Wildney, full as he was of dangerous and deadly faults, was no coward,

and not a liar. He knew, or at least feared, that this new scrape might

be fatal to him, but, raising his dark and glistening eyes to Mr. Rose,

he said penitently--

“I didn’t throw, sir, but I _did_ put out one of the candles that it

might be done.”

The contrast with Brigson was very great; the dark cloud hung a little

less darkly on Mr. Rose’s forehead, and there was a very faint murmur

of applause.

“Good! stand back. Pietrie, come up.”

Pietrie, too, confessed, and indeed all the rest of the plotters except

Brooking. Mr. Rose’s lip curled with scorn as he heard the exclamation

which his denial caused; but he suffered him to sit down.

When Wright’s turn came to be asked, Mr. Rose said--“No! I shall not

even ask you, Wright. I know well that your character is too good to be

involved in such an attempt.”

The boy bowed humbly, and sat down. Among the last questioned was

Vernon Williams, and Mr. Rose seemed anxious for his answer.

“No,” he said at once,--and seemed to wish to add something.

“Go on,” said Mr. Rose, encouragingly.

“Oh, sir! I only wanted to say that I hope you won’t think Eric knew of

this. He would have hated it, sir, more even than I do.”

“Good,” said Mr. Rose; “I am sure of it. And now,” turning to the

offenders, “I shall teach you never to dare again to be guilty of such

presumption and wickedness as to-night. I shall punish you according to

my notion of your degrees of guilt. Brigson, bring me a cane from

that desk.”

He brought it.

“Hold out your hand.”

The cane fell, and instantly split up from top to bottom. Mr. Rose

looked at it, for it was new that morning.

“Hah! I see; more mischief; there is a hair in it.”

The boys were too much frightened to smile at the complete success of

the trick.

“Who did this? I must be told at once.”

“I did, sir,” said Wildney, stepping forward.

“Ha! very well,” said Mr. Rose, while, in spite of his anger, a smile

hovered at the corner of his lips. “Go and borrow me a cane from

Mr. Harley.”

While he went there was unbroken silence.

“Now, sir,” said he to Brigson, “I shall flog you.”

Corporal punishment was avoided with the bigger boys, and Brigson had

never undergone it before. At the first stroke he writhed and yelled;

at the second he retreated, twisting like a serpent, and blubbering like

a baby; at the third he flung himself on his knees, and, as the strokes

fell fast, clasped Mr. Rose’s arm, and implored and besought for mercy.

“_Miserable_ coward,” said Mr. Rose, throwing into the word such ringing

scorn that no one who heard it ever forgot it. He indignantly shook the

boy off, and caned him till he rolled on the floor, losing every

particle of self-control, and calling out, “The devil--the devil--the

devil!” (“invoking his patron saint,” as Wildney maliciously observed).

“There! cease to blaspheme, and get up,” said the master, blowing out a

cloud of fiery indignation. “There, sir. Retribution comes at last,

leaden-footed but iron-handed. A long catalogue of sins is visited on

you to-day, and not only on your shrinking body, but on your conscience

too, if you have one left. Let those red marks betoken that your reign

is ended. Liar and tempter, you have led boys into the sins which you

then meanly deny! And now, you boys, _there_ in that coward, who cannot

even endure his richly-merited punishment, see the boy whom you have

suffered to be your _leader_ for well-nigh six months!”

“Now, sir”--again he turned upon Brigson--“that flogging shall be

repeated with interest on your next offence. At present you will take

each boy on your back while I cane him. It is fit that they should see

where _you_ lead them to.”

Trembling violently, and cowed beyond description, he did as he was bid.

No other boy cried, or even winced; a few sharp cuts was all which Mr.

Rose gave them, and even they grew fewer each time, for he was tired,

and displeased to be an executioner.

“And now,” he said, “since that disgusting but necessary scene is over,

_never_ let me have to repeat it again.”

But his authority was established like a rock from that night forward.

No one ever ventured to dispute it again, or forgot that evening. Mr.

Rose’s noble moral influence gained tenfold strength from the respect

and wholesome fear that he then inspired.

But, as he had said, Brigson’s reign was over. Looks of the most

unmitigated disgust and contempt were darted at him, as he sat alone and

shunned at the end of the table; and the boys seemed now to loathe and

nauseate the golden calf they had been worshipping. He had not done

blubbering even yet, when the prayer-bell rang. No sooner had Mr. Rose

left the room than Wildney, his dark eyes sparkling with rage, leaped on

the table, and shouted--

“Three groans, hoots, and hisses, for a liar and a coward,” a sign of

execration which he was the first to lead off, and which the boys echoed

like a storm.

Astonished at the tumult, Mr. Rose re-appeared at the door. “Oh, we’re

not hissing you, sir,” said Wildney excitedly; “we’re all hissing at

lying and cowardice.”

Mr. Rose thought the revulsion of feeling might do good, and he was

striding out again, without a word, when--

“Three times three for Mr. Rose,” sang out Wildney.

Never did a more hearty or spontaneous cheer burst from the lips and

lungs of fifty boys than that. The news had spread like wildfire to the

studies, and the other boys came flocking in during the uproar, to join

in it heartily. Cheer after cheer rang out like a sound of silver

clarions from the clear boy-voices; and in the midst of the excited

throng stood Eric and Montagu, side by side, hurrahing more lustily than

all the rest.

But Mr. Rose, in the library, was on his knees, with moving lips and

lifted hands. He coveted the popular applause as little as he had

dreaded the popular opposition; and the evening’s painful experiences

had taught him anew the bitter lesson to expect no gratitude, and hope

for no reward, but simply, and contentedly, and unmurmuringly, to work

on in God’s vineyard so long as life and health should last.

Brigson’s brazen forehead bore him through the disgrace which would have

crushed another. But still he felt that his position at Roslyn could

never be what it had been before, and he therefore determined to leave

at once. By grossly calumniating the school, he got his father to remove

him, and announced, to every one’s great delight, that he was going in a

fortnight. On his last day, by way of bravado, he smashed and damaged as

much of the school property as he could, a proceeding which failed to

gain him any admiration, and merely put his father to ruinous expense.

The day after his exposure Eric had cut him dead, without the least

pretence of concealment; an example pretty generally followed throughout

the school.

In the evening Brigson went up to Eric and hissed in his ear, “You cut

me, curse you; but, _never fear, I’ll be revenged on you yet_.”

“Do your worst,” answered Eric, contemptuously, “and never speak to me

again.”

CHAPTER V

RIPPLES

“Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And live for ever and for ever.”--TENNYSON.

Owen and Montagu were walking by Silverburn, and talking over the

affairs of the school. During their walk they saw Wright and Vernon

Williams in front of them.

“I am so glad to see those two together,” said Montagu; “I really think

Wright is one of the best little fellows in the school, and he’ll be the

saving of Vernon. He’s already persuaded him to leave off smoking and

other bad things, and has got him to work a little harder, and turn over

a new leaf altogether.”

“Yes,” answered Owen; “I’ve seen a marvellous improvement in little

Williams lately. I think that Duncan gave him a rough lesson the other

night which did him good, and dear old Rose too has been leading him by

the hand; but the best thing is that, through Wright, he sees less of

Eric’s _friend_, that young scapegrace Wildney.”

“Yes; that little wretch has a good deal to answer for. What a pity that

Eric spoils him so, or rather suffers himself to be spoilt by him. I’m

glad Vernon’s escaped his influence now; he’s too fine a boy to be made

as bad as the general run of them. What a brilliant little fellow he is;

just like his brother.”

“Just like what his brother _was_,” said Owen; “his face, like his

mind, has suffered lately.”

“Too true,” answered Montagu, with a sigh; “and yet, cool as we now are

in our outward intercourse, he little knows how I love him, and yearn

for the Eric I once knew. Would to God poor Russell had lived, and then

I believe that Williams wouldn’t have gone so for wrong.”

“Well, I think there’s another chance for him now that--that--what name

is bad enough, for that Brigson?--is gone.”

“I hope so. But”--he added after a pause--“his works do follow him. Look

there!” He took a large stone and threw it into the Silverburn stream;

there was a great splash, and then ever-widening circles of blue ripple

broke the surface of the water, dying away one by one in the sedges on

the bank. “There,” he said, “see how long those ripples last, and how

numerous they are.”

Owen understood him. “Poor Williams! What a gleam of new hope there was

in him after Russell’s death!”

“Yes, for a time,” said Montagu; “heigh ho! I fear we shall never be

warm friends again. We can’t be while he goes on as he is doing. And yet

I love him.”

A sudden turn of the stream brought them to the place called Riverbend.

“If you want a practical comment on what we’ve been talking about,

you’ll see it there,” said Montagu.

He pointed to a party of boys, four or five, all lying on a pleasant

grass bank, smoking pipes. Prominent among them was Eric, stretched at

ease, and looking up at the clouds, towards which curled the puffed

fumes of his meerschaum--a gift of Wildney’s. That worthy was beside him

similarly employed.

The two sixth-form boys hoped to pass by unobserved, as they did not

wish for a rencontre with our hero under such circumstances. But they

saw Wildney pointing to them, and, from the fits of laughter which

followed his remarks, they had little doubt that they were the subject

of the young gentleman’s wit. This is never a pleasant sensation; but

they observed that Eric made a point of not looking their way, and went

on in silence.

“How very sad!” said Montagu.

“How very contemptible!” said Owen.

“Did you observe what they were doing?”

“Smoking?”

“Worse than that a good deal. They were doing something which, if Eric

doesn’t take care, will one day be his ruin.”

“What?”

“I saw them drinking. I have little doubt it was brandy.”

“Good heavens!”

“It is getting a common practice with some fellows. One of the ripples,

you see, of Brigson’s influence.”

Before they got home they caught up Wright and Vernon, and walked in

together.

“We’ve been talking,” said Wright, “about a bad matter. Vernon here says

that there’s no good working for a prize in his form, because the

cribbing’s so atrocious. Indeed, it’s very nearly as bad in my form. It

always is under Gordon; he _can’t_ understand fellows doing

dishonorable things.”

