At last Wright saw that they had perceived him, and were putting inland,

and now, in his fright, he hardly knew what to do; but feeling sure that

they could not fail to see Vernon, he ran off as fast as he could to

Starhaven, where he rapidly told the people at a farm-house what had

happened, and asked them to get a cart ready to convey the wounded boy

to Roslyn school.

Meanwhile the tide rolled in calmly and quietly in the rosy evening,

radiant with the diamond and gold of reflected sunlight and transparent

wave. Gradually gently it crept up to the place where Vernon lay; and

the little ripples fell over him wonderingly, with the low murmur of

their musical laughter, and blurred and dimmed the vivid splashes and

crimson streaks upon the white stone on which his head had fallen, and

washed away some of the purple bells and green sprigs of heather round

which his fingers were closed in the grasp of death, and played softly

with his fair hair as it rose, and fell, and floated on their

undulations like a leaf of golden-colored weed, until they themselves

were faintly discolored by his blood. And then, tired with their new

plaything, they passed on, until the swelling of the water was just

strong enough to move rudely the boy’s light weight, and in a few

moments more would have tossed it up and down with every careless wave

among the boulders of the glen. And then it was that Montagu’s

horror-stricken gaze had identified the object at which they had been

gazing. In strange foreboding silence they urged on the boat, while Eric

at the prow seemed wild with the one intense impulse to verify his

horrible suspicion. The suspicion grew and grew:--it _was_ a boy lying

in the water;--it was Vernon;--he was motionless;--he must have fallen

there from the cliff.

Eric could endure the suspense no longer. The instant that the boat

grated on the shingle, he sprang into the water, and rushed to the spot

where his brother’s body lay. With a burst of passionate affection, he

flung himself on his knees beside it, and took the cold hand in his

own--the little rigid hand in which the green blades of grass, and fern,

and heath, so tightly clutched, were unconscious of the tale they told.

“Oh Verny, Verny, darling Verny, speak to me!” he cried in anguish, as

he tenderly lifted up the body, and marked how little blood had flowed.

But the child’s head fell back heavily, and his arms hung motionless

beside him, and with a shriek, Eric suddenly caught the look of dead

fixity in his blue open eyes.

The others had come up. “O God, save my brother, save him, save him from

death,” cried Eric, “I cannot live without him. Oh God! Oh God! Look!

look!” he continued, “he has fallen from the cliff with his head on this

cursed stone,” pointing to the block of quartz, still red with

blood-stained hair; “but we must get a doctor. He is not dead! no, no,

no, he _cannot_ be dead. Take him quickly, and let us row home. Oh God!

why did I ever leave him?”

The boys drew round in a frightened circle, and lifted Vernon’s corpse

into the boat; and then, while Eric still supported the body, and

moaned, and called to him in anguish, and chafed his cold pale brow and

white hands, and kept saying that he had fainted and was not dead, the

others rowed home with all speed, while a feeling of terrified anxiety

lay like frost upon their hearts.

They reached Starhaven, and got into the cart with the lifeless boy, and

heard from Wright how the accident had taken place. Few boys were about

the play-ground, so they got unnoticed to Roslyn, and Dr. Underhay, who

had been summoned, was instantly in attendance. He looked at Vernon for

a moment, and then shook his head in a way that could not be mistaken.

Eric saw it, and flung himself with uncontrollable agony on his

brother’s corpse. “O Vernon, Vernon, my own dear brother! oh God, then

he is dead.” And, unable to endure the blow, he fainted away.

I cannot dwell on the miserable days that followed, when the very sun

in heaven seemed dark to poor Eric’s wounded and crushed spirit. He

hardly knew how they went by. And when they buried Vernon in the little

green churchyard by Russell’s side, and the patter of the earth upon the

coffin--that most terrible of all sounds--struck his ear, the iron

entered into his soul, and he had but one wish as he turned away from

the open grave, and that was, soon to lie beside his beloved little

brother and to be at rest.

CHAPTER X

THE LAST TEMPTATION

[Greek: ’Ae d’ Atae sthenazae te chai ’aztipos sunecha pasas

Pollou ’upechpzotheei, phthaneei d’ de te pasan ep’ aiach

Blaptous’ anthxopous.] Hom Il. ix. 505.

Time, the great good angel, Time, the merciful healer, assuaged the

violence of Eric’s grief, which seemed likely to settle down into a

sober sadness. At first his letters to his parents and to Fairholm were

almost unintelligible in their fierce abandonment of sorrow; but they

grew calmer in time,--and while none of his school-fellows ever ventured

in his presence to allude to Vernon, because of the emotion which the

slightest mention of him excited, yet he rarely wrote any letters to his

relations in which he did not refer to his brother’s death, in language

which grew at length both manly and resigned.

A month after, in the summer term, he was sitting alone in his study in

the afternoon (for he could not summon up spirit enough to play

regularly at cricket), writing a long letter to his aunt. He spoke

freely and unreservedly of his past errors,--more freely than he had

ever done before,--and expressed not only deep penitence, but even

strong hatred of his previous unworthy courses. “I can hardly even yet

realize,” he added, “that I am alone here, and that I am writing to my

aunt Trevor about the death of my brother, my noble, only brother,

Vernon. Oh how my whole soul yearns towards him. I _must_ be a better

boy, I _will_ be better than I have been, in the hopes of meeting him

again. Indeed, indeed, dear aunt, though I have been so guilty, I am

laying aside, with all my might, idleness and all bad habits, and doing

my very best to redeem the lost years. I do hope that the rest of my

time at Roslyn will be more worthily spent than any of it has been

as yet.”

He finished the sentence, and laid his pen down to think, gazing quietly

on the blue hills and sunlit sea. A feeling of hope and repose stole

over him;--when suddenly he saw at the door, which was ajar, the leering

eyes and villainously cunning countenance of Billy.

“What do you want?” he said angrily, casting at the intruder a look of

intense disgust.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, pulling his hair. “Anything in my line,

sir, to-day?”

“No!” answered Eric, rising up in a gust of indignation. “What business

have you here? Get away instantly.”

“Not had much custom from you lately, sir,” said the man.

“What do you mean by having the insolence to begin talking to me? If you

don’t make yourself scarce at once, I’ll--”

“O well,” said the man; “if it comes to that, I’ve business enough.

Perhaps you’ll just pay me this debt,” he continued, changing his

fawning manner into a bullying swagger. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Eric, greatly discomfited, took the dirty bit of paper. It purported to

be a bill for various items of drink, all of which Eric _knew_ to have

been paid for, and among other things, a charge of £6 for the dinner at

the “Jolly Herring.”

“Why, you villain, these have all been paid. What! six pounds for the

dinner! Why Brigson collected the subscriptions to pay for it before it

took place.”

“That’s now’t to me, sir. He never paid me; and as you was the young

gen’lman in the cheer, I comes to you.”

_Now_ Eric knew for the first time what Brigson had meant by his

threatened revenge. He saw at once that the man had been put up to act

in this way by some one, and had little doubt that Brigson was the

instigator. Perhaps it might be even true, as the man said, that he had

never received the money. Brigson was quite wicked enough to have

embezzled it for his own purposes.

“Go,” he said to the man; “you shall have the money in a week.”

“And mind it bean’t more nor a week. I don’t chuse to wait for my money

no more,” said Billy, impudently, as he retired with an undisguised

chuckle, which very nearly made Eric kick him down stairs.

What was to be done? To mention the subject to Owen or Montagu, who were

best capable of advising him, would have been to renew the memory of

unpleasant incidents, which he was most anxious to obliterate from the

memory of all. He had not the moral courage to face the natural

consequences of his past misconduct, and was now ashamed to speak of

what he had not then been ashamed to do. He told Graham and Wildney, who

were the best of his old associates, and they at once agreed that _they_

ought to be responsible for at least a share of the debt. Still, between

them they could only muster three pounds out of the six which were

required, and the week had half elapsed before there seemed any prospect

of extrication from the difficulty; so Eric daily grew more miserable

and dejected.

A happy thought struck him. He would go and explain the source of his

trouble to Mr. Rose, his oldest, his kindest, his wisest friend. To him

he could speak without scruple and without reserve, and from him he knew

that he would receive nothing but the noblest advice and the

warmest sympathy.

He went to him after prayers that night, and told his story.

“Ah, Eric, Eric!” said Mr. Rose; “you see, my boy, that sin and

punishment are twins.”

“O but, sir, I was just striving so hard to amend, and it seems cruel

that I should receive at once so sad a check.”

“There is only one way that I see, Eric. You must write home for the

money, and confess the truth to them honestly, as you have to me.”

It was a hard course for Eric’s proud and loving heart to write and tell

his aunt the full extent of his guilt. But he did it faithfully,

extenuating nothing, and entreating her, as she loved him, to send the

money by return of post.

It came, and with it a letter full of deep and gentle affection. Mrs.

Trevor knew her nephew’s character, and did not add by reproaches to the

bitterness which she perceived he had endured; she simply sent him the

money, and told him, that in spite of his many failures, “she still had

perfect confidence in the true heart of her dear boy.”

Touched by the affection which all seemed to be showing him, it became

more and more the passionate craving of Eric’s soul to be worthy of that

love. But it is far, far harder to recover a lost path than to keep in

the right one all along; and by one more terrible fall, the poor erring

boy was to be taught for the last time the fearful strength of

temptation, and the only source in earth and heaven from which

deliverance can come. Theoretically he knew it, but as yet not

practically. Great as his trials had been, and deeply as he had

suffered, it was God’s will that he should pass through a yet fiercer

flame ere he could be purified from pride and passion and

self-confidence, and led to the cross of a suffering Saviour, there to

fling himself down in heart-rending humility, and cast his great load of

cares and sins upon Him who cared for him through all his wanderings,

and was leading him back through thorny places to the green pastures and

still waters, where at last he might have rest.

