn expression of disgust and

contempt ran round the room.

“You have told me a lie!” said Mr. Rose, slowly, and with ineffable

contempt. “No words can express my loathing for your false and

dishonorable conduct. Nor shall your lie save you, as you shall find

immediately. Still, you shall escape if you can or dare to deny it

again. I repeat my question--Were you engaged in this?”

He fixed his full, piercing eye on the culprit, whom it seemed to scorch

and wither. Brigson winced back, and said nothing. “As I thought,”

said Mr. Rose.

“Not _one_ boy only, but many, were engaged. I shall call you up one by

one to answer me. Wildney, come here.”

The boy walked in front of the desk.

“Were you one of those who threw?”