“It’s a great bore in the weekly examinations,” said Vernon; “every now

and then Gordon will even leave the room for a few minutes, and then out

come dozens of books.”

“Well, Wright,” said Montagu, “if that happens again next examination,

I’d speak out about it.”

“How?”

“Why, I’d get every fellow who disapproves of it to give me his name,

and get up and read the list, and say that you at least have pledged

yourselves not to do it.”

“Humph! I don’t know how that would answer. They’d half kill me for one

thing.”

“Never mind; do your duty. I wish I’d such an opportunity, if only to

show how sorry I am for my own past unfairness.”

And so talking, the four went in, and the two elder went to their study.

It was too true that drinking had become a common vice at Roslyn school.

Accordingly, when Eric came in with Wildney about half an hour after,

Owen and Montagu heard them talk about ordering some brandy, and then

arrange to have a “jollification,” that evening.

They got the brandy through “Billy.” One of Brigson’s most cursed

legacies to the school was the introduction of this man to a nefarious

intercourse with the boys. His character was so well known that it had

long been forbidden, under the strictest penalty, for any boy ever to

speak to him; yet, strange to say, they seemed to take a pleasure in

doing so, and just now particularly it was thought a fine thing, a sign

of “pluck” and “anti-muffishness,” to be on familiar and intimate terms

with that degraded and villainous scoundrel.

Duncan had made friends again with Eric; but he did not join him in his

escapades and excesses, and sat much in other studies. He had not been

altogether a good boy, but yet there was a sort of rough honesty and

good sense about him, which preserved him from the worst and most

dangerous failings, and his character had been gradually improving as he

mounted higher in the school. He was getting steadier, more diligent,

more thoughtful, more manly; he was passing through that change so

frequent in boys as they grow older, to which Eric was so sad an

exception. Accordingly Duncan, though sincerely fond of Eric, had

latterly disapproved vehemently of his proceedings, and had therefore

taken to snubbing his old friend Wildney, in whose favor Eric seemed to

have an infatuation, and who was the means of involving him in every

kind of impropriety and mischief. So that night Duncan, hearing of what

was intended, sat in the next study, and Eric, with Bull, Wildney,

Graham, and Pietrie, had the room to themselves. Several of them were

lower boys still, but they came to the studies after bed-time, according

to Wildney’s almost nightly custom.

A little pebble struck the study window.

“Hurrah!” said Wildney, clapping his hands, “here’s the grub.”

They opened the window and looked out. Billy was there, and they let

down to him a long piece of cord, to which he attached a basket, and,

after bidding them “Good night, and a merry drink,” retired. No sooner

had they shut the window, than he grimaced as usual towards them, and

shook his fist in a sort of demoniacal exultation, muttering, “Oh, I’ll

have you all under my thumb yet, you fine young fools!”

Meanwhile the unconscious boys had opened the basket, and spread its

contents on the table. They were, bread, a large dish of sausages, a

tart, beer, and, alas! a bottle of brandy.

They soon got very noisy, and at last uproarious. The snatches of songs,

peals of laughter, and rattle of plates, at last grew so loud that the

other study-boys were afraid lest one of the masters should come up and

catch the revellers. All of them heard every word that was spoken by

Eric and his party as the walls between the rooms were very thin; and

very objectionable much of the conversation was.

“This _won’t_ do,” said Duncan emphatically, after a louder burst of

merriment than usual; “those fellows are getting drunk; I can tell it to

a certainty from the confused and random way in which some of them

are talking.”

“We’d better go in and speak to them,” said Montagu; “at any rate,

they’ve no right to disturb us all night. Will you come?”

“I’ll join you,” said Owen; “though I’m afraid my presence won’t do you

much good.”

The three boys went to the door of Eric’s study, and their knock could

not at first be heard for the noise. When they went in they found a

scene of reckless disorder; books were scattered about, plates and

glasses lay broken on the floor, beer was spilt on all sides, and there

was an intolerable smell of brandy.

“If you fellows don’t care,” said Duncan, sharply, “Rose or somebody’ll

be coming up and catching you. It’s ten now.”

“What’s that to you?” answered Graham, with an insolent look.

“It’s something to me that you nice young men have been making such a

row that none of the rest of us can hear our own voices, and that,

between you, you’ve made this study in such a mess that I can’t

endure it.”

“Pooh!” said Pietrie; “we’re all getting such saints, that one can’t

have the least bit of spree now-a-days.”

“Spree!” burst in Montagu indignantly; “fine spree, to make sots of

yourselves with spirits; fine spree, to----”

“Amen!” said Wildney, who was perched on the back of a chair; and he

turned up his eyes and clasped his hands with a mock-heroic air.

“There, Williams,” continued Montagu, pointing to the

mischievous-looking little boy; “see that spectacle, and be ashamed of

yourself, if you can. That’s what you lead boys to! Are you anxious to

become the teacher of drunkenness?”

In truth, there was good ground for his sorrowful apostrophe, for the

scene was very painful to a high-minded witness.

They hardly understood the look on Eric’s countenance; he had been

taking far more than was good for him; his eyes sparkled fiercely, and

though as yet he said nothing, he seemed to be resenting the intrusion

in furious silence.

“How much longer is this interesting lecture to last?” asked Bull, with

his usual insufferable drawl; “for I want to finish my brandy.”

Montagu rather looked as if he intended to give the speaker a box on the

ear; but he was just deciding that Bull wasn’t worth the trouble, when

Wildney, who had been grimacing all the time, burst into a fit

of laughter.

“Let’s turn out these impudent lower-school fellows,” said Montagu,

speaking to Duncan. “Here! you go first,” he said, seizing Wildney by

the arm, and giving him a swing, which, as he was by no means steady on

his legs, brought him sprawling to the ground.

“By Jove, I won’t stand this any longer,” shouted Eric, springing up

ferociously. “What on earth do you mean by daring to come in like this?

Do you hear?”

Montagu took no sort of notice of his threatening gesture, for he was

looking to see if Wildney was hurt, and finding he was not, proceeded to

drag him out, struggling and kicking frantically.

“Drop me, you fellow, drop me, I say. I won’t go for you,” cried

Wildney, shaking with passion. “Eric, why do you let him bully me?”

“You let him go this minute,” repeated Eric, hoarsely.

“I shall do no such thing. You don’t know what you’re about.”

“Don’t I? Well, then, take _that_, to show whether I do or no!” and

suddenly leaning forward, he struck Montagu a violent back-handed blow

on the mouth.

Everybody saw it, everybody heard it; and it instantly astounded them

into silence. That Montagu should have been struck in public, and that

by Eric--by a boy who had loved him, and whom he had loved--by a boy who

had been his schoolfellow for three years now, and whose whole life

seemed bound to him by so many associations; it was strange, and

sad indeed.

Montagu sprang straight upright; for an instant he took one stride

towards his striker with lifted hand and lightning eyes, while the blood

started to his lips in consequence of the blow. But he stopped suddenly

and his hand fell to his side; by a strong effort of self-control he

contrived to master himself, and sitting down quite quietly on a chair,

he put his white handkerchief to his wounded mouth, and took it away

stained with blood.

No one spoke; and rising with quiet dignity, he went back into his study

without a word.

“Very well,” said Duncan; “you may all do as you like; only I heartily

hope now you will be caught. Come, Owen.”

“Oh, Williams,” said Owen, “you are changed indeed, to treat your best

friend so.”

But Eric was excited with drink, and the slave of every evil passion at

that moment. “Serve him right,” he said; “what business has he to

interfere with what I choose to do?”

There was no more noise that night. Wildney and the rest slunk off

ashamed and frightened, and Eric, leaving his candle flaring on the

table, went down to his bed-room, where he was very sick. He had neither

strength nor spirit to undress, and flung himself into bed just as was.

When they heard that he was gone, Owen and Duncan (for Montagu was

silent and melancholy) went into his study, put out the candle, and had

only just cleared away, to the best of their power, the traces of the

carouse, when Dr. Rowlands came up stairs on his usual nightly rounds.

They had been lighting brown paper to take away the fumes of the brandy,

and the Doctor asked them casually the cause of the smell of burning.

Neither of them answered, and seeing Owen there, in whom he placed

implicit trust, the Doctor thought no more about it.

Eric awoke with a bad headache, and a sense of shame and sickness. When

he got up he felt most wretched, and while washing he thought to

himself, “Ah! that I could thus wash away the memory of last night!” Of

course, after what had occurred, Eric and Montagu were no longer on

speaking terms, and miserable as poor Eric felt when he saw how his blow

had bruised and disfigured his friend’s face, he made no advances. He

longed, indeed, from his inmost heart, to be reconciled to him; but

feeling that he had done grievous wrong, he dreaded a repulse, and his

pride would not suffer him to run the risk. So he pretended to feel no

regret, and, supported by his late boon-companions, represented the

matter as occurring in the defence of Wildney, whom Montagu

was bullying.

Montagu, too, was very miserable; but he felt that, although ready to

forgive Eric, he could not, in common self-respect, take the first step

to a reconciliation: indeed, he rightly thought that it was not for

Eric’s good that he should do so.

“You and Williams appear never to speak to each other now,” said Mr.

Rose. “I am sorry for it, Monty; I think you are the only boy who has

any influence over him.”

“I fear you are mistaken, sir, in that. Little Wildney has much more.”

“Wildney?” asked Mr. Rose, in sorrowful surprise. “Wildney more

influence than _you_?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, that our poor Edwin had lived!”

So, with a sigh, Walter Rose and Harry Montagu buried their friendship

for Eric until happier days.

CHAPTER VI

ERIC AND MONTAGU

“And constancy lives in realms above;

And life is thorny; and youth is vain;

And to be wroth with one we love,

Doth work like madness in the brain.

* * * * *

Each spoke words of high disdain

And insult to his heart’s best brother.”

COLERIDGE’S _Christabel_.