The money came, and walking off straight to the Jolly Herring, he dashed

it down on the table before Billy, and imperiously bade him write a

receipt. The man did so, but with so unmistakable an air of cunning and

triumph that Eric was both astonished and dismayed. Could the miscreant

have any further plot against him? At first he fancied that Billy might

attempt to extort money by a threat of telling Dr. Rowlands; but this

supposition he banished as unlikely since it might expose Billy himself

to very unpleasant consequences. Eric snatched the receipt, and said

contemptuously, “Never come near me again; next time you come up to the

studies I’ll tell Carter to turn you out.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” sneered Billy. “How mighty we young gents are all of a

sudden. Unless you buy of me sometimes, you shall hear of me again;

never fear, young gen’lman.” He shouted out the latter words, for Eric

had turned scornfully on his heel, and was already in the street.

Obviously more danger was to be apprehended from this quarter. At first

the thought of it was disquieting, but three weeks glided away, and

Eric, now absorbed heart and soul in school work, began to remember it

as a mere vague and idle threat. But one afternoon, to his horror, he

again heard Billy’s step on the stairs, and again saw the hateful

iniquitous face at the door.

“Not much custom from you lately, sir,” said Billy, mockingly. “Anything

in my line to-day.”

“Didn’t I tell you never to come near me again, you foul villain? Go

this instant, or I’ll call Carter;” and, opening the window, he prepared

to put his threat into execution.

“Ho, ho, ho! Better look at summat I’ve got first.” It was a printed

notice to the following effect--

“FIVE POUNDS REWARD.

“WHEREAS some evil-disposed persons stole some pigeons on the evening of

April 6th from the Rev. H. Gordon’s premises; the above reward will be

given for any such information as may lead to the apprehension of the

offenders.”

Soon after the seizure of the pigeons there had been a rumor that Gordon

had offered a reward of this kind, but the matter had been forgotten,

and the boys had long fancied their secret secure, though at first they

had been terribly alarmed.

“What do you show me that for?” he asked, reddening and then growing

pale again.

Billy’s only answer was to pass his finger slowly along the words “Five

pounds reward!”

“Well?”

“I thinks I knows who took them pigeons.”

“What’s that to me?”

“Ho, ho, ho! that’s a good un,” was Billy’s reply; and he continued to

cackle as though enjoying a great joke.

“Unless you gives me five pound, anyhow, I knows where to get ’em. I

know who them evil-disposed persons be! So I’ll give ye another week

to decide.”

Billy shambled off in high spirits; but Eric sank back into his chair.

Five pounds! The idea haunted him. How could he ever get them? To write

home again was out of the question. The Trevors, though liberal, were

not rich, and after just sending him so large a sum, it was impossible,

he thought, that they should send him five pounds more at his mere

request. Besides, how could he be sure that Billy would not play upon

his fears to extort further sums? And to explain the matter to them

fully was more than he could endure. He remembered now how easily his

want of caution might have put Billy in possession of the secret, and

he knew enough of the fellow’s character to feel quite sure of the use

he would be inclined to make of it. Oh how he cursed that hour of folly!

Five pounds! He began to think of what money he could procure. He

thought again and again, but it was no use; only one thing was clear--he

_had_, not the money, and could not get it. Miserable boy! It was too

late then! for him repentance was to be made impossible; every time he

attempted it he was to be thwarted by some fresh discovery. And, leaning

his head on his open palms, poor Eric sobbed like a child.

Five pounds! And all this misery was to come upon him for the want of

five pounds! Expulsion was _certain_, was _inevitable_ now, and perhaps

for Wildney too as well as for himself. After all his fine promises in

his letters home,--yes, that reminded him of Vernon. The grave had not

closed for a month over one brother, and the other would be _expelled_.

Oh misery, misery! He was sure it would break his mother’s heart. Oh how

cruel everything was to him!

Five pounds--he wondered whether Montagu would lend it him, or any other

boy? But then it was late in the quarter, and all the boys would have

spent the money they brought with them from home. There was no chance of

any one having five pounds, and to a master he _dare_ not apply, not

even to Mr. Rose. The offence was too serious to be overlooked, and if

noticed at all, he fancied that, after his other delinquencies, it

_must_, as a matter of notoriety, be visited with expulsion. He could

not face that bitter thought; he could not thus bring open disgrace upon

his father’s and his brother’s name; this was the fear which kept

recurring to him with dreadful iteration.

By the bye, he remembered that if he had continued captain of the

school eleven, he would have had easy command of the money by being

treasurer of the cricket subscriptions. But at Vernon’s death he lost

all interest in cricket for a time, and had thrown up his office, to

which Montagu had been elected by the general suffrage.

He wondered whether there was as much as five pounds of the

cricketing-money left? He knew that the box which contained it was in

Montagu’s study, and he also knew where the key was kept. It was merely

a feeling of curiosity--he would go and look.

All this passed through Eric’s mind as he sat in his study after Billy

had gone. It was a sultry summer day; all the study-doors were open, and

all their occupants were absent in the cricket-field, or bathing. He

stole into Montagu’s study, hastily got the key, and took down the box.

“O put it down, put it down, Eric,” said Conscience; “what business have

you with it?”

“Pooh! it is merely curiosity; as if I couldn’t trust myself!”

“Put it down,” repeated Conscience authoritatively, deigning no longer

to argue or entreat.

Eric hesitated, and did put down the box; but he did not instantly leave

the room. He began to look at Montagu’s books, and then out of the

window. The gravel play-ground was deserted, he noticed, for the

cricket-field. Nobody was near, therefore. Well, what of that? he was

doing no harm.

“Nonsense! I _will_ just look and see if there’s five pounds in the

cricket-box.” Slowly at first he put out his hand, and then, hastily

turning the key, opened the box. It contained three pounds in gold, and

a quantity of silver. He began to count the silver, putting it on the

table, and found that it made up three pounds ten more. “So that,

altogether, there’s six pounds ten; that’s thirty shillings more than

... and it won’t be wanted till next summer term, because all the bats

and balls are bought now. I daresay Montagu won’t even open the box

again. I know he keeps it stowed away in a corner, and hardly ever looks

at it, and I can put back the five pounds the very first day of next

term, and it will save me from expulsion.”

Very slowly Eric took the three sovereigns and put them in his pocket,

and then he took up one of the heaps of shillings and sixpences which he

had counted, and dropped them also into his trousers; they fell into the

pocket with a great jingle....

“Eric, you are a thief!” He thought he heard his brother Vernon’s voice

utter the words thrillingly distinct; but it was conscience who had

borrowed the voice, and, sick with horror, he began to shake the money

out of his pockets again into the box. He was only just in time; he had

barely locked the box, and put it in its place, when he heard the sound

of voices and footsteps on the stairs. He had no time to take out the

key and put it back where he found it, and had hardly time to slip into

his own study again, when the boys had reached the landing.

They were Duncan and Montagu, and as they passed the door, Eric

pretended to be plunged in books.

“Hallo, Eric! grinding as usual,” said Duncan, good-humoredly; but he

only got a sickly smile in reply.

“What! are you the only fellow in the studies?” asked Montagu. “I was

nearly sure I heard some one moving about as we came up stairs.”

“I don’t think there’s any one here but me,” said Eric, “and I’m going a

walk now.”

He closed his books with, a bang, flew down stairs, and away through the

play-ground towards the shore But he could not so escape his thoughts.

“Eric, you are a thief! Eric, you are a thief!” rang in his ear. “Yes,”

he thought; “I am even a thief. Oh, good God, yes, _even_ a _thief_, for

I _had_ actually stolen the money, until I changed my mind. What if they

should discover the key in the box, knowing that I was the only fellow

up stairs? Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy!”

It was a lonely place, and he flung himself, with his face hid in the

coarse grass, trying to cool the wild burning of his brow. And as he

lay, he thrust his hand into the guilty pocket. Good heavens! there was

something still there. He pulled it out; it was a sovereign! Then he WAS

a thief, even actually. Oh, everything was against him; and, starting to

his feet, he flung the accursed gold over the rocks far into the sea.

When he got home he felt so inconceivably wretched that, unable to work,

he begged leave to go to bed at once. It was long before he fell asleep;

but when he did, the sleep was more terrible than the haunted

wakefulness. For he had no rest from tormenting and horrid dreams.

Brigson and Billy, their bodies grown to gigantic proportions, and their

faces fierce with demoniacal wickedness, seemed to be standing over him,

and demanding five pounds on pain of death. Flights of pigeons darkening

the air, settled on him, and flapped about him. He fled from them madly

through the dark midnight, but many steps pursued him. He saw Mr. Rose,

and running up, seized him by the hand, and implored protection. But in

his dream Mr. Rose turned from him with a cold look of sorrowful

reproach. And then he saw Wildney, and cried out to him, “O Charlie,

save me;” but Charlie ran away, saying, “Williams, you are a thief!” and

then a chorus of voices took up that awful cry, voices of expostulation,

voices of contempt, voices of indignation, voices of menace; they took

up the cry, and repeated and re-echoed it; but, most unendurable of all,

there were voices of wailing and voices of gentleness among them, and

his soul died within him as he caught, amid the confusion of condemning

sounds, the voices of Russell and Vernon, and they, too, were saying to

him, in tender pity and agonized astonishment, “Eric, Eric, you are

a thief!”

CHAPTER XI

REAPING THE WHIRLWIND

“For alas! alas! with me

The light of life is o’er;

No more--no more--no more

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar!”

EDGAR A. POE.

The landlord of the Jolly Herring had observed during his visits to

Eric, that at mid-day the studies were usually deserted, and the doors

for the most part left unlocked. He very soon determined to make use of

this knowledge for his own purposes, and as he was well acquainted with

the building (in which for a short time he had been a servant), he laid

his plans without the least dread of discovery.

There was a back entrance into Roslyn school behind the chapel, and it

could be reached by a path through the fields without any chance of

being seen, if a person set warily to work and watched his opportunity.

By this path Billy came, two days after his last visit, and walked

straight up the great staircase, armed with the excuse of business with

Eric in case any one met or questioned him. But no one was about, since

between twelve and one the boys were pretty sure to be amusing

themselves out of doors; and after glancing into each of the studies,

Billy finally settled on searching Montagu’s (which was the neatest and

best furnished), to see what he could get.

The very first thing which caught his experienced eye was the

cricket-fund box, with the key temptingly in the lock, just where Eric

had left it when the sounds of some one coming had startled him. In a

moment Billy had made a descent on the promising-looking booty, and

opening his treasure, saw, with lively feelings of gratification, the

unexpected store of silver and gold. This he instantly transferred to

his own pocket, and then replacing the box where he had found it,

decamped with the spoil unseen, leaving the study in all other respects

exactly as he had found it.

