Chapter IX: Part 9

Wildney's condition was also too evident; and Mr Rose, while walking up and down the dormitories, had no doubt left on his mind that both Eric and Wildney had been drinking. But he made no remarks to them, and merely went to the Doctor, to talk over the steps which were to be taken.

"I shall summon the school," said Dr Rowlands, "on Monday, and by that time we will decide on the punishment. Expulsion, I fear, is the only course open to us."

"Is not that a _very_ severe line to take?"

"Perhaps; but the offence is of the worst character. I must consider the matter."

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

The whole of the miserable Sunday that followed was spent by Eric and his companions in vain inquiries and futile restlessness. It seemed clear that two of them at least were detected, and they were inexpressibly wretched with anxiety and suspense. Wildney, who had to stay in bed, was even more depressed; his head ached violently, and he was alone with his own terrified thoughts. He longed for the morrow, that at least he might have the poor consolation of knowing his fate. No one came near him all day. Eric wished to do so, but as he could not have visited the room without express leave, the rest dissuaded him from asking, lest he should excite further suspicion. His apparent neglect made poor Wildney even more unhappy, for Wildney loved Eric as much as it was possible for his volatile mind to love any one; and it seemed hard to be deserted in the moment of disgrace and sorrow by so close a friend.

At school the next morning the various masters read out to their forms a notice from Dr Rowlands, that the whole school were to meet at ten in the great schoolroom. The object of the summons was pretty clearly understood; and few boys had any doubt that it had reference to the drinking on Saturday night. Still nothing had been _said_ on the subject as yet; and every guilty heart among those 250 boys beat fast lest _his_ sin too should have been discovered, and he should be called out for some public and heavy punishment.

The hour arrived. The boys, thronging into the great schoolroom, took their places according to their respective forms. The masters in their caps and gowns were all seated on a small semicircular bench at the upper end of the room, and in the centre of them, before a small table, sate Dr Rowlands.

The sound of whispering voices sank to a dead and painful hush. The blood was tingling consciously in many cheeks, and not even a breath could be heard in the deep expectation of that anxious and solemn moment.

Dr Rowlands spread before him the list of the school, and said, "I shall first read out the names of the boys in the first-fifth and upper-fourth forms."

This was done to ascertain formally whether the boys were present, on whose account the meeting was convened; and it at once told Eric and Wildney that _they_ were the boys to be punished, and that the others had escaped.

The names were called over, and an attentive observer might have told, from the sound of the boys' voices as they answered, which of them were afflicted with a troubled conscience.

Another slight pause and breathless hush.

"Eric Williams and Charles Wildney, stand forward."

The boys obeyed. From his place in the fifth, where he was sitting with his head propped on his hand, Eric rose and advanced; and Wildney, from the other end of the room, where the younger boys sat, getting up, came and stood by his side.

Both of them fixed their eyes on the ground, whence they never once raised them; and in the deadly pallor of their haggard faces you could scarcely have recognised the joyous high-spirited friends, whose laugh and shout had often rung so merrily through the playground, and woke the echoes of the rocks along the shore. Every eye was on them, and they were conscious of it, though they could not see it--painfully conscious of it, so that they wished the very ground to yawn beneath their feet for the moment and swallow up their shame. Companionship in disgrace increased the suffering; had either of them been alone, he would have been less acutely sensible to the trying nature of his position; but that they, so different in their ages and position in the school, should thus have their friendship and the results of it blazoned, or rather branded, before their friends and enemies, added keenly to the misery they felt. So with eyes bent on the floor, Eric and Charlie awaited their sentence.

"Williams and Wildney," said Dr Rowlands in a solemn voice, of which every articulation thrilled to the heart of every hearer, "you have been detected in a sin most disgraceful and most dangerous. On Saturday night you were both drinking, and you were guilty of such gross excess, that you were neither of you in a fit state to appear among your companions--least of all to appear among them at the hour of prayer. I shall not waste many words on an occasion like this; only I trust that those of your school-fellows who saw you staggering and rolling into the room on Saturday evening in a manner so unspeakably shameful and degrading, will learn from that melancholy sight the lesson which the Spartans taught their children by exhibiting a drunkard before them--the lesson of the brutalising and fearful character of this most ruinous vice. Eric Williams and Charles Wildney, your punishment will be public expulsion, for which you will prepare this very evening. I am unwilling that for a single day, either of you--especially the elder of you-- should linger, so as possibly to contaminate others with the danger of so pernicious an example."

Such a sentence was wholly unexpected; it took boys and masters equally by surprise. The announcement of it caused an uneasy sensation, which was evident to all present, though no one spoke a word; but Dr Rowlands took no notice of it, and only said to the culprits--

"You may return to your seats."

The two boys found their way back instinctively, they hardly knew how. They seemed confounded and thunderstruck by their sentence, and the painful accessories of its publicity. Eric leaned over the desk with his head resting on a book, too stunned even to think; and Wildney looked straight before him, with his eyes fixed in a stupid and unobservant stare.

Form by form the school dispersed, and the moment he was liberated Eric sprang away from the boys, who would have spoken to him, and rushed wildly to his study, where he locked the door. In a moment, however, he re-opened it, for he heard Wildney's step, and, after admitting him, locked it once more.

Without a word Wildney, who looked very pale, flung his arms round Eric's neck, and, unable to bear up any longer, burst into a flood of tears. Both of them felt relief in giving the reins to their sorrow, and silently satiating the anguish of their hearts.