Wright had not forgotten Montagu’s advice, and had endeavored to get the

names of boys who wern’t afraid to scout publicly the disgrace of

cheating in form. But he could only get one name promised him--the name

of Vernon Williams; and feeling how little could be gained by using it,

he determined to spare Vernon the trial, and speak, if he spoke at all,

on his own responsibility.

As usual, the cribbing at the next weekly examination was well-nigh

universal, and when Mr. Gordon went out to fetch something he had

forgotten, merely saying, “I trust to your honor not to abuse my

absence,” books and papers were immediately pulled out with the coolest

and most unblushing indifference.

This was the time for Wright to deliver his conscience; he had counted

the cost, and, rightly or wrongly considering it to be his duty, he had

decided that speak he would. He well knew that his interference would

be attributed to jealousy, meanness, sneaking, and every kind of wrong

motive, since he was himself one of the greatest sufferers from the

prevalent dishonesty; but still he had come to the conclusion that he

_ought_ not to draw back, and therefore he bravely determined that he

would make his protest, whatever happened.

So, very nervously, he rose and said, “I want to tell you all that I

think this cheating very wrong and blackguardly. I don’t mind losing by

it myself, but if Vernon Williams loses the prize in the lower fourth,

and any one gets it by copying, I’ve made up my mind to tell Gordon.”

His voice trembled a little at first, but he spoke fast, and acquired

firmness as he went on. Absolute astonishment and curiosity had held the

boys silent with amazement, but by the end of this sentence they had

recovered themselves, and a perfect burst of derision and

indignation followed.

“Let’s see if _that’ll_ cut short his oration,” said Wildney, throwing a

book at his head, which was instantly followed by others from

all quarters.

“My word! we’ve had nothing but lectures lately,” said Brooking. “Horrid

little Owenite saint.”

“Saint!--sneak, you mean. I’ll teach him,” growled Pietrie, and jumping

up, he belabored Wright’s head with the Latin grammar out of which he

had just been cribbing.

The whole room was in confusion and hubbub, during which Wright sat

stock still, quietly enduring without bowing to the storm.

Only one boy sympathised with him, but he did so deeply--poor little

penitent Vernon. He felt his position hard because Wright had alluded so

prominently to him, and he knew how much he must be misconstrued, but he

had his brother’s spirit, and would not shrink. Amid the tumult he got

up in his seat, and they heard his pleasant, childish voice saying

boldly, “I hope Wright won’t tell; but he’s the best fellow in the room,

and cribbing _is_ a shame, as he says.”

What notice would have been taken of this speech is doubtful, for at the

critical moment Mr. Gordon reappeared, and the whispered cavè caused

instantaneous quiet.

Poor Wright awaited with some dread the end of school; and many an angry

kick and blow he got, though he disarmed malice by the spirit and

heroism with which he endured them. The news of his impudence spread

like wildfire, and not five boys in the school approved of what he had

done, while most of them were furious at his ill-judged threat of

informing Mr. Gordon. There was a general agreement to thrash him after

roll-call that afternoon.

Eric had lately taken a violent dislike to Wright, though he had been

fond of him in better days. He used to denounce him as a disagreeable

and pragmatical little muff, and was as loud as any of them in

condemning his announced determination to “sneak.” Had he known that

Wright had acted under Montagu’s well-meant, though rather mistaken

advice, he might have abstained from having anything more to do with the

matter, but now he promised to kick Wright himself after the four

o’clock bell.

Four o’clock came; the names were called; the master left the room.

Wright, who perfectly knew what was threatened, stood there pale but

fearless. His indifferent look was an additional annoyance to Eric, who

walked up to him carelessly, and boxing his ears, though without hurting

him, said contemptuously, “Conceited little sneak.”

Montagu had been told of the intended kicking, and had determined even

single-handed to prevent it. He did _not_, however, expect that Eric

would have taken part in it, and was therefore unprepared. The color

rushed into his cheeks; he went up, took Wright quietly by the hand, and

said with firm determination, “No one in the school shall touch

Wright again.”

“What? no one! just hark to that,” said Graham; “I suppose he thinks

himself cock of the school.”

Eric quite misunderstood Montagu’s proceedings; he took it for a public

challenge. All the Rowlandites were round, and to yield would have

looked like cowardice. Above all, his evil genius Wildney was by, and

said, “How very nice! another dictation lesson!”

A threatening circle had formed round Montagu, but his closed lips, and

flushing brow, and dilated nostrils, betrayed a spirit which made them

waver, and he quietly repeated, “No one shall touch you, Wright.”

“They _will_, though,” said Eric instantly; “_I_ will, for one, and I

should like to see you prevent me.” And so saying he gave Wright another

slight blow.

Montagu dropped Wright’s hand and said slowly, “Eric Williams, I have

taken one unexpected blow from you without a word, and bear the marks of

it yet. It is time to show that it was _not_ through cowardice that I

did not return it. Will you fight?”

The answer was not prompt by any means, though every one in the school

knew that Eric was not afraid. So sure was he of this, that, for the

sake of “auld lang syne,” he would probably have declined to fight with

Montagu had he been left to his own impulses.

“I have been in the wrong, Montagu, more than once,” he answered,

falteringly, “and we have been friends--”

But it was the object of many of the worst boys that the two should

fight--not only that they might see the fun, but that Montagu’s

authority, which stood in their way, might be flung aside. So Brooking

whispered in an audible voice--

“Faith! he’s showing the white feather.”

“You’re a liar!” flung in Eric; and turning to Montagu, he said--“There!

I’ll fight you this moment.”

Instantly they had stripped off their coats and prepared for action. A

ring of excited boys crowded round them. Fellows of sixteen, like

Montagu and Eric, rarely fight, because their battles have usually been

decided in their earlier school-days; and it was also but seldom that

two boys so strong, active, and prominent, took this method of settling

their differences.

The fight began, and at first the popular favor was entirely on the side

of Eric, while Montagu found few or none to back him. But he fought with

a fire and courage which soon won applause; and as Eric, on the other

hand, was random and spiritless, the cry was soon pretty fairly divided

between them.

After a sharp round they paused for breath, and Owen, who had been a

silent and disgusted spectator of such a combat between boys of such

high standing, said with much, feeling--

“This is not a very creditable affair, Montagu.”

“It is necessary,” was Montagu’s laconic reply.

Among other boys who had left the room before the fracas had taken

place, was Vernon Williams, who shrank away to avoid the pain of seeing

his new friend Wright bullied and tormented. But curiosity soon took him

back, and he came in just as the second round began. At first he only

saw a crowd of boys in the middle of the room, but jumping on a desk he

had a full view of what was going on.

There was a tremendous hubbub of voices, and Eric, now thoroughly roused

by the remarks he overheard, and especially by Wildney’s whisper that

“he was letting himself be licked,” was exerting himself with more vigor

and effect. It was anything but a noble sight; the faces of the

combatants were streaked with blood and sweat, and as the miserable gang

of lower school-boys backed them on with eager shouts of--“Now Eric, now

Eric,” “Now Montagu, go it, sixth, form,” etc., both of them fought

under a sense of deep disgrace, increased by the recollections which

they shared in common.

All this Vernon marked in a moment, and, filled with pain and vexation,

his said in a voice which, though low, could be heard amid all the

uproar, “Oh Eric, Eric, fighting with Montagu!” There was reproach and

sorrow in the tone, which touched more than one boy there, for Vernon,

spite of the recent change in him, could not but continue a favorite.

“Shut up there, you little donkey,” shouted one or two, looking back at

him for a moment.

But Eric heard the words, and knew that it was his brother’s voice. The

thought rushed on him how degraded his whole position was, and how

different it might have been. He felt that he was utterly in the wrong,

and Montagu altogether in the right; and from that moment his blows once

more grew feeble and ill-directed. When they again stopped to take rest,

the general shout for Montagu showed that he was considered to have the

best of it.

“I’m getting so tired of this,” muttered Eric, during the pause.

“Why, you’re fighting like a regular muff,” said Graham; “you’ll have to

acknowledge yourself thrashed in a minute.”

“That I’ll _never_ do,” he said, once more firing up.

Just as the third round began, Duncan came striding in, for Owen, who

had left the room, told him what was going on. He had always been a

leading fellow, and quite recently his influence had several times been

exerted in the right direction, and he was very much looked up to by all

the boys alike, good or bad. He determined, for the credit of the sixth,

that the fight should not go on, and bursting into the ring, with his

strong shoulders he hurled on each side the boys who stood in his way,

and struck down the lifted arms of the fighters.

“You _shan’t_ fight,” he said, doggedly, thrusting himself between them;

“so there’s an end of it. If you do, you’ll both have to fight

me first.”

“Shame!” said several of the boys, and the cry was caught up by Bull and

others.

“Shame, is it?” said Duncan, and his lip curled with scorn. “There’s

only one way to argue with, you fellows. Bull, if you, or any other boy,

repeat that word, I’ll thrash him. Here, Monty, come away from this

disgraceful scene.”

“I’m sick enough of it,” said Montagu, “and am ready to stop if Williams

is,--provided no one touches Wright.”

“I’m sick of it too,” said Eric sullenly.

“Then you two shall shake hands,” said Duncan.

For one instant--an instant which he regretted till the end of his

life--Montagu drew himself up and hesitated. He had been deeply wronged,

deeply provoked, and no one could blame him for the momentary feeling:

but Eric had observed the gesture, and his passionate pride took the

alarm. “It’s come to this, then,” he thought; “Montagu doesn’t think me

good enough to be shaken hands with.”

“Pish!” he said aloud, in a tone of sarcasm; “it may be an awful honor

to shake hands with such an immaculate person as Montagu, but I’m not

proud on the subject;” and he turned away.

Montagu’s hesitation was but momentary, and without a particle of anger

or indignation he sorrowfully held out his hand. It was too late; that

moment had done the mischief, and it was now Eric’s turn coldly

to withdraw.

“You don’t think me worthy of your friendship, and what’s the good of

grasping hands if we don’t do it with cordial hearts?”

Montagu’s lip trembled, but he said nothing, and quietly putting on his

coat, waved back the throng of boys with a proud sweep of his arm, and

left the room with Duncan.