Meanwhile the unhappy Eric was tossed and agitated with apprehension and

suspense. Unable to endure his misery in loneliness, he had made several

boys to a greater or less degree participators in the knowledge of his

difficult position, and in the sympathy which his danger excited, the

general nature of his dilemma with Billy (though not its special

circumstances) was soon known through the school.

At the very time when the money was being stolen, Eric was sitting with

Wildney and Graham under the ruin by the shore, and the sorrow which lay

at his heart was sadly visible in the anxious expression of his face,

and the deep dejection of his attitude and manner.

The other two were trying to console him. They suggested every possible

topic of hope; but it was too plain that there was nothing to be said,

and that Eric had real cause to fear the worst. Yet though their

arguments were futile, he keenly felt the genuineness of their

affection, and it brought a little alleviation to his heavy mood.

“Well, well; at least _do_ hope the best, Eric,” said Graham.

“Yes!” urged Wildney; “only think, dear old fellow, what lots of worse

scrapes we’ve been in before, and how we’ve always managed to get out of

them somehow.”

“No, my boy; not worse scrapes,” answered Eric. “Depend upon it this is

the last for me; I shall not have the chance of getting into another at

_Roslyn_, anyhow.”

“Poor Eric! what shall I do if you leave?” said Wildney, putting his arm

round Eric’s neck. “Besides it’s all my fault, hang it, that you got

into this cursed row.”

“‘The curse is come upon, me, cried

The Lady of Shallott,’

“those words keep ringing in my ears,” murmured Eric.

“Well, Eric, if _you_ are sent away, I know I shall get my father to

take me too, and then we’ll join each other somewhere. Come, cheer up,

old boy--being sent isn’t such a very frightful thing after all.”

“No” said Graham; “and besides, the bagging of the pigeons was only a

lark, when one comes to think of it. It wasn’t like stealing, you know;

_that_’d be quite a different thing.”

Eric winced visibly at this remark, but his companions did not notice

it. “Ah,” thought he, “there’s _one_ passage of my life which I never

shall be able to reveal to any human soul.”

“Come now, Eric,” said Wildney, “I’ve got something to propose. You

shall play cricket to-day; you haven’t played for an age, and it’s high

time you should. If you don’t you’ll go mooning about the shore all day,

and that’ll never do, for you’ll come back glummer than ever.”

“No!” said Eric, with a heavy sigh, as the image of Vernon instantly

passed through his mind; “no more cricket for me.”

“Nay, but you _must_ play to-day. Come, you shan’t say no. You won’t say

no to me, will you, dear old fellow?” And Wildney looked up to him with

that pleasant smile, and the merry light in his dark eyes, which had

always been so charming to Eric’s fancy.

“There’s no refusing you,” said Eric with the ghost of a laugh, as he

boxed Wildney’s ears. “O you dear little rogue, Charlie, I wish I

were you.”

“Pooh! pooh! now you shan’t get sentimental again. As if you wern’t

fifty times better than me every way. I’m sure I don’t know how I shall

ever love you enough, Eric,” he added more seriously, “for all your

kindness to me.”

“I’m so glad you’re going to play, though,” said Graham; “and so will

everybody be; and I’m certain it’ll be good for you. The game will

divert your thoughts.”

So that afternoon Eric, for the first time since Verny’s death, played

with the first eleven, of which he had been captain. The school cheered

him vigorously as he appeared again on the field, and the sound lighted

up his countenance with some gleam of its old joyousness. When one

looked at him that day with his straw hat on and its neat light-blue

ribbon, and the cricket dress (a pink jersey and leather belt, with a

silver clasp in front), showing off his well-built and graceful figure,

one little thought what an agony was gnawing like a serpent at his

heart. But that day, poor boy, in the excitement of the game he half

forgot it himself, and more and more as the game went on.

The other side, headed by Montagu, went in first, and Eric caught out

two, and bowled several. Montagu was the only one who stayed in long,

and when at last Eric sent his middle wicket flying with a magnificent

ball, the shouts of “well bowled! well bowled _indeed_,” were universal.

“Just listen to that, Eric,” said Montagu; “why, you’re out-doing every

body to-day, yourself included, and taking us by storm.”

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

“Not you. You’re too much in luck to come out with a duck,” answered

Montagu. “You see I’ve already become the Homer of your triumphs, and

vaticinate in rhyme.”

And now it was Eric’s turn to go in. It was long since he had stood

before the wicket, but now he was there, looking like a beautiful

picture as the sunlight streamed over him, and made his fair hair shine

like gold. In the triumph of success his sorrows were flung to the

winds, and his blue eyes sparkled with interest and joy.

He contented himself with blocking Duncan’s balls until his eye was in;

but then, acquiring confidence, he sent them flying right and left. His

score rapidly mounted, and there seemed no chance of getting him out, so

that there was every probability of his carrying out his bat.

“Oh, _well_ hit! _well_ hit! A three’r for Eric,” cried Wildney to the

scorer; and he began to clap his hands and dance about with excitement

at his friend’s success.

“Oh, well hit! well hit in--deed!” shouted all the lookers on, as Eric

caught the next ball half-volley, and sent it whizzing over the hedge,

getting a sixer by the hit.

At the next ball they heard a great crack, and he got no run, for the

handle of his bat broke right off.

“How unlucky!” he said, flinging down the handle with vexation. “I

believe this was our best bat.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Montagu; “we can soon get another; we’ve got lots

of money in the box.”

What had come over Eric? if there had been a sudden breath of poison in

the atmosphere he could hardly have been more affected than he was by

Montagu’s simple remark. Montagu could not help noticing it, but at the

time merely attributed it to some unknown gust of feeling, and made no

comment. But Eric, hastily borrowing another bat, took his place again

quite tamely; he was trembling, and at the very next ball, he spooned a

miserable catch into Graham’s hand, and the shout of triumph from the

other side proclaimed that his innings was over.

He walked dejectedly to the pavilion for his coat, and the boys, who

were seated in crowds about it, received him, of course, after his

brilliant score, with loud and continued plaudits. But the light had

died away from his face and figure, and he never raised his eyes from

the ground.

“Modest Eric!” said Wildney chaffingly, “you don’t acknowledge your

honors.”

Eric dropped his bat in the corner, put his coat across his arm, and

walked away. As he passed Wildney, he stooped down and whispered again

in a low voice--

“‘The curse has come upon me, cried

The Lady of Shallott.’”

“Hush, Eric, nonsense,” whispered Wildney; “you’re not going away,” he

continued aloud, as Eric turned towards the school. “Why, there are only

two more to go in!”

“Yes, thank you, I must go.”

“Oh, then, I’ll come too.”

Wildney at once joined his friend. “There’s nothing more the matter, is

there?” he asked anxiously, when they were out of hearing of the rest.

“God only knows.”

“Well, let’s change the subject. You’ve being playing brilliantly, old

fellow.”

“Have I?”

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

“Ah well! it matters very little.”

Just at this moment one of the servants handed Eric a kind note from

Mrs. Rowlands, with whom he was a very great favorite, asking him to tea

that night. He was not very surprised, for he had been several times

lately, and the sweet womanly kindness which she always showed him

caused him the greatest pleasure. Besides, she had known his mother.

“Upon my word, honors _are_ being showered on you!” said Wildney. “First

to get _the_ score of the season at cricket, and bowl out about half the

other side, and then go to tea with the head-master. Upon my word! Why

any of us poor wretches would give our two ears for such distinctions.

Talk of curse indeed! Fiddlestick end!”

But Eric’s sorrow lay too deep for chaff, and only answering with a

sigh, he went to dress for tea.

Just before tea-time Duncan, and Montagu strolled in together. “How

splendidly Eric played,” said Duncan.

“Yes, indeed. I’m so glad. By the bye, I must see about getting a new

bat. I don’t know exactly how much money we’ve got, but I know there’s

plenty. Let’s come and see.”

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

“Hallo,” he said, “I’m nearly sure I left it in the corner of this

drawer, under some other things; but it isn’t there now. What can have

become of it?”

“Where’s the box?” said Duncan; “let’s see if any of my keys will fit

it. Hallo! why _you’re_ a nice treasurer, Monty! here’s the key _in_

the box!”

“No, is it though?” asked Montagu, looking serious. “Here, give it me; I

hope nobody’s been meddling with it.”

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

empty.

“Phew-w-w-w!” Montagu gave a long whistle.

“By Jove!” was Duncan’s only comment.

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

his thoughts.

“A bad, bad business! what’s to be done, Monty?”

“I’ll rush straight down to tea, and ask the fellows about it. Would you

mind requesting Rose not to come in for five minutes? Tell him there’s

a row.”

He ran down stairs hastily and entered the tea-room, where the boys were

talking in high spirits about the match, and liberally praising

Eric’s play.

“I’ve got something unpleasant to say,” he announced, raising his voice.

“Hush! hush! hush! what’s the row?” asked half a dozen at once.

“The whole of the cricket money, some six pounds at least, has vanished

from the box in my study!”

For an instant the whole room was silent; Wildney and Graham

interchanged anxious glances.

“Does any fellow know anything about this?”

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

“Where is Williams?” asked one of the sixth form casually.

“He’s taking tea with the Doctor,” said Wildney.

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

except in confidential whispers.

Duncan went up with Owen and Montagu to their study. “What’s to be

done?” was the general question.

“I think we’ve all had a lesson once before not to suspect too hastily.

Still, in a matter like this,” said Montagu, “one _must_ take notice of

apparent cues.”

“I know what you’re thinking of, Monty,” said Duncan.

“Well, then, did you hear anything when you and I surprised Eric

suddenly two days ago?”

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

“I heard more--though at the time it didn’t strike me particularly. I

distinctly heard the jingle of money.”

“Well, it’s no good counting up suspicious circumstances; we must _ask_

him about it, and act accordingly.’

“Will he come up to the studies again to-night?”

“I think not,” said Owen; “I notice he generally goes straight to bed

after he has been out to tea; that’s to say, directly after prayers.”