“Come along, Wright,” he said.

“Nay, leave him,” said Eric with a touch of remorse. “Much as you think

me beneath you, I have honor enough to see that no one hurts him.”

The group of boys gradually dispersed, but one or two remained with

Eric, although he was excessively wearied by their observations.

“You didn’t fight half like yourself,” said Wildney.

“Can’t you tell why? I had the wrong side to fight for.” And getting up

abruptly, he left the room, to be alone in his study, and bathe his

swollen and aching face.

In a few minutes Vernon joined him, and at the mere sight of him Eric

burst into tears of shame. That evening with Vernon in the study, after

the dinner at the Jolly Herring, had revived all his really warm

affection for his little brother; and as he could no longer conceal the

line he took in the school, they had been often together since then; and

Eric’s moral obliquity was not so great as to prevent him from feeling

deep joy at the change for the better in Vernon’s character.

“Verny, Verny,” he said, as the boy came up and affectionately took his

hand, “it was you who lost me that fight.”

“Oh, but, Eric, you were fighting with Montagu.”

“Don’t you remember the days, Eric,” he continued, “when we were

home-boarders, and how kind Monty used to be to me even then, and how

mother liked him, and thought him quite your truest friend, except

poor Russell?”

“I do, indeed. I didn’t think then that it would come to this.”

“I’ve always been _so_ sorry,” said Vernon, “that I joined the fellows

in playing him tricks. I can’t think how I came to do it, except that

I’ve done such lots of bad things here. But he’s forgiven and forgotten

that long ago, and is very kind to me now.”

It was true; but Eric didn’t know that half the kindness which Montagu

showed to his brother was shown solely for _his_ sake.

“Do you know, I’ve thought of a plan for making you two friends again?

I’ve written to Aunt Trevor to ask him to Fairholm with us next

holidays.”

“Oh, have you? Good Verny! Yes; _there_ we might be friends. Perhaps

there,” he added, half to himself, “I might be more like what I was in

better days.”

“But it’s a long time to look forward to. Easter hasn’t come yet,” said

Vernon.

So the two young boys proposed; but God had disposed it otherwise.

CHAPTER VII

THE PIGEONS

“Et motae ad Lunam trepidabis arundinis umbram.”

Juv. X. 21.

“How awfully dull it is, Charlie,” said Eric, a few weeks before Easter,

as he sat with Wildney in his study one holiday afternoon.

“Yes; too late for football, too early for cricket.” And Wildney

stretched himself and yawned.

“I suppose this is what they call ennui,” said Eric again, after a

pause. “What is to be done, Sunbeam?”

“You _shan’t_ call me that, so there’s an end of it,” said Wildney,

hitting him on the arm.

“By the bye, Eric, you remind me to-morrow’s my birth-day, and I’ve got

a parcel coming this afternoon full of grub from home. Let’s go and see

if it’s come.”

“Capital! We will.”

So Eric and Wildney started off to the coach-office, where they found

the hamper, and ordered it to be brought at once to the school, and

carried up to Eric’s study.

On opening it they found it rich in dainties, among which were a pair of

fowls and a large plum-cake.

“Hurrah!” said Wildney, “you were talking of nothing to do; I vote we

have a carouse to-morrow.”

“Very well; only let’s have it _before_ prayers, because we were so

nearly caught last time.”

“Ay, and let it be in one of the class-rooms, Eric; not up here, lest

we have another incursion of the ‘Rosebuds.’ I shall have to cut

preparation, but that don’t matter, It’s Harley’s night, and old Stupid

will never twig.”

“Well, whom shall we ask?” said Eric.

“Old Llewellyn for one,” said Wildney. “We havn’t seen him for an age,

and he’s getting too lazy even for a bit of fun.”

“Good; and Graham,” suggested Eric. He and Wildney regarded their

possessions so much as common property, that he hadn’t the least

delicacy in mentioning the boys whom he wanted to invite.

“Yes; Graham’s a jolly bird; and Bull?”

“I’ve no objection; and Pietrie?”

“Well; and your brother Vernon?”

“No!” said Eric, emphatically. “At any rate I won’t lead _him_ into

mischief any more.”

“Attlay, then; and what do you say to Brooking?”

“No, again,” said Eric; “he’s a blackguard.”

“I wonder you haven’t mentioned Duncan,” said Wildney.

“Duncan! why, my dear child, you might as well ask Owen, or even old

Rose, at once. Bless you, Charlie, he’s a great deal too correct to

come now.”

“Well; we’ve got six already, that’s quite enough.”

“Yes; but two fowls isn’t enough for six hungry boys.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Wildney. He thought a little, and then, clapping

his hands, danced about and said, “Are you game for a _regular_

lark, Eric?”

“Yes; anything to make it less dull. I declare I’ve very nearly been

taking to work again to fill up the time.”

Eric often talked now of work in this slighting way partly as an excuse

for the low places in form to which he was gradually sinking. Everybody

knew that had he properly exerted his abilities he was capable of

beating almost any boy; so, to quiet his conscience, he professed to

ridicule diligence as an unboyish piece of muffishness, and was never

slow to sneer at the “grinders,” as he contemptuously called all those

who laid themselves out to win school distinctions.

“Ha, ha!” said Wildney, “that’s rather good! No, Eric, it’s too late for

you to turn ‘grinder’ now. I might as well think of doing it myself, and

I’ve never been higher than five from lag in my form yet.”

“Haven’t you? But what’s the regular lark you hinted at?”

“Why, we’ll go and seize the Gordonites’ _pigeons_, and make another

dish of them.”

“Seize the Gordonites’ pigeons! Why, when do you mean?”

“To-night.”

Eric gave a long whistle. “But wouldn’t it be st--t--?”

“Stealing?” said Wildney, with a loud laugh. “Pooh! ‘_convey_ the wise

call it.’”

But Eric still looked serious. “Why, my dear old boy,” continued

Wildney, “the Gordonites’ll be the first to laugh at the trick when we

tell them of it next morning, as of course we will do. There, now, don’t

look grumpy. I shall cut away and arrange it with. Graham, and tell you

the whole dodge ready prepared to-night at bed-time.”

After lights were put out, Wildney came up to the study according to

promise, and threw out hints about the proposed plan. He didn’t tell it

plainly, because Duncan was there, but Duncan caught enough to guess

what was intended, and said, when Wildney had gone--

“Take my advice, and have nothing to do with this, Eric.”

Eric had grown very touchy lately about advice, particularly from any

fellow of his own standing; and after the checks he had recently

received, a coolness had sprung up between him and nearly all the

study-boys, which made him more than ever inclined to assert his

independence, and defy and thwart them in every way.

“Keep your advice to yourself, Duncan, till it’s asked for,” he

answered, roughly. “You’ve done nothing but _advise_ lately, and I’m

rather sick of it.”

“Comme vous voulez,” replied Duncan, with a shrug. “Gang your own gait;

I’ll have nothing more to do with trying to stop you, since you _will_

ruin yourself.”

Nothing more was said in the study that evening, and when Eric went down

he didn’t even bid Duncan goodnight.

“Charlie,” he said, as he stole on tiptoe into Wildney’s dormitory.

“Hush!” whispered Wildney, “the other fellows are asleep. Come and sit

by my bedside, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”

Eric went and sat by him, and he sat up in his bed “First of all,

_you’re_ to keep awake till twelve to-night,” he whispered; “old

Rowley’ll have gone round by that time, and it’ll be all safe. Then come

and awake me again, and I’ll watch till one, Pietrie till two, and

Graham till three. Then Graham’ll awake us all, and we’ll dress.”

“Very well. But how will you get the key of the lavatory?”

“Oh, I’ll manage that,” said Wildney, chuckling. “But come again and

awake me at twelve, will you?”

Eric went to his room and lay down, but he didn’t take off his clothes,

for fear he should go to sleep. Dr. Rowlands came round as usual at

eleven, and then Eric closed his eyes for a few minutes, till the

head-master had disappeared. After that he lay awake thinking for an

hour, but his thoughts weren’t very pleasant.

At twelve he went and awoke Wildney.

“I don’t feel very sleepy. Shall I sit with you for your hour, Charlie?”

“Oh, do! I should like it of all things. But douse the glim there; we

shan’t want it, and it might give the alarm.”

“All right.”

So Eric went and sat by his dangerous little friend, and they talked in

low voices until they heard the great school clock strike one. They then

woke Pietrie, and Eric went off to bed again.

At three Graham awoke him, and dressing hastily, he joined the others in

the lavatory.

“Now, I’m going to get the key,” said Wildney, “and mean to have a

stomach-ache for the purpose.”

Laughing quietly he went up to the door of Mr. Harley’s bed-room, which

opened out of the lavatory, and knocked.

No answer. He knocked a little louder. Still no answer. Louder still.

“Bother the fellow,” said Wildney; “he sleeps like a grampus. Won’t one

of you try to wake him?”

“No,” said Graham; “’taint dignified for fifth-form boys to have

stomach-aches.”

“Well, I must try again.” But it seemed no use knocking, and Wildney at

last, in a fit of impatience, thumped a regular tattoo on the

bed-room door.

“Who’s there?” said the startled voice of Mr. Harley.

“Only me, sir!” answered Wildney, in a mild and innocent way.

“What do you want?”

“Please, sir, I want the key of the lavatory. I’m indisposed,” said

Wildney again, in a tone of such disciplined suavity, that the others

shook with laughing.

Mr. Harley opened the door about an inch, and peered about suspiciously.

“Oh, well, you must go and awake Mr. Rose. I don’t happen to have the

key to-night.” And so saying, he shut the door.

“Phew! Here’s a go!” said Wildney, recovering immediately. “It’ll never

do to awake old Rose. He’d smell a rat in no time.”

“I have it,” said Pietrie. “I’ve got an old nail, with which I believe I

can open the lock quite simply. Let’s try.”

“Quietly and quick, then,” said Eric.

In ten minutes he had silently shot back the lock with the old nail, and

the boys were on the landing. They carried their shoes in their hands,

ran noiselessly down stairs, and went to the same window at which Eric

and Wildney had got out before. Wildney had taken care beforehand to

break the pane and move away the glass, so they had only to loosen the

bar and slip through one by one.

It was cold and very dark, and as on the March morning they stood out

in the playground, all four would rather have been safe and harmlessly

in bed. But the novelty and the excitement of the enterprise bore them

up, and they started off quickly for the house at which Mr. Gordon and

his pupils lived, which was about half a mile from the school. They went

arm in arm to assure each other a little, for at first in their fright

they were inclined to take every post and tree for a man in ambush, and

to hear a recalling voice in every sound of wind and wave.

Not far from Mr. Gordon’s was a carpenter’s shop, and outside of this

there was generally a ladder standing. They had arranged to carry this

ladder with them (as it was only a short one), climb the low garden wall

with it, and then place it against the house, immediately under the

dovecot which hung by the first story-windows. Wildney, as the lightest

of the four, was to take the birds, while the others held the ladder.

Slanting it so that it should be as far from the side of the window as

possible, Wildney ascended and thrust both hands into the cot. He

succeeded in seizing a pigeon with each hand, but in doing so threw the

other birds into a state of such alarm that they fluttered about in the

wildest manner, and the moment his hands were withdrawn, flew out with a

great flapping of hurried wings.

The noise they made alarmed the plunderer, and he hurried down the

ladder as fast as he could. He handed the pigeons to the others, who

instantly wrung their necks.

“I’m nearly sure I heard somebody stir,” said Wildney; “we haven’t been

half quiet enough. Here! let’s crouch down in this corner.”

All four shrank up as close to the wall as they could, and held their

breath. Some one was certainly stirring, and at last they heard the

window open. A head was thrust out, and Mr. Gordon’s voice asked

sternly--“Who’s there?”

He seemed at once to have caught sight of the ladder, and made an

endeavor to reach it; but though he stretched out his arm at full

length, he could not do so.

“We must cut for it,” said Eric; “it’s quite too dark for him to see us,

or even to notice that we are boys.”

They moved the ladder to the wall, and sprang over, one after the other,

as fast as they could. Eric was last, and just as he got to the top of

the wall he heard the back door open, and some one run out into

the yard.

“Run for your lives,” said Eric hurriedly; “it’s Gordon, and he’s

raising the alarm.”

They heard footsteps following them, and an occasional shout of

“thieves! thieves!”

“We must separate and run different ways, or we’ve no chance of escape.

We’d better turn towards the town to put them off the right scent,” said

Eric again.

“Don’t leave me,” pleaded Wildney; “you know I can’t run very fast.”

“No, Charlie, I won’t;” and grasping his hand, Eric hurried him over the

style and through the fields, while Pietrie and Graham took the opposite

direction.

Some one (they did not know who it was, but suspected it to be Mr.

Gordon’s servant-man) was running after them, and they could distinctly

hear his footsteps, which seemed to be half a field distant. He carried

a light, and they heard him panting. They were themselves tired, and in

the utmost trepidation; the usually courageous Wildney was trembling all

over, and his fear communicated itself to Eric. Horrible visions of a

trial for burglary, imprisonment in the castle jail, and perhaps

transportation, presented themselves to their excited imaginations, as

the sound of the footsteps came nearer.

“I can’t run any further, Eric,” said Wildney. “What shall we do? don’t

leave me, for heaven’s sake.”

“Not I, Charlie. We must hide the minute we get t’other side of this

hedge.”

They scrambled over the gate, and plunged into the thickest part of a

plantation close by, lying down on the ground behind some bushes, and

keeping as still as they could, taking care to cover over their

white collars.

The pursuer reached the gate, and no longer hearing footsteps in front

of him, he paused. He went a little distance up the hedge on both sides

and held up his light, but did not detect the cowering boys, and at last

giving up the search in despair, went slowly home. They heard him

plodding back over the field, and it was not until the sound of his

footsteps had died away, that Eric cautiously broke cover, and looked

over the hedge. He saw the man’s light gradually getting more distant,

and said, “All right now, Charlie. We must make the best of our

way home.”

“Are you sure he’s gone?” said Wildney, who had not yet recovered from

his fright.

“Quite; come along. I only hope Pietrie and Graham ain’t caught.”

They got back about half-past four, and climbed in unheard and

undetected through the window pane. They then stole up stairs with

beating hearts, and sat in Eric’s room to wait for the other two. To

their great relief they heard them enter the lavatory about ten

minutes after.

“Were you twigged?” asked Wildney eagerly.

“No,” said Graham; “precious near it though. Old Gordon and some men

were after us, but at last we doubled rather neatly, and escaped them.

It’s all serene, and we shan’t be caught.”

“Well, we’d best to bed now,” said Eric; “and, to my thinking, we should

be wise to keep a quiet tongue in our heads about this affair.”

“Yes, we had better tell _no one_.” They agreed, and went off to bed

again. So, next morning, they all four got up quite as if nothing had

happened, and made no allusion to the preceding night, although, they

could not help chuckling inwardly a little when the Gordonites came to

morning school, brimful of a story about their house having been

attacked in the night by thieves, who, after bagging some pigeons, had

been chevied by Gordon and the servants. Wildney professed immense

interest in the incident, and asked many questions, which showed that

there was not a shadow of suspicion in any one’s mind as to the

real culprits.

Carter, the school servant, didn’t seem to have noticed that the

lavatory door was unlocked, and Mr. Harley never alluded again to his

disturbance in the night. So the theft of the pigeons remained

undiscovered, and remains so till this day. If any old Roslyn boy reads

this veracious history, he will doubtless be astounded to hear that the

burglars on that memorable night were Brio, Pietrie, Graham,

and Wildney.

CHAPTER VIII

SOWING THE WIND

“Praepediuntur

Crura vacillanti, tardescit lingua, madet mens,

Nant oculi.”

LUCR. iii. 417.

Next evening, when preparation began, Pietrie and Graham got everything

ready for a carouse in their class-room. Wildney, relying on the chance

of names not being called over (which, was only done in case any one’s

absence was observed), had absented himself altogether from the

boarders’ room, and helped busily to spread the table for the banquet.

The cook had roasted for them the fowls and pigeons, and Billy had

brought an ample supply of beer and some brandy for the occasion. A

little before eight o’clock everything was ready, and Eric, Attlay, and

Llewellyn were summoned to join the rest.

The fowls, pigeons, and beer had soon vanished, and the boys were in the

highest spirits. Eric’s reckless gaiety was kindled by Wildney’s

frolicsome vivacity, and Graham’s sparkling wit; they were all six in a

roar of perpetual laughter at some fresh sally of fun elicited by the

more phlegmatic natures of Attlay or Llewellyn, and the dainties of

Wildney’s parcel were accompanied by draughts of brandy and water, which

were sometimes exchanged for potations of the raw liquor. It was not the

first time, be it remembered, that the members of that young party had

been present at similar scenes, and even the scoundrel Billy was

astonished, and alarmed occasionally at the quantities of spirits and

other inebriating drinks that of late had found their way to the

studies. The disgraceful and deadly habit of tippling had already told

physically on both Eric and Wildney. The former felt painfully that he

was losing his clear-headedness, and that his intellectual tastes were

getting not only blunted but destroyed; and while he perceived in

himself the terrible effects of his sinful indulgence, he saw them still

more indisputably in the gradual coarseness which seemed to be

spreading, like a grey lichen, over the countenance, the mind, and the

manners of his younger companion. Sometimes the vision of a Nemesis

breaking in fire out of his darkened future, terrified his guilty

conscience in the watches of the night; and the conviction of some

fearful Erynnis, some discovery dawning out of the night of his

undetected sins, made his heart beat fast with agony and fear. But he

fancied it too late to repent. He strangled the half-formed resolutions

as they rose, and trusted to the time when, by leaving school, he should

escape, as he idly supposed, the temptations to which he had yielded.

Meanwhile, the friends who would have rescued him had been alienated by

his follies, and the principles which might have preserved him had been

eradicated by his guilt. He had long flung away the shield of prayer,

and the helmet of holiness, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the

word of God; and now, unarmed and helpless, Eric stood alone, a mark for

the fiery arrows of his enemies, while, through the weakened inlet of

every corrupted sense, temptation rushed in upon him perpetually

and unawares.

As the class-room they had selected was in a remote part of the

building, there was little immediate chance of detection. So the

laughter of the party grew louder and sillier; the talk more foolish and

random; the merriment more noisy and meaningless. But still most of them

mingled some sense of caution with their enjoyment, and warned Eric and

Wildney more than once that they must look out, and not take too much

that night for fear of being caught. But it was Wildney’s birth-day, and

Eric’s boyish mirth, suppressed by his recent troubles, was blazing out

unrestrained. In the riot of their feasting, the caution had been

utterly neglected, and the boys were far from being sober when the sound

of the prayer-bell ringing through the great hall, startled them into

momentary consciousness.

“Good heavens!” shouted Graham, springing up; “there’s the prayer-bell;

I’d no notion it was so late. Here, let’s shove these brandy bottles and

things into the cupboards and drawers, and then we must run down.”

There was no time to lose. The least muddled of the party had cleared

the room in a moment, and then addressed themselves to the more

difficult task of trying to quiet Eric and Wildney, and conduct them

steadily into the prayer-room.

Wildney’s seat was near the door, so there was little difficulty in

getting him to his place comparatively unobserved. Llewellyn took him by

the arm, and after a little stumbling, helped him safely to his seat,

where he assumed a look of preternatural gravity. But Eric sat near the

head of the first table, not far from Dr. Rowlands’ desk, and none of

the others had to go to that part of the room. Graham grasped his arm

tight, led him carefully down stairs, and, as they were reaching the

door, said to him, in a most earnest and imploring tone--“Do try and

walk sensibly to your place, Eric, or we shall all be caught.”

It was rather late when they got down. Everybody was quietly seated, and

most of the Bibles were already open, although the Doctor had not yet

come in. Consequently, the room was still, and the entrance of Graham

and Eric after the rest attracted general notice. Eric had just sense

enough to try and assume his ordinary manner; but he was too giddy with

the fumes of drink to walk straight, or act naturally.