The three sat there till prayer-time taciturn and thoughtful. Their

books were open, but they did little work, and it was evident that

Montagu was filled with the most touching grief. During the evening he

drew out a little likeness which Eric had given him, and looked at it

long and earnestly. “Is it possible?” he thought. “Oh Eric! can that

face be the face of a thief?”

The prayer-bell dispelled his reverie. Eric entered with the Rowlands,

and sat in his accustomed place. He had spent a pleasant, quiet evening,

and, little knowing what had happened, felt far more cheerful and

hopeful than he had done before, although he was still ignorant how to

escape the difficulty which threatened him.

He couldn’t help observing that as he entered he was the object of

general attention; but he attributed it either to his playing that day,

or to the circumstances in which he was placed by Billy’s treachery, of

which he knew that many boys were now aware. But when prayers were over,

and he saw that every one shunned him, or looked and spoke in the

coldest manner, his most terrible fears revived.

He went off to his dormitory, and began to undress. As he sat half

abstracted on his bed doing nothing Montagu and Duncan entered, and he

started to see them, for they were evidently the bearers of some serious

intelligence.

“Eric,” said Duncan, “do you know that some one has stolen all the

cricket money?”

“Stolen--what--_all_?” he cried, leaping up as if he had been shot. “Oh,

what new retribution is this?” and he hid his face, which had turned

ashy pale, in his hands.

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

“If it is all gone, it is not I who stole it,” he said, not lifting his

head.

“Do you know anything about it?”

“No!” he sobbed convulsively. “No, no, no! Yet stop; don’t let me add a

lie.... Let me think. No, Duncan!” he said, looking up, “I do _not_ know

who stole it.”

They stood silent, and the tears were stealing down Montagu’s averted

face.

“O Duncan, Monty, be merciful, be merciful,” said Eric. “Don’t _yet_

condemn me. _I_ am guilty, not of _this_, but of something as bad. I

admit I was tempted; but if the money really is all gone, it is _not_ I

who am the thief.”

“You must know, Eric, that the suspicion against you is very strong, and

rests on some definite facts.”

“Yes, I know it must. Yet, oh, do be merciful, and don’t yet condemn me.

I have denied it. Am I a liar Monty? Oh Monty, Monty, believe me

in this.”

But the boys still stood silent.

“Well, then,” he said, “I will tell you all. But I can only tell it to

you, Monty. Duncan, indeed you mustn’t be angry; you are my friend, but

not so much as Monty. I can tell him, and him only.”

Duncan left the room, and Montagu sat down beside Eric on the bed, and

put his arm round him to support him, for he shook violently. There,

with deep and wild emotion, and many interruptions of passionate

silence, Eric told to Montagu his miserable tale. “I am the most

wretched fellow living,” he said; “there must be some fiend that hates

me, and drives me to ruin. But let it all come; I care nothing, nothing,

what happens to me now. Only, dear, dear Monty, forgive me, and love

me still.”

“O Eric, it is not for one like me to talk of forgiveness; you were

sorely tempted. Yet God will forgive you if you ask him. Won’t you pray

to him to-night? I love you, Eric, still, with all my heart, and do you

think God can be less kind than man? And _I_, too, will pray for you,

Eric. Good night, and God bless you” He gently disengaged himself--for

Eric clung to him, and seemed unwilling to lose sight of him--and a

moment after he was gone.

Eric felt terribly alone. He knelt down and tried to pray, but somehow

it didn’t seem as if the prayer came from his heart, and his thoughts

began instantly to wander far away. Still he knelt--knelt even until his

candle had gone out, and he had nearly fallen asleep, thought-wearied,

on his knees. And then he got into bed still dressed. He had been making

up his mind that he could bear it no longer, and would run away to sea

that night.

He waited till eleven, when Dr. Rowlands took his rounds. The Doctor

had been told all the circumstances of suspicion, and they amounted in

his mind to certainty. It made him very sad, and he stopped to look at

the boy from whom he had parted on such friendly terms so short a time

before. Eric did not pretend to be asleep, but opened his eyes, and

looked at the head-master. Very sorrowfully Dr. Rowlands shook his head,

and went away. Eric never saw him again.

The moment he was gone Eric got up. He meant to go to his study, collect

the few presents, which were his dearest mementos of Russell, Wildney,

and his other friends--above all, Vernon’s likeness--and then make his

escape from the building, using for the last time the broken pane and

loosened bar in the corridor, with which past temptations had made him

so familiar.

He turned the handle of the door and pushed, but it did not yield. Half

contemplating the possibility of such an intention on Eric’s part, Dr.

Rowlands had locked it behind him when he went out.

“Ha!” thought the boy, “then he, too, knows and suspects. Never mind. I

must give up my treasures--yes, even poor Verny’s picture; perhaps it is

best I should, for I’m only disgracing his noble memory. But they shan’t

prevent me from running away.”

Once more he deliberated. Yes, there could be no doubt about the

decision. He _could_, not endure another public expulsion, or even

another birching; he _could_ not endure the cold faces of even his best

friends. No, no! he _could_ not face the horrible phantom of detection,

and exposure, and shame. Escape he must.

After using all his strength in long-continued efforts, he succeeded in

loosening the bar of his bed-room window. He then took his two sheets,

tied them together in a firm knot, wound one end tightly round the

remaining bar, and let the other fall down the side of the building. He

took one more glance round his little room, and then let himself down by

the sheet, hand under hand, until he could drop to the ground. Once

safe, he ran towards Starhaven as fast as he could, and felt as if he

were flying for his life. But when he got to the end of the playground

he could not help stopping to take one more longing, lingering look at

the scenes he was leaving for ever. It was a chilly and overclouded

night, and by the gleams of struggling moonlight, he saw the whole

buildings standing out black in the night air. The past lay behind him

like a painting. Many and many unhappy or guilty hours had he spent in

that home, and yet those last four years had not gone by without their

own wealth of life and joy. He remembered how he had first walked across

that playground, hand in hand with his father, a little boy of twelve.

He remembered his first troubles with Barker, and how his father had at

last delivered him from the annoyances of his old enemy. He remembered

how often he and Russell had sat there, looking at the sea, in pleasant

talk, especially the evening when he had got his first prize and head

remove in the lower fourth; and how, in the night of Russell’s death, he

had gazed over that playground from the sick-room window. He remembered

how often he had got cheered there for his feats at cricket and

football, and how often he and Upton in old days, and he and Wildney

afterwards, had walked there on Sundays, arm in arm. Then the stroll to

Port Island, and Barker’s plot against him, and the evening at the Stack

passed through his mind; and the dinner at the Jolly Herring, and, above

all, Vernon’s death. Oh! how awful it seemed to him now, as he looked

through the darkness at the very road along which they had brought

Verny’s dead body. Then his thoughts turned to the theft of the pigeons,

his own drunkenness, and then his last cruel, cruel experiences, and

this dreadful end of the day which, for an hour or two, had seemed _so_

bright on that very spot where he stood. Could it be that this (oh, how

little he had ever dreamed of it)--that this was to be the conclusion of

his school days?

Yes, in those rooms, of which the windows fronted him, there they lay,

all his schoolfellows--Montagu, and Wildney, and Duncan, and all whom he

cared for best. And there was Mr. Rose’s light still burning in the

library window; and he was leaving the school and those who had been

with him there so long, in the dark night, by stealth, penniless and

broken-hearted, with the shameful character of a thief.

Suddenly Mr. Rose’s light moved, and, fearing discovery or interception,

he roused himself from the bitter reverie and fled to Starhaven through

the darkness. There was still a light in the little sailors’ tavern;

and, entering, he asked the woman who kept it, “if she knew of any ship

which was going to sail next morning?”

“Why, your’n is, bean’t it, Maister Davey!” she asked, turning to a

rough-looking sailor, who sat smoking in the bar.

“Ees,” grunted the man.

“Will you take me on board?” said Eric.

“You be a runaway, I’m thinking?”

“Never mind. I’ll come as cabin-boy--anything.”

The sailor glanced at his striking appearance and neat dress. “Hardly in

the cabun-buoy line I should say.”

“Will you take me?” said Eric. “You’ll find me strong and willing

enough.”

“Well--if the skipper don’t say no. Come along.”

They went down to a boat, and “Maister Davey” rowed to a schooner in the

harbor, and took Eric on board.

“There,” he said, “you may sleep there for to-night,” and he pointed to

a great heap of sailcloth beside the mast.

Weary to death, Eric flung himself down, and slept deep and sound till

the morning, on board the “Stormy Petrel.”

CHAPTER XII

THE STORMY PETREL

“They hadna sailed a league, a league,

A league, but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind grew high,

And gurly grew the sea.”

SIR PATRICK SPENS.

“Hilloa!” exclaimed the skipper with a sudden start, next morning, as he

saw Eric’s recumbent figure on the ratlin-stuff, “Who be this

young varmint!”

“Oh, I brought him aboord last night,” said Davey; “he wanted to be

cabun-buoy.”

“Precious like un _he_ looks. Never mind, we’ve got him and we’ll use

him.”

The vessel was under way when Eric woke, and collected his scattered

thoughts to a remembrance of his new position. At first, as the Stormy

Petrel dashed its way gallantly through the blue sea, he felt one

absorbing sense of joy to have escaped from Roslyn. But before he had

been three hours on board, his eyes were opened to the trying nature of

his circumstances, which were, indeed, _so_ trying that _anything_ in

the world seemed preferable to enduring them. He had not been three

hours on board when he would have given everything in his power to be

back again; but such regrets were useless, for the vessel was now

fairly on her way for Corunna, where she was to take in a cargo

of cattle.

There were eight men belonging to the crew; and as the ship was only a

little trading schooner, these were sailors of the lowest and meanest

grade. They all seemed to take their cue from the captain, who was a

drunken, blaspheming, and cruel vagabond.

This man from the first took a savage hatred to Eric, partly because he

was annoyed with Davey for bringing him on board. The first words he

addressed to him were--

“I say, you young lubber, you must pay your footing.”

“I’ve got nothing to pay with. I brought no money with me.”

“Well, then, you shall give us your gran’ clothes. Them things isn’t fit

for a cabin-boy.”