Vernon was sitting next to Wright, and stared at his brother with great

eyes and open lips. He was not the only observer.

“Wright,” whispered he, in a timid voice; “just see how Eric walks. What

can be the matter with him? Good gracious, he must be ill!” he said,

starting up, as Eric suddenly made a great stagger to one side, and

nearly fell in the attempt to recover himself.

Wright pulled the little boy down with a firm hand.

“Hush!” he whispered; “take no notice; he’s been drinking, Verny, and I

fear he’ll be caught.”

Vernon instantly sat down, and turned deadly pale. He thought, and he

had hoped, that since the day at the “Jolly Herring,” his brother had

abandoned all such practices, for Eric had been most careful to conceal

from him the worst of his failings. And now he trembled violently with

fear for his discovery, and horror at his disgraceful condition.

The sound of Eric’s unsteady footsteps had made Mr. Rose quickly raise

his head; but at the same moment Duncan hastily made room for the boy

on the seat beside him, and held out his hand to assist him. It was not

Eric’s proper place; but Mr. Rose, after one long look of astonishment,

looked down at his book again, and said nothing.

It made other hearts besides Vernon’s ache to see the unhappy boy roll

to his place in that helpless way.

Dr. Rowlands came in, and prayers commenced. When they were finished,

the names were called, and Eric, instead of quietly answering his

“adsum,” as he should have done, stood up, with a foolish look, and

said, “Yes, Sir.” The head master looked at him for a minute; the boy’s

glassy eyes, and jocosely stupid appearance, told an unmistakable tale;

but Dr. Rowlands only remarked, “Williams, you don’t look well. You had

better go at once to bed.”

It was hopeless for Eric to attempt getting along without help, so

Duncan at once got up, took him by the arm, and with much difficulty

(for Eric staggered at every step) conducted him to his bed-room.

Wildney’s condition was also too evident; and Mr. Rose, while walking up

and down the dormitories, had no doubt left on his mind that both Eric

and Wildney had been drinking. But he made no remarks to them, and

merely went to the Doctor to talk over the steps which were to be taken.

“I shall summon the school,” said Dr. Rowlands, “on Monday, and by that

time we will decide on the punishment. Expulsion, I fear, is the only

course open to us.”

“Is not that a _very_ severe line to take?”

“Perhaps; but the offence is of the worst character I must consider the

matter.”

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

The whole of the miserable Sunday that followed was spent by Eric and

his companions in vain inquiries and futile restlessness. It seemed

clear that two of them at least were detected, and they were

inexpressibly wretched with anxiety and suspense. Wildney, who had to

stay in bed, was even more depressed; his head ached violently, and he

was alone with his own terrified thoughts. He longed for the morrow,

that at least he might have the poor consolation of knowing his fate. No

one came near him all day. Eric wished to do so, but as he could not

have visited the room without express leave, the rest dissuaded him from

asking, lest he should excite further suspicion. His apparent neglect

made poor Wildney even more unhappy, for Wildney loved Eric as much as

it was possible for his volatile mind to love any one; and it seemed

hard to be deserted in the moment of disgrace and sorrow by so close

a friend.

At school the next morning the various masters read out to their forms a

notice from Dr. Rowlands, that the whole school were to meet at ten in

the great schoolroom. The object of the summons was pretty clearly

understood; and few boys had any doubt that it had reference to the

drinking on Saturday night. Still nothing had been _said_ on the subject

as yet; and every guilty heart among those 250 boys beat fast lest _his_

sin too should have been discovered, and he should be called out for

some public and heavy punishment.

The hour arrived. The boys thronging into the great school-room, took

their places according to their respective forms. The masters in their

caps and gowns were all seated on a small semicircular bench at the

upper end of the room, and in the centre of them, before a small table,

sate Dr. Rowlands.

The sound of whispering voices sank to a dead and painful hush. The

blood was tingling consciously in many cheeks, and not even a breath

could be heard in the deep expectation of that anxious and

solemn moment.

Dr. Rowlands spread before him the list of the school, and said, “I

shall first read out the names of the boys in the first-fifth, and

upper-fourth forms.”

This was done to ascertain formally whether the boys were present on

whose account the meeting was convened; and it at once told Eric and

Wildney that _they_ were the boys to be punished, and that the others

had escaped.

The names were called over, and an attentive observer might have told,

from the sound of the boys’ voices as they answered, which of them were

afflicted with a troubled conscience.

Another slight pause, and breathless hush.

“Eric Williams and Charles Wildney, stand forward.”

The boys obeyed. From his place in the fifth, where he was sitting with

his head propped on his hand, Eric rose and advanced; and Wildney, from

the other end of the room, where the younger boys sat, getting up, came

and stood by his side.

Both of them fixed their eyes on the ground, whence they never once

raised them; and in the deadly pallor of their haggard faces, you could

scarcely have recognized the joyous high-spirited friends, whose laugh

and shout had often rung so merrily through the play-ground, and woke

the echoes of the rocks along the shore. Every eye was on them, and

they were conscious of it, though they could not see it--painfully

conscious of it, so that they wished the very ground to yawn beneath

their feet for the moment, and swallow up their shame. Companionship in

disgrace increased the suffering; had either of them been alone, he

would have been less acutely sensible to the trying nature of his

position; but that they, so different in their ages and position in the

school, should thus have their friendship and the results of it

blazoned, or rather branded, before their friends and enemies added

keenly to the misery they felt. So, with eyes bent on the floor, Eric

and Charlie awaited their sentence.

“Williams and Wildney,” said Dr. Rowlands in a solemn voice, of which

every articulation thrilled to the heart of every hearer, “you have been

detected in a sin most disgraceful and most dangerous. On Saturday night

you were both drinking, and you were guilty of such gross excess, that

you were neither of you in a fit state to appear among your

companions--least of all to appear among them at the hour of prayer. I

shall not waste many words on an occasion like this; only I trust that

those of your schoolfellows who saw you staggering and rolling into the

room on Saturday evening in a manner so unspeakably shameful and

degrading, will learn from that melancholy sight the lesson which the

Spartans taught their children by exhibiting a drunkard before them--the

lesson of the brutalising and fearful character of this most ruinous

vice. Eric Williams and Charles Wildney, your punishment will be public

expulsion, for which you will prepare this very evening. I am unwilling

that for a single day either of you--especially the elder of

you--should linger, so as possibly to contaminate others with the danger

of so pernicious an example.”

Such a sentence was wholly unexpected; it took boys and masters equally

by surprise. The announcement of it caused an uneasy sensation, which

was evident to all present, though no one spoke a word; but Dr. Rowlands

took no notice of it, and only said to the culprits--

“You may return to your seats.”

The two boys found their way back instinctively, they hardly knew how.

They seemed confounded and thunderstruck by their sentence, and the

painful accessories of its publicity. Eric leaned over the desk with his

head resting on a book, too stunned even to think; and Wildney looked

straight before him with his eyes fixed in a stupid and

unobserved stare.

Form by form the school dispersed, and the moment he was liberated Eric

sprang away from the boys, who would have spoken to him, and rushed

wildly to his study, where he locked the door. In a moment, however, he

re-opened it, for he heard Wildney’s step, and, after admitting him,

locked it once more.

Without a word Wildney, who looked very pale, flung his arms round

Eric’s neck, and, unable to bear up any longer, burst into a flood of

tears. Both of them felt relief in giving the reins to their sorrow.

“O my father! my father!” sobbed Wildney at length. “What will he say?

He will disown me, I know; he is so stern always with me when he thinks

I bring disgrace on him.”

Eric thought of Fairholm, and of his own far-distant parents, and of the

pang which _his_ disgrace would cause their loving hearts; but he could

say nothing, and only stroked Wildney’s dark hair again and again with

a soothing hand.

They sat there long, hardly knowing how the time passed; Eric could not

help thinking how very, very different their relative positions might

have been; how, while he might have been aiding and ennobling the young

boy beside him, he had alternately led and followed him into wickedness

and disgrace. His heart was full of misery and bitterness, and he felt

almost indifferent to all the future, and weary of his life.

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

servant.

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

“O no! no! no!” exclaimed Wildney; “_cannot_ be sent away like this. It

would break my father’s heart. Eric, _do_ come and entreat Dr. Rowlands

to forgive us only this once.”

“Yes,” said Eric, starting up with sudden energy; “he _shall_ forgive

us--_you_ at any rate. I will not leave him till he does. Cheer up,

Charlie, cheer up, and come along.”

Filled with an irresistible impulse, he pushed Carter aside, and sprang

down stairs three steps at a time, with Wildney following him. They went

straight for the Doctor’s study, and without waiting for the answer to

their knock at the door, Eric walked up to Dr. Rowlands, who sate

thinking in his arm-chair by the fire, and burst out passionately, “O

sir, forgive us this once.”

The Doctor was completely taken by surprise, so sudden was the

intrusion, and so intense was the boy’s manner. He remained silent a

moment from astonishment, and then said with asperity--

“Your offence is one of the most dangerous possible. There could be no

more perilous example for the school, than the one you have been

setting, Williams. Leave the room,” he added, with an authoritative

gesture, “my mind is made up.”

But Eric was too excited to be overawed by the master’s manner; an

imperious passion blinded him to all ordinary considerations, and,

heedless of the command, he broke out again--

“O sir, try me but once, _only_ try me. I promise you most faithfully

that I will never again commit the sin. O sir, do, do trust me, and I

will be responsible for Wildney too.”

Dr. Rowlands, seeing that in Eric’s present mood he must and would be

heard, unless he were ejected by actual force, began to pace silently up

and down the room in perplexed and anxious thought; at last he stopped

and turned over the pages of a thick school register, and found

Eric’s name.

“It is not your first offence, Williams, even of this very kind. That

most seriously aggravates your fault.”

“O sir! give us one more chance to mend. O, I feel that I _could_ do

such great things, if you will be but merciful, and give me time to

change. O, I entreat you, sir, to forgive us only this once, and I will

never ask again. Let us bear _any_ other punishment but this. O sir,” he

said, approaching the doctor in an imploring attitude, “spare us this

one time for the sake of our friends.”

The head-master made no reply for a time, but again paced the room in

silence. He was touched, and seemed hardly able to restrain his emotion.

“It was my deliberate conclusion to expel you, Williams. I must not

weakly yield to entreaty. You must go.”

Eric wrung his hands in agony. “O, sir, then, if you must do so, expel

me only, and not Charlie, _I_ can bear it, but do not let me ruin him

also. O I implore you, sir, for the love of God do, do forgive him. It

is I who have misled him;” and he flung himself on his knees, and lifted

his hands entreatingly towards the Doctor.

Dr. Rowlands looked at him--at his blue eyes drowned with tears, his

agitated gesture, his pale, expressive face, full of passionate

supplication. He looked at Wildney, too, who stood trembling with a look

of painful and miserable suspense, and occasionally added his wild word

of entreaty, or uttered sobs more powerful still, that seemed to come

from the depth of his heart. He was shaken in his resolve, wavered for a

moment, and then once more looked at the register.

“Yes,” he said, after a long pause, “here is an entry which shall save

you this time. I find written here against your name, ‘April 3. Risked

his life in the endeavor to save Edwin Russell at the Stack.’ That one

good and noble deed shall be the proof that you are capable of better

things. It may be weak perhaps--I know that it will be called weak--and

I do not feel certain that I am doing right; but if I err it shall be on

the side of mercy. I shall change expulsion into some other punishment.

You may go.”

Wildney’s face lighted up as suddenly and joyously as when a ray of

sun-light gleams for an instant out of a dark cloud.

“O thank you, thank you, sir,” he exclaimed, drying his eyes, and

pouring into the words a world of expression, which it was no light

pleasure to have heard. But Eric spoke less impulsively, and while the

two boys were stammering out their deep gratitude, a timid hand knocked

at the door, and Vernon entered.

“I have come, sir, to speak for poor Eric,” he said in a low voice, and

trembling with emotion, as, with downcast eyes, he modestly approached

towards Dr. Rowlands, not even observing the presence of the others in

the complete absorption of his feelings. He stood in a sorrowful

attitude, not venturing to look up, and his hand played nervously with

the ribbon of his straw hat.

“I have just forgiven him, my little boy,” said the Doctor kindly,

patting his stooping head; “there he is, and he has been speaking

for himself.”

“O, Eric, I am so, so glad, I don’t know what to say for joy. O Eric,

thank God that you are not to be expelled;” and Vernon went to his

brother, and embraced him with the deepest affection.

Dr. Rowlands watched the scene with moist eyes. He was generally a man

of prompt decision, and he well knew that he would incur by this act the

charge of vacillation. It was a noble self-denial in him to be willing

to do so, but it would have required an iron heart to resist such

earnest supplications, and he was more than repaid when he saw how much

anguish he had removed by yielding to their entreaties.

Once more humbly expressing their gratitude, the boys retired.

They did not know that other influences had been also exerted in their

favor, which, although ineffectual at the time, had tended to alter the

Doctor’s intention. Immediately after school Mr. Rose had been strongly

endeavoring to change the Doctor’s mind, and had dwelt forcibly on all

the good points in Eric’s character, and the promise of his earlier

career. And Montagu had gone with Owen and Duncan to beg that the

expulsion might be commuted into some other punishment. They had failed

to convince him; but, perhaps, had they not thus exerted themselves, Dr.

Rowlands might have been unshaken, though he could not be unmoved by

Vernon’s gentle intercession and Eric’s passionate prayers.

Wildney, full of joy, and excited by the sudden revulsion of feeling,

only shook Eric’s hand with all his might, and then darted out into the

playground to announce the happy news. The boys all flocked round him,

and received the intelligence with unmitigated pleasure. Among them all

there was not one who did not rejoice that Eric and Wildney were yet to

continue of their number.

But the two brothers returned to the study, and there, sorrowful in his

penitence, with his heart still aching with remorse, Eric sat down on a

chair facing the window, and drew Vernon to his side. The sun was

setting behind the purple hills, flooding the green fields and silver

sea with the crimson of his parting rays. The air was full of peace and

coolness, and the merry sounds of the cricket field blended joyously

with the whisper of the evening breeze. Eric was fond of beauty in every

shape, and his father had early taught him a keen appreciation of the

glories of nature. He had often gazed before on that splendid scene, as

he was now gazing on it thoughtfully with his brother by his side. He

looked long and wistfully at the gorgeous pageantry of quiet clouds,

and passed his arm more fondly round Vernon’s shoulder.

“What are you thinking of, Eric? Why, I declare you are crying still,”

said Vernon playfully, as he wiped a tear which had overflowed on his

brother’s cheek, “aren’t you glad that the Doctor has forgiven you?”

“Gladder, far gladder than I can say, Verny. O Verny, Verny, I hope your

school-life may be happier than mine has been. I would give up all I

have, Verny, to have kept free from the sins I have learnt. God grant

that I may yet have time and space to do better.”

“Let us pray together, Eric,” whispered his brother reverently, and they

knelt down and prayed; they prayed for their distant parents and

friends; they prayed for their schoolfellows and for each other, and for

Wildney, and they thanked God for all his goodness to them; and then

Eric poured out his heart in a fervent prayer that a holier and happier

future might atone for his desecrated past, and that his sins might be

forgiven for his Saviour’s sake.

The brothers rose from their knees calmer and more light-hearted, and

gave each other a solemn affectionate kiss, before they went down again

to the play-ground. But they avoided the rest of the boys, and took a

stroll together along the sands, talking quietly, and happily, and

hoping bright hopes for future days.

CHAPTER IX

WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG

“Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?

A tress of maiden’s hair,

Of drowned maiden’s hair,

Above the nets at sea?”--KINGSLEY.

Eric and Wildney were flogged and confined to gates for a time instead

of being expelled, and they both bore the punishment in a manly and

penitent way, and set themselves with all their might to repair the

injury which their characters had received. Eric, especially, seemed to

be devoting himself with every energy to regain, if possible, his long

lost position, and by the altered complexion of his remaining

school-life, to atone in some poor measure for its earlier sins. And he

carried Wildney with him, influencing others also of his late companions

in a greater or less degree. It was not Eric’s nature to do things by

halves, and it became obvious to all that his exertions to resist and

abandon his old temptations were strenuous and unwavering. He could no

longer hope for the school distinctions, which would have once lain so

easily within his reach, for the ground lost during weeks of idleness

cannot be recovered by a wish; but he succeeded sufficiently, by dint of

desperately hard work, to acquit himself with considerable credit, and

in the Easter examination came out sufficiently high, to secure his

remove into the sixth form after the holidays.

He felt far happier in the endeavor to fulfill his duty, than he had

ever done during the last years of recklessness and neglect, and the

change for the better in his character tended to restore unanimity and

good will to the school. Eric no longer headed the party which made a

point of ridiculing and preventing industry; and, sharing as he did the

sympathy of nearly all the boys, he was able quietly and unobtrusively

to calm down the jealousies and allay the heartburnings which had for so

long a time brought discord and disunion into the school society.

Cheerfulness and unanimity began to prevail once more at Roslyn, and

Eric had the intense happiness of seeing how much good lay still within

his power.

So the Easter holidays commenced with promise, and the few first days

glided away in innocent enjoyments. Eric was now reconciled again to

Owen and Duncan, and, therefore, had a wider choice of companions more

truly congenial to his high nature than the narrow circle of his late

associates.

“What do you say to a boat excursion to-morrow?” asked Duncan, as they

chatted together one evening.

“I won’t go without leave,” said Eric; “I should only get caught, and

get into another mess. Besides, I feel myself pledged now to strict

obedience.”

“Ay, you’re quite right. We’ll get leave easily enough though, provided

we agree to take Jim the boatman with us; so I vote we make up a party.”

“By the bye, I forgot; I’m engaged to Wildney to-morrow.”

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

“Most gladly,” said Eric, really pleased; for he saw by this that Duncan

observed the improvement in his old friends, and was falling in with the

endeavor to make all the boys really cordial to each other, and destroy

all traces of the late factions.

“Do you mind my bringing Montagu?”

“Not at all. Why should I?” answered Eric, with a slight blush. Montagu

and he had never been formally reconciled, nor had they, as yet, spoken

to each other. Indeed Duncan had purposely planned the excursion to give

them an opportunity of becoming friends once more, by being thrown

together. He knew well that they both earnestly wished it, although,

with the natural shyness of boys, they hardly knew how to set about

effecting it. Montagu hung back lest he should seem to be patronising a

fallen enemy, and Eric lest he should have sinned too deeply to

be forgiven.

The next morning dawned gloriously, and it was agreed that they should

meet at Starhaven, the point where they were to get the boat, at ten

o’clock. As they had supposed, Dr. Rowlands gave a ready consent to the

row, on condition of their being accompanied by the experienced sailor

whom the boys called Jim. The precaution was by no means unnecessary,

for the various currents which ran round the island were violent at

certain stages of the tide, and extremely dangerous for any who were not

aware of their general course.

Feeling that the day would pass off very unpleasantly if any feeling of

restraint remained between him and Montagu, Eric, by a strong effort,

determined to “make up with him” before starting, and went into his

study for that purpose after breakfast. Directly he came in, Montagu

jumped up and welcomed him cordially, and when, without any allusion to

the past, the two shook hands with all warmth, and looked the old proud

look into each other’s faces, they felt once more that their former

affection was unimpaired, and that in heart they were real and loving

friends. Most keenly did they both enjoy the renewed intercourse, and

they found endless subjects to talk about on their way to Starhaven,

where the others were already assembled when they came.

With Jim’s assistance they shoved a boat into the water, and sprang into

it in the highest spirits. Just as they were pushing off they saw Wright

and Vernon running down to the shore towards them, and they waited to

see what they wanted. “Couldn’t you take us with you?” asked Vernon,

breathless with his run.