Eric saw no remedy, and making a virtue of necessity, exchanged his good

cloth suit for a rough sailor’s shirt and trowsers, not over clean,

which the captain gave him. His own clothes were at once appropriated by

that functionary, who carried them into his cabin. But it was lucky for

Eric that, seeing how matters were likely to go, he had succeeded in

secreting his watch.

The day grew misty and comfortless, and towards evening the wind rose to

a storm. Eric soon began to feel very sick, and, to make his case worse,

could not endure either the taste, smell, or sight of such coarse food

as was contemptuously flung to him.

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

“Babby,” said one of the sailors, “what’s your name?”

“Williams.”

“Well, Bill, you’ll have to get over your sickness pretty soon, _I_ can

tell ye. Here,” he added, relenting a little, “Davey’s slung ye a

hammock in the forecastle.”

He showed the way, but poor Eric in the dark, and amid the lurches of

the vessel, could hardly steady himself down the companion-ladder, much

less get into his hammock. The man saw his condition, and, sulkily

enough, hove him into his place.

And there, in that swinging bed, where sleep seemed impossible, and out

of which, he was often thrown, when the ship rolled and pitched through

the dark, heaving, discolored waves, and with dirty men sleeping round

him at night, until the atmosphere of the forecastle became like poison,

hopelessly and helplessly sick, and half-starved, the boy lay for two

days. The crew neglected him shamefully. It was nobody’s business to

wait on him, and he could procure neither sufficient food, nor any

water; they only brought him some grog to drink, which in his weakness

and sickness was nauseous to him as medicine.

“I say, you young cub down there,” shouted the skipper to him from the

hatchway, “come up and swab this deck.”

He got up, and after bruising himself severely, as he stumbled about to

find the ladder, made an effort to obey the command. But he staggered

from feebleness when he reached the deck, and had to grasp for some

fresh support at every step.

“None of that ’ere slobbering and shamming, Bill. Why, d---- you, what

d’ye think you’re here for, eh? You swab the deck, and in five minutes,

or I’ll teach you, and be d----d.”

Sick as death, Eric slowly obeyed, but did not get through his task

without many blows and curses. He felt very ill--he had no means of

washing or cleaning himself; no brush, or comb, or soap, or clean linen;

and even his sleep seemed unrefreshful when the waking brought no change

in his condition. And then the whole life of the ship was odious to him.

His sense of refinement was exquisitely keen, and now to be called Bill,

and kicked and cuffed about by these gross-minded men, and to hear their

rough, coarse, drunken talk, and sometimes endure their still, more

intolerable familiarities, filled him with deeply-seated loathing.

His whole soul rebelled and revolted from them all, and, seeing his

fastidious pride, not one of them showed him the least glimpse of open

kindness, though he observed that one of them did seem to pity him

in heart.

Things grew worse and worse. The perils which he had to endure at first,

when ordered about the rigging, were what affected him least; he longed

for death, and often contemplated flinging himself into those cold deep

waves which he gazed on daily over the vessel’s side. Hope was the only

thing which supported him. He had heard from one of the crew that the

vessel would be back in not more than six weeks, and he made a deeply

seated resolve to escape the very first day that they again anchored in

an English harbor.

The homeward voyage was even more intolerable, for the cattle on board

greatly increased the amount of necessary menial and disgusting work

which fell to his snare, as well as made the atmosphere of the close

little schooner twice as poisonous as before. And to add to his

miseries, his relations with the crew got more and more unfavorable, and

began to reach their climax.

One night the sailor who occupied the hammock next to his heard him

winding up his watch. This he always did in the dark, as secretly and

silently as he could, and never looked at it, except when no one could

observe him; while, during the day, he kept both watch and chain

concealed in his trousers.

Next morning the man made proposals to him to sell the watch, and tried

by every species of threat and promise to extort it from him. But the

watch had been his mother’s gift, and he was resolute never to part with

it into such hands.

“Very well, you young shaver, I shall tell the skipper and he’ll soon

get it out of you as your footing, depend on it.”

The fellow was as good as his word, and the skipper demanded the watch

as pay for Eric’s feed, for he maintained that he’d done no work, and

was perfectly useless. Eric, grown desperate, still refused, and the man

struck him brutally on the face, and at the same time aimed a kick at

him, which he vainly tried to avoid. It caught him on the knee-cap, and

put it out, causing him the most excruciating agony.

He now could do no work whatever, not even swab the deck. It was only

with difficulty that he could limp along, and every move caused him

violent pain. He grew listless and dejected, and sat all day on the

vessel’s side, eagerly straining his eyes to catch any sight of land, or

gazing vacantly into the weary sameness of sea and sky.

Once, when it was rather gusty weather, all hands were wanted, and the

skipper ordered him to furl a sail.

“I can’t,” said Eric, in an accent of despair, barely stirring, and not

lifting his eyes to the man’s unfeeling face.

“Can’t, d---- you. Can’t. We’ll soon see whether you can or no! You do

it, or _I_ shall have to mend your leg for you;” and he showered down a

storm of oaths.

Eric rose, and resolutely tried to mount the rigging, determined at

least to give no ground he could help to their wilful cruelty. But the

effort was vain, and with a sharp cry of suffering he dropped once

more on deck.

“Cursed young brat! I suppose you think we’re going to bother ourselves

with you, and yer impudence, and get victuals for nothing. It’s all

sham. Here, Jim, tie him up.”

A stout sailor seized the unresisting boy, tied his hands together, and

then drew them up above his head, and strung them to the rigging.

“Why didn’t ye strip him first, d---- you?” roared the skipper.

“He’s only got that blue shirt on, and that’s soon mended,” said the

man, taking hold of the collar of the shirt on both sides, and tearing

it open with a great rip.

Eric’s white back was bare, his hands tied up, his head hanging, and his

injured leg slightly lifted from the ground. “And now for some rope-pie

for the stubborn young lubber,” said the skipper, lifting a bit of rope

as he spoke.

Eric, with a shudder, heard it whistle through the air, and the next

instant it had descended on his back with a dull thump, rasping away a

red line of flesh. Now Eric knew for the first time the awful reality of

intense pain; he had determined to utter no sound, to give no sign; but

when the horrible rope fell on him, griding across his back, and making

his body literally creak under the blow, he quivered like an aspen-leaf

in every limb, and could not suppress the harrowing murmur, “Oh God,

help me, help me.”

Again the rope whistled in the air, again it grided across the boy’s

naked back, and once more the crimson furrow bore witness to the violent

laceration. A sharp shriek of inexpressible agony rang from his lips, so

shrill, so heart-rending, that it sounded long in the memory of all who

heard it. But the brute who administered the torture was untouched. Once

more, and again, the rope rose and fell, and under its marks the blood

first dribbled, and then streamed from the white and tender skin.

But Eric felt no more; that scream had been the last effort of nature;

his head had dropped on his bosom, and though his limbs still seemed to

creep at the unnatural infliction, he had fainted away.

“Stop, master, stop, if you don’t want to kill the boy outright,” said

Roberts, one of the crew, stepping forward, while the hot flush of

indignation burned through his tanned and weather-beaten cheek. The

sailors called him “Softy Bob,” from that half-gentleness of disposition

which had made him, alone of all the men, speak one kind or consoling

word for the proud and lonely cabin-boy.

“Undo him then, and be--,” growled the skipper and rolled off to drink

himself drunk.

“I doubt he’s well-nigh done for him already,” said Roberts, quickly

untying Eric’s hands, round which the cords had been pulled so tight as

to leave two blue rings round his wrists. “Poor fellow, poor fellow!

it’s all over now,” he murmured soothingly, as the boy’s body fell

motionless into his arms, which he hastily stretched to prevent him from

tumbling on the deck.

But Eric heard not; and the man, touched with the deepest pity, carried

him down tenderly into his hammock, and wrapped him up in a clean

blanket, and sat by him till the swoon should be over.

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

been prophetic.

“How is the young varmint?” shouted the skipper, looking into the

forecastle.

“You’ve killed him, I think.”

The only answer was a volley of oaths; but the fellow was sufficiently

frightened to order Roberts to do all he could for his patient.

At last Eric woke with a moan. To think was too painful, but the raw

state of his back, ulcerated with the cruelty he had undergone, reminded

him too bitterly of his situation. Roberts did for him all that could be

done, but for a week Eric lay in that dark and fetid place, in the

languishing of absolute despair. Often and often the unbidden tears

flowed from very weakness from his eyes, and in the sickness of his

heart, and the torment of his wounded body, he thought that he

should die.

But youth is very strong, and it wrestled with despair, and agony, and

death, and, after a time, Eric could rise from his comfortless hammock.

The news that land was in sight first roused him, and with the help of

Roberts, he was carried on deck, thankful, with childlike gratitude,

that God suffered him to breathe once more the pure air of heaven, and

sit under the canopy of its gold-pervaded blue. The breeze and the

sunlight refreshed him, as they might a broken flower; and, with eyes

upraised, he poured from his heart a prayer of deep unspeakable

thankfulness to a Father in Heaven.

Yes! at last he had remembered his Father’s home. There, in the dark

berth, where every move caused irritation, and the unclean atmosphere

brooded over his senses like lead; when his forehead burned, and his

heart melted within him, and he had felt almost inclined to curse his

life, or even to end it by crawling up and committing himself to the

deep cold water which, he heard rippling on the vessel’s side; then,

even then, in that valley of the shadow of death, a Voice had come to

him--a still small Voice--at whose holy and healing utterance Eric had

bowed his head, and listened to the messages of God, and learnt his

will; and now, in humble resignation, in touching penitence with solemn

self-devotion, he had cast himself at the feet of Jesus, and prayed to

be helped, and guided, and forgiven. One little star of hope rose in the

darkness of his solitude, and its rays grew brighter and brighter, till

they were glorious now. Yes, for Jesus’ sake he was washed, he was

cleansed, he was sanctified, he was justified; he would fear no evil,

for God was with him and underneath were the everlasting arms.

And while he sat there, undisturbed at last, and unmolested by harsh

word or savage blow, recovering health with every breath of the sea

wind, the skipper came up to him, and muttered something half-like

an apology.

The sight of him, and the sound of his voice, made Eric shudder again,

but he listened meekly, and, with no flash of scorn or horror, put out

his hand to the man to shake. There was something touching and noble in

the gesture, and, thoroughly ashamed of himself for once, the fellow

shook the proffered hand, and slunk away.

They entered the broad river at Southpool.

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

“I doubt whether you’ll let you,” answered Roberts, jerking his finger

towards the skipper’s cabin.

“Why?”

“He’ll be afeard you might take the law on him.”

“He needn’t fear.”

Roberts only shook his head.

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

“Yes, that I will.”

That very evening Eric escaped from the Stormy Petrel, unknown to all

but Roberts. They were in the dock, and he dropped into the water in the

evening, and swam to the pier, which was only a yard or two distant; but

the effort almost exhausted his strength, for his knee was still

painful, and he was very weak.

Wet and penniless, he knew not where to go, but spent the sleepless

night under an arch. Early the next morning he went to a pawnbroker’s,

and raised £2:10s. on his watch, with which money he walked straight to

the railway station.

It was July, and the Roslyn summer holidays had commenced. As Eric

dragged his slow way to the station, he suddenly saw Wildney on the

other side of the street. His first impulse was to spring to meet him,

as he would have done in old times. His whole heart yearned towards him.

It was six weeks now since Eric had seen one loving face, and during all

that time he had hardly heard one kindly word. And now he saw before him

the boy whom he loved so fondly, with whom he had spent so many happy

hours of school-boy friendship, with whom he had gone through so many

schoolboy adventures, and who, he believed, loved him fondly still.

Forgetful for the moment of his condition, Eric moved across the street.

Wildney was walking with his cousin, a beautiful girl, some four years

older than himself, whom he was evidently patronising immensely. They

were talking very merrily, and Eric overheard the word Roslyn. Like a

lightning-flash the memory of the theft, the memory of his ruin came

upon him; he looked down at his dress--it was a coarse blue shirt, which

Roberts had given him in place of his old one, and the back of it was

stained and saturated with blood from his unhealed wounds; his trousers

were dirty, tarred, and ragged, and his shoes, full of holes, barely

covered his feet. He remembered too that for weeks he had not been able

to wash, and that very morning, as he saw himself in a looking-glass at

a shop-window, he had been deeply shocked at his own appearance. His

face was white as a sheet, the fair hair matted and tangled, the eyes

sunken and surrounded with a dark color, and dead and lustreless. No! he

could not meet Wildney as a sick and ragged sailor-boy; perhaps even he

might not be recognised if he did. He drew back, and hid himself till

the merry-hearted pair had passed, and it was almost with a pang of

jealousy that he saw how happy Wildney could be, while _he_ was thus;

but he cast aside the unworthy thought at once. “After all, how is poor

Charlie to know what has happened to me?”

CHAPTER XIII

HOME AT LAST

“I will arise and go to my father.”

“Ach! ein Schicksal droht,

Und es droht nicht lange!

Auf der holden Wange

Brennt ein böses Roth!”--TIEDGE.

Eric Williams pursued his disconsolate way to the station, and found

that his money only just sufficed to get him something to eat during the

day, and carry him third class by the parliamentary train to

Charlesbury, the little station where he had to take the branch line

to Ayrton.

He got into the carriage, and sat in the far corner, hiding himself from

notice as well as he could. The weary train--(it carried poor people for

the most part, so, of course it could matter but little how tedious or

slow it was!)--the weary train, stopping at every station, and often

waiting on the rail until it had been passed by trains that started four

or five hours after it,--dragged its slow course through the fair

counties of England. Many people got in and out of the carriage, which

was generally full, and some of them tried occasionally to enter into

conversation with him. But poor Eric was too sick and tired, and his

heart was too full to talk much, and he contented himself with civil

answers to the questions put to him, dropping the conversation as soon

as he could.

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

“Ticket,” said the station-man.

Eric gave it, turning his head away, for the man knew him well from

having often seen him there. It was no use; the man looked hard at him,

and then, opening his eyes wide, exclaimed,

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

“Hush, John, hush! yes, I am Eric Williams. But don’t say a word, that’s

a good fellow; I’m going on to Ayrton this evening.”

“Well, sir, I _am_, hurt like to see you looking so ragged and poorly.

Let me give you a bed to-night, and send you on by first train

to-morrow.”

“O no, thank you, John. I’ve got no money, and--”

“Tut, tut, sir; I thought you’d know me better nor that. Proud I’d be

any day to do anything for Mrs. Trevor’s nephew, let alone a young

gentleman like you. Well, then, let me drive you, sir, in my little cart

this evening.”

“No, thank you, John, never mind; you are very, very good, but,” he

said, and the tears were in his eyes, “I want to walk in alone

to-night.”

“Well, God keep and bless you, sir,” said the man, “for you look to need

it;” and touching his cap, he watched the boy’s painful walk across some

fields to the main road.

“Who’d ha’ thought it, Jenny?” he said to his wife. “There’s that young

Master Williams, whom we’ve always thought so noble like, just been

here as ragged as ragged, and with a face the color o’ my white

signal flag.”

“Lawks!” said the woman; “well, well! poor young gentleman, I’m afeard

he’s been doing something bad.”

Balmily and beautiful the evening fell, as Eric, not without toil, made

his way along the road towards Ayrton, which was ten miles off. The road

wound through the valley, across the low hills that encircled it,

sometimes spanning or running parallel to the bright stream that had

been the delight of Eric’s innocent childhood. There was something

enjoyable at first to the poor boy’s eyes, so long accustomed to the

barren sea, in resting once more on the soft undulating green of the

summer fields, which were intertissued with white and yellow flowers,

like a broidery of pearls and gold. The whole scene was bathed in the

exquisite light, and rich with the delicate perfumes of a glorious

evening, which filled the sky over his head with every perfect gradation

of rose and amber and amethyst, and breathed over the quiet landscape a

sensation of unbroken peace. But peace did not remain long in Eric’s

heart; each well-remembered landmark filled his soul with recollections

of the days when he had returned from school, oh! how differently; and

of the last time when he had come home with Vernon by his side. “Oh

Verny, Verny, noble little Verny, would to God that I were with you now.

But you are resting, Verny, in the green grave by Russell’s side, and

I--oh God, be merciful to me now!”

It was evening, and the stars came out and shone by hundreds, and Eric

walked on by the moonlight. But the exertion had brought on the pain in

his knee, and he had to sit down a long time by the road-side to rest.

He reached Ayrton at ten o’clock, but even then he could not summon up

courage to pass through the town where he was so well known, lest any

straggler should recognise him,--and he took a detour in order to get to

Fairholm. He did not arrive there till eleven o’clock; and then he could

not venture into the grounds, for he saw through the trees of the

shrubbery that there was no light in any of the windows, and it was

clear that they were all gone to bed.

What was he to do? He durst not disturb them so late at night. He

remembered that they would not have heard a syllable of or from him

since he had run away from Roslyn, and he feared the effect of so sudden

an emotion as his appearance at that hour might excite.

So under the star-light he lay down to sleep on a cold bank beside the

gate, determining to enter early in the morning. It was long before he

slept, but at last weary nature demanded her privilege with importunity,

and gentle sleep floated over him like a dark dewy cloud, and the sun

was high in heaven before he woke.

It was about half-past nine in the morning, and Mrs. Trevor, with Fanny,

was starting to visit some of her poor neighbors, an occupation full of

holy pleasure to her kind heart, and in which she had found more than

usual consolation during the heavy trials which she had recently

suffered; for she had loved Eric and Vernon as a mother does her own

children, and now Vernon, the little cherished jewel of her heart, was

dead--Vernon was dead, and Eric, she feared, not dead but worse than

dead, guilty, stained, dishonored. Often had she thought to herself, in

deep anguish of heart, “Our darling little Vernon dead--and Eric fallen

and ruined!”

“Look at that poor fellow asleep on the grass,” said Fanny, pointing to

a sailor boy, who lay coiled up on the bank beside the gate. “He has had

a rough bed, mother, if he has spent the night there, as I fear.”

Mrs. Trevor had grasped her arm. “What is Flo’ doing?” she said,

stopping, as the pretty little spaniel trotted up to the boy’s reclining

figure, and began snuffing about it, and then broke into a quick short

bark of pleasure, and fawned and frisked about him, and leapt upon him,

joyously wagging his tail.

The boy rose with the dew wet from the flowers upon his hair; he saw the

dog, and at once began playfully to fondle it, and hold its little

silken head between his hands; but as yet he had not caught sight of

the Trevors.

“It is--oh, good heavens! it is Eric,” cried Mrs. Trevor, as she flew

towards him. Another moment and he was in her arms, silent, speechless,

with long arrears of pent-up emotion.

“O my Eric, our poor, lost, wandering Eric--come home; you are forgiven,

more than forgiven, my own darling boy. Yes, I knew that my prayers

would be answered; this is as though we received you from the dead.” And

the noble lady wept upon his neck, and Eric, his heart shaken with

accumulated feelings, clung to her and wept.

Deeply did that loving household rejoice to receive back their lost

child. At once they procured him a proper dress, and a warm bath, and

tended him with every gentle office of female ministering hands. And in

the evening, when he told them his story in a broken voice of penitence

and remorse, their love came to him like a sweet balsam, and he rested

by them, “seated, and clothed, and in his right mind.”

The pretty little room, fragrant with sweet flowers from the greenhouse,

was decorated with all the refinement of womanly taste, and its glass

doors opened on the pleasant garden. It was long, long since Eric had

ever seen anything like it, and he had never hoped to see it again. “Oh

dearest aunty,” he murmured, as he rested his weary head upon her lap,

while he sat on a low stool at her feet, “Oh aunty, you will never know

how different this is from the foul, horrible hold of the ‘Stormy

Petrel,’ and its detestable inmates.”

When Eric was dressed once more as a gentleman, and once more fed on

nourishing and wholesome food, and was able to move once more about the

garden by Fanny’s side, he began to recover his old appearance, and the

soft bloom came back to his cheek again, and the light to his blue eye.