“I’m afraid not, Verny,” said Montagu; “the boat won’t hold more than

six, will it, Jim?”

“No, sir, not safely.”

“Never mind, you shall have my place, Verny,” said Eric, as he saw his

brother’s disappointed look.

“Then Wright shall take mine,” said Wildney.

“O dear no,” said Wright, “we wouldn’t turn you out for the world.

Vernon and I will take an immense walk down the coast instead, and will

meet you here as we come back.”

“Well, good bye, then; off we go;” and with light hearts the boaters and

the pedestrians parted.

Eric, Graham, Duncan, and Montagu took the first turn at the oars, while

Wildney steered. Graham’s “crabs,” and Wildney’s rather crooked

steering, gave plenty of opportunity for chaff, and they were full of

fun as the oar-blades splashed and sparkled in the waves. Then they made

Jim sing them some of his old sailor songs as they rowed, and joined

vigorously in the choruses. They had arranged to make straight for St.

Catherine’s Head, and land somewhere near it to choose a place for their

pic-nic. It took them nearly two hours to get there, as they rowed

leisurely, and enjoyed the luxury of the vernal air. It was one of the

sunniest days of early spring; the air was pure and delicious, and the

calm sea breeze, just strong enough to make the sea flame and glister in

the warm sunlight, was exhilarating as new wine. Underneath them the

water was transparent as crystal, and far below they could see the green

and purple sea-weeds rising like a many-colored wood, through which

occasionally they saw a fish, startled by their oars, dart like an

arrow. The sky overhead was a cloudless blue, and as they kept not far

from shore, the clearly cut outline of the coast, with its rocks and

hills standing out in the vivid atmosphere, made a glowing picture, to

which the golden green of the spring herbage, bathed in its morning

sunlight, lent the magic of enchantment. Who could have been otherwise

than happy in such a scene and at such a time? but these were boys with

the long bright holiday before them, and happiness is almost too quiet a

word to express the bounding exultation of heart, the royal and tingling

sense of vigorous life, which made them shout and sing, as their boat

rustled through the ripples, from a mere instinct of inexpressible

enjoyment.

They had each contributed some luxury to the pic-nic, and it made a very

tempting display as they spread it out, under a sunny pebbled cave, by

St. Catherine’s Head; although, instead of anything more objectionable,

they had thought it best to content themselves with a very moderate

quantity of beer. When they had done eating, they amused themselves on

the shore; and had magnificent games among the rocks, and in every

fantastic nook of the romantic promontory. And then Eric suggested a

bathe to wind up with, as it was the first day when it had been quite

warm enough to make bathing pleasant.

“But we’ve got no towels.”

“Oh! chance the towels. We can run about till we’re dry.” So they

bathed, and then getting in the boat to row back again, they all agreed

that it was the very jolliest day they’d ever had at Roslyn, and voted

to renew the experiment before the holidays were over, and take Wright

and Vernon with them in a larger boat.

It was afternoon,--and afternoon still warm and beautiful,--when they

began to row home; so they took it quietly, and kept near the land for

variety’s sake, laughing, joking, and talking as merrily as ever.

“I declare I think this is the prettiest or anyhow the grandest bit of

the whole coast,” said Eric, as they neared a glen through whose narrow

gorge a green and garrulous little river gambolled down with noisy

turbulence into the sea. He might well admire that glen; its steep and

rugged sides were veiled with lichens, moss, and wild-flowers, and the

sea-birds found safe refuge in its lonely windings, which were colored

with topaz and emerald by the pencillings of nature and the rich

stains of time.

“Yes,” answered Montagu, “_I_ always stick up for Avon Glen as the

finest scene we’ve got about here. But, I say, who’s that gesticulating

on the rock there to the right of it? I verily believe it’s Wright,

apostrophising the ocean for Vernon’s benefit. I only see one of

them though.”

“I bet you he’s spouting

‘Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean--roll!

Ten thousand fleets, etc.’”

said Graham laughing.

“What do you say to putting in to shore there?” said Duncan; “it’s only

two miles to Starhaven, and I dare say we could make shift to take them

in for that distance. If Jim says anything we’ll chuck him overboard.”

They rowed towards Avon Glen, and to their surprise Wright, who stood

there alone (for with a pocket telescope they clearly made out that it

_was_ Wright), still continued to wave his arms and beckon them in a

manner which they at first thought ridiculous, but which soon make them

feel rather uneasy. Jim took an oar, and they soon got within two

hundred yards of the beach. Wright had ceased to make signals, but

appeared to be shouting to them, and pointing towards one corner of the

glen; but though they caught the sound of his voice they could not hear

what he said.

“I wonder why Vernon isn’t with him,” said Eric anxiously; “I hope--why,

what _are_ you looking at, Charlie?”

“What’s that in the water there?” said Wildney, pointing in the

direction to which Wright was also looking.

Montagu snatched the telescope out of his hand and looked. “Good God!”

he exclaimed, turning pale; “what can be the matter?”

“O _do_ let me look,” said Eric.

“No! stop, stop, Eric, you’d better not, I think; pray don’t, it may be

all a mistake. You’d better not--but it looked--nay, you really

_mustn’t,_ Eric,” he said, and, as if accidentally, he let the telescope

fall into the water, and they saw it sink down among the seaweeds at

the bottom.

Eric looked at him reproachfully. “What’s the fun of that, Monty? you

let it drop on purpose.”

“O never mind; I’ll get Wildney another. I really daren’t let you look,

for fear you should _fancy_ the same as I did, for it must be fancy. O

_don’t_ let us put in there--at least not all of us.”

What _was_ that thing in the water?--When Wright and Vernon left the

others, they walked along the coast, following the direction of the

boat, and agreed to amuse themselves in collecting eggs. They were very

successful, and, to their great delight, managed to secure some rather

rare specimens. When they had tired themselves with this pursuit, they

lay on the summit of one of the cliffs which formed the sides of Avon

Glen, and Wright, who was very fond of poetry, read Vernon a canto of

Marmion with great enthusiasm.

So they whiled away the morning, and when the canto was over, Vernon

took a great stone and rolled it for amusement over the cliff’s edge. It

thundered over the side, bounding down till it reached the strand, and a

large black cormorant, startled by the reverberating echoes, rose up

suddenly, and flapped its way with protruded neck to a rock on the

further side of the little bay.

“I bet you that animal’s got a nest somewhere near here,” said Vernon

eagerly. “Come, let’s have a look for it; a cormorant’s egg would be a

jolly addition to our collection.”

They got up, and looking down the face of the cliff, saw, some eight

feet below them, a projection half hidden by the branch of a tree, on

which the scattered pieces of stick clearly showed the existence of a

rude nest. They could not, however, see whether it contained eggs or no.

“I must bag that nest; it’s pretty sure to have eggs in it,” said

Vernon, “and I can get at it easy enough.” He immediately began to

descend towards the place where the nest was built, but he found it

harder than he expected.

“Hallo,” he said, “this is a failure. I must climb up again to

reconnoitre if there isn’t a better dodge for getting at it.” He reached

the top, and, looking down, saw a plan of reaching the ledge which

promised more hope of success.

“You’d better give it up, Verny,” said Wright. “I’m sure it’s harder

than we fancied, _I_ couldn’t manage it, I know.”

“O no, Wright, never say die. Look; if I get down more towards the right

the way’s plain enough, and I shall have reached the nest in no time.”

Again his descended in a different direction, but again he failed. The

nest could only be seen from the top, and he had lost the right route.

“You must keep more to the right.”

“I know,” answered Vernon; “but, bother take it, I can’t manage it, now

I’m so far down. I must climb up _again_.”

“_Do_ give it up, Verny, there’s a good fellow. You _can’t_ reach it,

and really it’s dangerous.”

“O no, not a bit of it. My head’s very steady, and I feel as cool as

possible. We mustn’t give up; I’ve only to get at the tree, and then I

shall be able to reach the nest from it quite easily.”

“Well, do take care, that’s a dear fellow.”

“Never fear,” said Vernon, who was already commencing his third attempt.

This time he got to the tree, and placed his foot on a part of the root,

while with his hands he clung on to a clump of heather. “Hurrah!” he

cried, “it’s got two eggs in it, Wright;” and he stretched downwards to

take them. Just as he was doing so, he heard the root on which his foot

rested give a great crack, and with a violent start he made a spring for

one of the lower branches. The motion caused his whole weight to rest

for an instant on his arms;--unable to sustain the wrench, the heather

gave way, and with a wild shriek he fell headlong down the surface of

the cliff.

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

“Vernon! Vernon!” shouted the terrified Wright, creeping close up to the

edge of the precipice. “O Vernon! for heaven’s sake speak!”

There was no answer, and leaning over, Wright saw the young boy

outstretched on the stones three hundred feet below. For some minutes he

was horrorstruck beyond expression, and made wild attempts to descend

the cliff and reach him. But he soon gave up the attempt in despair.

There was a tradition in the school that the feat had once been

accomplished by an adventurous and active boy, but Wright at any rate

found it hopeless for himself. The only other way to reach the glen was

by a circuitous route which led to the entrance of the narrow gorge,

along the sides of which it was possible to make way with difficulty

down the bank of the river to the place where it met the sea. But this

would have taken him an hour and a half, and was far from easy when the

river was swollen with high tide. Nor was there any house within some

distance at which assistance could be procured, and Wright, in a tumult

of conflicting emotions, determined to wait where he was, on the chance

of seeing the boat as it returned from St. Catherine’s Head. It was

already three o’clock, and he knew that they could not now be longer

than an hour at most; so with eager eyes he sat watching the headland,

round which he knew they would first come in sight. He watched with wild

eager eyes, absorbed in the one longing desire to catch sight of them;

but the leaden-footed moments crawled on like hours, and he could not

help shivering with agony and fear. At last he caught a glimpse of them,

and springing up, began to shout at the top of his voice, and wave his

handkerchief and his arms in the hope of attracting their attention.

Little thought those blithe merry-hearted boys in the midst of the happy

laughter which they sent ringing over the waters, little they thought

how terrible a tragedy awaited them.