But still his health gave most serious cause for apprehension; weeks of

semi-starvation, bad air, sickness, and neglect, followed by two nights

of exposure and wet, had at last undermined the remarkable strength of

his constitution, and the Trevors soon became aware of the painful fact

that he was sinking to the grave, and had come home only to die.

Above all, there seemed to be some great load at his heart which he

could not remove; a sense of shame, the memory of his disgrace at

Roslyn, and of the dark suspicion that rested on his name. He avoided

the subject, and they were too kind to force it on him, especially as he

had taken away the bitterest part of their trial in remembering it, by

explaining to them that he was far from being so wicked in the matter of

the theft as they had at first been (how slowly and reluctantly!) almost

forced to believe.

“Have you ever heard--oh, how shall I put it?--have you ever heard,

aunty, how things went on at Roslyn after I ran away?” he asked, one

evening, with evident effort.

“No, love, I have not. After they had sent home your things, I heard no

more; only two most kind and excellent letters--one from Dr. Rowlands,

and one from your friend, Mr. Rose--informed me of what had happened

about you.”

“O, have they sent home my things?” he asked, eagerly. “There are very

few among them that I care about, but there is just one----”

“I guessed it, my Eric, and, but that I feared to agitate you, should

have given it you before;” and she drew out of a drawer the little

likeness of Vernon’s sweet childish face.

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

“Do not weep, my boy,” said Mrs. Trevor, kissing his forehead. “Dear

little Verny, remember, is in a land where God himself wipes away all

tears from off all eyes.”

“Is there anything else you would like?” asked Fanny, to divert his

painful thoughts. “I will get you anything in a moment.”

“Yes, Fanny, dear, there is the medal I got for saving Russell’s life,

and one or two things which he gave me;--ah, poor Edwin, you never

knew him!”

He told her what to fetch, and when she brought them it seemed to give

him great pleasure to recall his friends to mind by name, and speak of

them--especially of Montagu and Wildney.

“I have a plan to please you, Eric,” said Mrs. Tremor. “Shall I ask

Montagu and Wildney here? we have plenty of room for them.”

“O, thank you,” he said, with the utmost eagerness. “Thank you, dearest

aunt.” Then suddenly his countenance fell. “Stop--shall we?--yes, yes, I

am going to die soon, I know; let me see them before I die.”

The Trevors did not know that he was aware of the precarious tenure of

his life, but they listened to him in silence, and did not contradict

him; and Mrs. Trevor wrote to both the boys (whose directions Eric

knew), telling them what had happened, and begging them, simply for his

sake, to come and stay with her for a time. She hinted clearly that it

might be the last opportunity they would ever have of seeing him.

Wildney and Montagu accepted the invitation; and they arrived together

at Fairholm on one of the early autumn evenings. They both greeted Eric

with the utmost affection; and he seemed never tired of pressing their

hands, and looking at them again. Yet every now and then a memory of

sadness would pass over his face, like a dark ripple on the clear

surface of a lake.

“Tell me, Monty,” he said one evening, “all about what happened after I

left Roslyn.”

“Gladly, Eric; now that your name is cleared, there is--”

“My name cleared!” said Eric, leaning forward eagerly. “Did you say

that?”

“Yes, Eric. Didn’t you know, then, that the thief had been discovered?”

“No,” he murmured faintly, leaning back; “O thank God, thank God! Do

tell me all about it, Monty.”

“Well, Eric, I will tell you all from the beginning. You may guess how

utterly astonished we were in the morning, when we heard that you had

run away. Wildney here was the first to discover it, for he went early

to your bed-room----”

“Dear little Sunbeam,” interrupted Eric, resting his hand against

Wildney’s cheek; but Wildney shook his fist at him when he heard the

forbidden name.

“He found the door locked,” continued Montagu, “and called to you, but

there came no answer; this made us suspect the truth, and we were

certain, of it when some one caught sight of the pendent sheet. The

masters soon heard the report, and sent Carter to make inquiries, but

they did not succeed in discovering anything definite about you. Then,

of course, everybody assumed as a certainty that you were guilty, and I

fear that my bare assertion on the other side had little weight.”

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

“But, about a fortnight after, _more_ money and several other articles

disappeared from the studies, and all suspicion as to the perpetrator

was baffled; only now the boys began to admit that, after all, they had

been premature in condemning you. It was a miserable time; for every one

was full of distrust, and the more nervous boys were always afraid lest

any one should on some slight grounds suspect _them. Still_, things kept

disappearing.

“We found out at length that the time when the robberies were effected

must be between twelve and one, and it was secretly agreed that some one

should be concealed in the studies for a day or two during those hours.

Carter undertook the office, and was ensconced in one of the big

cupboards in a study which had not yet been touched. On the third day he

heard some one stealthily mount the stairs. The fellows were more

careful now, and used to keep their doors shut, but the person was

provided with keys, and opened the study in which Carter was. He moved

about for a little time--Carter watching him through the key-hole, and

prepared to spring on him before he could make his escape. Not getting

much, the man at last opened the cup-board door, where Carter had just

time to conceal himself behind a great-coat. The great-coat took the

plunderer’s fancy; he took it down off the peg, and there stood Carter

before him! Billy--for it was he--stood absolutely confounded, as though

a ghost had suddenly appeared; and Carter, after enjoying his

unconcealed terror, collared him, and hauled him off to the police

station. He was tried soon after, and finally confessed that it was he

who had taken the cricket-money too; for which offences he was sentenced

to transportation. So Eric, dear Eric, at last your name was cleared.”

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

Montagu and Wildney found plenty to make them happy at Fairholm, and

were never tired of Eric’s society, and of his stories about all that

befell him on board the “Stormy Petrel.” They perceived a marvellous

change in him. Every trace of recklessness and arrogance had passed

away; every stain of passion had been removed; every particle of

hardness had been calcined in the flame of trial. All was gentleness,

love, and dependence, in the once bright, impetuous, self-willed boy; it

seemed as though the lightning of God’s anger had shattered and swept

away all that was evil in his heart and life, and left all his true

excellence, all the royal prerogatives of his character, pure and

unscathed Eric, even in his worst days, was, as I well remember, a

lovable and noble boy; but at this period there must have been something

about him for which to thank God, something unspeakably winning, and

irresistibly attractive. During the day, as Eric was too weak to walk

with them, Montagu and Wildney used to take boating and fishing

excursions by themselves, but in the evening the whole party would sit

out reading and talking in the garden till twilight fell. The two

visitors began to hope that Mrs. Trevor had been mistaken, and that

Eric’s health would still recover; but Mrs. Trevor would not deceive

herself with a vain hope, and the boy himself shook his head when they

called him convalescent.

Their hopes were never higher than one evening about a week after their

arrival, when they were all seated, as usual, in the open air, under a

lime-tree on the lawn. The sun was beginning to set, and the rain of

golden sunlight fell over them through the green ambrosial foliage of

the tree whose pale blossoms were still murmurous with bees. Eric was

leaning back in an easy chair, with Wildney sitting on the grass,

cross-legged at his feet, while Montagu, resting on one of the mossy

roots, read to them the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and the ladies were

busy with their work.

“There--stop now,” said Eric, “and let’s sit out and talk until we see

some of ‘the fiery a’es and o’es of light’ which he talks of.”

“I’d no idea Shakspeare was such immensely jolly reading,” remarked

Wildney naïvely. “I shall take to reading him through when I get home.”

“Do you remember, Eric,” said Montagu, “how Rose used to chaff us in old

days for our ignorance of literature, and how indignant we used to be

when he asked if we’d ever heard of an obscure person called William

Shakspeare?”

“Yes, very well,” answered Eric, laughing heartily. And in this strain

they continued to chat merrily, while the ladies enjoyed listening to

their school-boy mirth.

“What a perfectly delicious evening. It’s almost enough to make me wish

to live,” said Eric.

He did not often speak thus; and it made them sad. But Eric half sang,

half murmured to himself, a hymn with which his mother’s sweet voice had

made him familiar in their cottage-home at Ellan:--

“There is a calm for those who weep,

A rest for weary pilgrims found;

They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground.

“The storm that wrecks the winter sky,

No more disturbs their deep repose,

Than summer evening’s latest sigh

That shuts the rose.”

The two last lines lingered pleasantly in his fancy and he murmured to

himself again, in low tones--

“Than summer evening’s latest sigh

That shuts the rose.”

“Oh hush, hush, Eric!” said Wildney, laying his hand upon his friend’s

lips; “don’t let’s spoil to-night by forebodings.”

It seemed, indeed, a shame to do so, for it was almost an awful thing to

be breathing the splendor of the transparent air, as the sun broadened

and fell, and a faint violet glow floated over soft meadow and silver

stream. One might have fancied that the last rays of sunshine loved to

linger over Eric’s face, now flushed with a hectic tinge of pleasure,

and to light up sudden glories in his bright hair, which the wind just

fanned off his forehead as he leaned back and inhaled the luxury of

evening perfume, which the flowers of the garden poured on the gentle

breeze. Ah, how sad that such scenes should be so rare and so

short-lived!

“Hark--tirra-la-lirra-lirra!” said Wildney; “there goes the postman’s

horn! Shall I run and get the letter-bag as he passes the gate?”

“Yes, do,” they all cried; and the boy bounded off full of fun, greeting

the postman with such a burst of merry apostrophe, that the man shook

with laughing at him.

“Here it is at last,” said Wildney. “Now, then, for the key. Here’s a

letter for me, hurrah!--two for you, Miss Trevor--_what_ people you

young ladies are for writing to each other! None for you, Monty--Oh,

yes! I’m wrong, here’s one; but none for Eric.”

“I expected none,” said Eric sighing; but his eye was fixed earnestly

on one of Mrs. Trevor’s letters. He saw that it was from India, and

directed in his father’s hand.

Mrs. Trevor caught his look. “Shall I read it aloud to you, dear I Do

you think you can stand it? Remember it will be in answer to ours,

telling them of--”

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

With instinctive delicacy Montagu and Wildney rose, but Eric pressed

them to stay. “It will help me to bear what mother says, if I see you by

me,” he pleaded.

God forbid that I should transcribe that letter. It was written from the

depths of such sorrow as He only can fully sympathise with, who for

thirty years pitched his tent in the valley of human misery. By the

former mail Mrs. Williams had heard of Verny’s melancholy death; by the

next she had been told that her only other child, Eric, was not dead

indeed, but a wandering outcast, marked with the brand of terrible

suspicion. Let her agony be sacred; it was God who sent it, and he only

enabled her to endure it. With bent head, and streaming eyes, and a

breast that heaved involuntarily with fitful sobs, Eric listened as

though to his mother’s voice, and only now and then he murmured low to

himself, “O mother, mother, mother--but I am forgiven now. O mother, God

and man have forgiven me, and we shall be at peace again once more.”

Mrs. Trevor’s eyes grew too dim with weeping, to read it all, and Fanny

finished it. “Here is a little note from your father, Eric, which

dropped out when we opened dear aunt’s letter. Shall I read it, too?”

“Perhaps not now, love,” said Mrs. Trevor. “Poor Eric is too tired and

excited already.”

“Well, then, let me glance it myself, aunty,” he said. He opened it,

read a line or two, and then, with a scream, fell back swooning, while

it dropped out of his hands.

Terrified, they picked up the fallen paper; it told briefly, in a few

heartrending words, that, after writing the letter, Mrs. Williams had

been taken ill; that her life was absolutely despaired of, and that,

before the letter reached England, she would, in all human probability,

be dead. It conveyed the impression of a soul resigned indeed, and

humble, but crushed down to the very earth with the load of mysterious

bereavement, and irretrievable sorrow.

“Oh, I have killed her, I have killed my mother!” said Eric, in a hollow

voice, when he came to himself. “O God, forgive me, forgive me!”

They gathered round him; they soothed, and comforted, and prayed for

him; but his soul refused comfort, and all his strength appeared to have

been broken down at once like a feeble reed. At last a momentary energy

returned; his eyes were lifted to the gloaming heaven where a few stars

had already begun to shine, and a bright look illuminated his

countenance. They listened deeply--“Yes, mother,” he murmured, in broken

tones, “forgiven now, for Christ’s dear sake. O thou merciful God! Yes,

there they are, and we shall meet again. Verny--oh, happy, happy at

last--too happy!”

The sounds died away, and his head fell back; for a transient moment

more the smile and the brightness played over his fair features like a

lambent flame. It passed away, and Eric was with those he dearliest

loved, in the land where there is no more curse.

“Yes, dearest Eric, forgiven and happy now,” sobbed Mrs. Trevor; and her

tears fell fast upon the dead boy’s face, as she pressed upon it a long,

last kiss.

CHAPTER XIV

CONCLUSION

“And hath that early hope been blessed with truth?

Hath he fulfilled the promise of his youth?

And borne unscathed through danger’s stormy field

Honor’s white wreath and virtue’s stainless shield?”

HARROW. A Prize Poem.

The other day I was staying with Montagu. He has succeeded to his

father’s estate, and is the best-loved landlord for miles around. He

intends to stand for the county at the next general election, and I

haven’t the shadow of a doubt that he will succeed. If he does,

Parliament will have gained a worthy addition. Montagu has the very soul

of honor, and he can set off the conclusions of his vigorous judgment,

and the treasures of his cultivated taste, with an eloquence that rises

to extraordinary grandeur when he is fulminating his scorn at any

species of tyranny or meanness.

It was very pleasant to talk with him about our old school days in his

charming home. We sate by the open window (which looks over his grounds,

and then across one of the richest plains in England) one long summer

evening, recalling all the vanished scenes and figures of the past,

until we almost felt ourselves boys again.

“I have just been staying at Trinity,” said I, “and Owen, as I suppose

you know, is doing brilliantly. He has taken a high first class, and

they have already elected him fellow and assistant tutor.”

“Is he liked?”

“Yes, very much. He always used to strike me at school as one of those

fellows who are much more likely to be happy and successful as men, than

they had ever any chance of being as boys. I hope the _greatest_ things

of him; but have you heard anything of Duncan lately?”

“Yes, he’s just been gazetted as lieutenant. I had a letter from him the

other day. He’s met two old Roslyn fellows, Wildney and Upton, the

latter of whom is now Captain Upton; he says that there are not two

finer or manlier officers in the whole service, and Wildney, as you may

easily guess, is the favorite of the mess-room. You know, I suppose,

that Graham is making a great start at the bar.”

“Is he? I’m delighted to hear it.”

“Yes. He had a ‘mauvais sujet’ to defend the other day, in the person of

our old enemy, Brigson, who, having been at last disowned by his

relations, is at present a policeman in London.”

“On the principle, I suppose, of ‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’” said

Montagu, with a smile.

“Yes; but he exemplifies the truth ‘chassez le naturel, il revient au

galop’ for he was charged with abetting a street fight between two boys,

which very nearly ended fatally. However, he was penitent, and Graham

got him off with wonderful cleverness.”

“Ah!” said Montagu, sighing, “there was _one_ who would have been the

pride of Roslyn had he lived Poor, poor Eric!”

We talked long of our loved friend; his bright face, his winning words,

his merry smile, came back to us with the memory of his melancholy fate,

and a deep sadness fell over us.

“Poor boy, he is at peace now,” said Montagu; and he told me once more

the sorrowful particulars of his death. “Shall I read you some verses?”

he asked, “which he must have composed, poor fellow, on board the

‘Stormy Petrel,’ though he probably wrote them at Fairholm afterwards.”

“Yes, do.”

And Montagu, in his pleasant musical voice, read me, with much feeling,

these lines, written in Eric’s boyish hand, and signed with his name.

ALONE, YET NOT ALONE.

Alone, alone! ah, weary soul,

In all the world alone I stand,

With none to wed their hearts to mine,

Or link in mine a loving hand.

Ah! I tell me not that I have those

Who owe the ties of blood and name,

Or pitying friends who love me well,

And dear returns of friendship claim.

I have, I have! but none can heal,

And none shall see my inward woe,

And the deep thoughts within me veiled

No other heart but mine shall know.

And yet amid my sins and shames

The shield of God is o’er me thrown

And, ’neath its awful shade I feel

Alone,--yet, ah, not all alone!

Not all alone! and though my life

Be dragged along the stained earth,

O God! I feel thee near me still,

And thank thee for my birth!

E.W.

Montagu gave me the paper, and I cherish it as my dearest memorial of my

erring but noble schoolboy friend.

Knowing how strong an interest Mr. Rose always took in Eric, I gave him

a copy of these verses when last I visited him at his pleasant vicarage

of Seaford, to which he was presented a year or two ago by Dr. Rowlands,

now Bishop of Roslyn, who has also appointed him examining chaplain. I

sat and watched Mr. Rose while he read them. A mournful interest was

depicted on his face, his hand trembled a little, and I fancied that he

bent his grey hair over the paper to hide a tear. We always knew at

school that Eric was one of his greatest favorites, as indeed he and

Vernon were with all of us; and when the unhappy boy had run away

without even having the opportunity for bidding any one farewell, Mr.

Rose displayed such real grief, that for weeks he was like a man who

went mourning for a son. After those summer holidays, when we returned

to school, Montagu and Wildney brought back with them the intelligence

of Eric’s return to Fairholm, and of his death. The news plunged many of

us in sorrow, and when, on the first Sunday in chapel, Mr. Rose alluded

to this sad tale, there were few dry eyes among those who listened to

him. I shall never forget that Sunday afternoon. A deep hush brooded

over us, and before the sermon was over, many a face was hidden to

conceal the emotion which could not be suppressed.

“I speak,” said Mr. Rose, “to a congregation of mourners, for one who

but a few weeks back was sitting among you as one of yourselves. But,

for myself, I do _not_ mourn over his death. Many a time have I mourned

for him in past days, when I marked how widely he went astray,--but I do

not mourn now; for after his fiery trials he died penitent and happy,

and at last his sorrows are over for ever, and the dreams of ambition

have vanished, and the fires of passion have been quenched, and for all

eternity the young soul is in the presence of its God. Let none of you

think that his life has been wasted. Possibly, had it pleased heaven to

spare him, he might have found great works to do among his fellow-men,

and he would have done them as few else could. But do not let us fancy

that our work must cease of necessity with our lives. Not so; far rather

must we believe that it will continue for ever; seeing that we are all

partakers of God’s unspeakable blessing, the common mystery of

immortality. Perhaps it may be the glorious destiny of very many here to

recognise that truth, more fully when we meet and converse with our dear

departed brother in a holier and happier world.”

I have preserved some faint echo of the words he used, but I can give no

conception of the dignity and earnestness of his manner, or the intense

pathos of his tones.

The scene passed before me again as I looked at him, while he lingered

over Eric’s verses, and seemed lost in a reverie of thought.

At last he looked up and sighed. “Poor Eric!--But no, I will not call

him poor; after all he is happier now than we. You loved him well,” he

continued; “why do you not try and preserve some records of his life?”

The suggestion took me by surprise, but I thought over it, and at once

began to accomplish it. My own reminiscences of Eric were numerous and

vivid, and several of my old schoolfellows and friends gladly supplied

me with other particulars, especially the Bishop of Roslyn, Mr. Rose,

Montagu, and Wildney. So the story of Eric’s ruin has been told, and

told as he would have wished it done, with simple truth. Noble Eric! I

do not fear that I have wronged your memory, and you I know would

rejoice to think how sorrowful hours have lost something of their

sorrow, as I wrote the scenes in so many of which we were engaged

together in our school-boy days.

I visited Roslyn a short time ago, and walked for hours along the sands,

picturing in my memory the pleasant faces, and recalling the joyous

tones of the many whom I had known and loved. Other boys were playing by

the sea-side, who were strangers to me and I to them; and as I marked

how wave after wave rolled up the shore, with its murmur and its foam,

each sweeping farther than the other, each effacing the traces of the

last, I saw an emblem of the passing generations, and was content to

find that my place knew me no more.

Ah me the golden time!--

But its hours have passed away,

With the pure and bracing clime,

And the bright and merry day.

And the sea still laughs to the rosy shells ashore,

And the shore still shines in the lustre of the wave;

But the joyaunce and the beauty of the boyish days is o’er,

And many of the beautiful lie quiet in the grave;--

And he who comes again

Wears a brow of toil and pain,

And wanders sad and silent by the melancholy main.