"Oh, my father! my father!" sobbed Wildney at length, "what will he say? He will disown me, I know; he is so stern always with me when he thinks I bring disgrace on him."

Eric thought of Fairholm, and of his own far-distant parents, and of the pang which _his_ disgrace would cause their loving hearts; but he could say nothing, and only stroked Wildney's dark hair again and again with a soothing hand.

They sat there long, hardly knowing how the time passed; Eric could not help thinking how very very different their relative positions might have been; how, while he might have been aiding and ennobling the young boy beside him, he had alternately led and followed him into wickedness and disgrace. His heart was full of misery and bitterness, and he felt almost indifferent to all the future, and weary of his life.

A loud knocking at the door disturbed them. It was Carter, the school-servant.

"You must pack up to go this evening, young gentlemen."

"Oh no! no! no!" exclaimed Wildney; "I _cannot_ be sent away like this. It would break my father's heart. Eric, _do_ come and entreat Dr Rowlands to forgive us only this once."

"Yes," said Eric, starting up with sudden energy; "he _shall_ forgive us--_you_ at any rate. I will not leave him till he does. Cheer up, Charlie, cheer up, and come along."

Filled with an irresistible impulse, he pushed Carter aside, and sprang down stairs three steps at a time, with Wildney following him. They went straight for the Doctor's study, and without waiting for the answer to their knock at the door, Eric walked up to Dr Rowlands, who sate thinking in his arm-chair by the fire, and burst out passionately, "Oh, sir, forgive us, forgive us this once."

The Doctor was completely taken by surprise, so sudden was the intrusion, and so intense was the boy's manner. He remained silent a moment from astonishment, and then said with asperity--

"Your offence is one of the most dangerous possible. There could be no more perilous example for the school, than the one you have been setting, Williams. Leave the room," he added with an authoritative gesture; "my mind is made up."

But Eric was too excited to be overawed by the master's manner; an imperious passion blinded him to all ordinary considerations, and, heedless of the command, he broke out again--

"Oh, sir, try me but once, _only_ try me. I promise you most faithfully that I will never again commit the sin. Oh, sir, do, do trust me, and I will be responsible for Wildney too."

Dr Rowlands, seeing that in Eric's present mood he must and would be heard, unless he were ejected by actual force, began to pace silently up and down the room in perplexed and anxious thought; at last he stopped and turned over the pages of a thick school register, and found Eric's name.

"It is not your first offence, Williams, even of this very kind. That most seriously aggravates your fault."

"Oh, sir! give us one more chance to mend. Oh, I feel that I _could_ do such great things, if you will but be merciful, and give me time to change. Oh, I entreat you, sir, to forgive us only this once, and I will never ask again. Let us bear _any_ other punishment but this. Oh, sir," he said, approaching the Doctor in an imploring attitude, "spare us this one time for the sake of our friends."

The head-master made no reply for a time, but again paced the room in silence. He was touched, and seemed hardly able to restrain his emotion.

"It was my deliberate conclusion to expel you, Williams. I must not weakly yield to entreaty. You must go."

Eric wrung his hands in agony. "Oh, sir, then if you must do so, expel me only, and not Charlie. _I_ can bear it, but do not let me ruin him also. Oh, I implore you, sir, for the love of God, do, do forgive him! It is I who have misled him," and he flung himself on his knees, and lifted his hands entreatingly towards the Doctor.

Dr Rowlands looked at him--at his blue eyes drowned with tears, his agitated gesture, his pale, expressive face, full of passionate supplication. He looked at Wildney too, who stood trembling with a look of painful and miserable suspense, and occasionally added his wild word of entreaty, or uttered sobs more powerful still, that seemed to come from the depth of his heart. He was shaken in his resolve, wavered for a moment, and then once more looked at the register.

"Yes," he said, after a long pause, "here is an entry which shall save you this time. I find written here against your name, `April 3. Risked his life in the endeavour to save Edwin Russell at the Stack.' That one good and noble deed shall be the proof that you are capable of better things. It may be weak perhaps--I know that it will be called weak--and I do not feel certain that I am doing right; but if I err it shall be on the side of mercy. I shall change expulsion into some other punishment. You may go."

Wildney's face lighted up as suddenly and joyously as when a ray of sunlight gleams for an instant out of a dark cloud.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, sir," he exclaimed, drying his eyes, and pouring into the words a world of expression, which it was no light pleasure to have heard. But Eric spoke less impulsively, and while the two boys were stammering out their deep gratitude, a timid hand knocked at the door, and Vernon entered.

"I have come, sir, to speak for poor Eric," he said in a voice low and trembling with emotion, as, with downcast eyes, he modestly approached towards Dr Rowlands, not even observing the presence of the others in the complete absorption of his feelings. He stood in a sorrowful attitude, not venturing to look up, and his hand played nervously with the ribbon of his straw hat.

"I have just forgiven him, my little boy," said the Doctor kindly, patting his stooping head; "there he is, and he has been speaking for himself."

"O Eric, I am so, so glad, I don't know what to say for joy. O Eric, thank God that you are not to be expelled," and Vernon went to his brother and embraced him with the deepest affection.

Dr Rowlands watched the scene with moist eyes. He was generally a man of prompt decision, and he well knew that he would incur by this act the charge of vacillation. It was a noble self-denial in him to be willing to do so, but it would have required an iron heart to resist such earnest supplications, and he was more than repaid when he saw how much anguish he had removed by yielding to their entreaties.

Once more humbly expressing their gratitude, the boys retired.

They did not know that other influences had been also exerted in their favour, which, although ineffectual at the time, had tended to alter the Doctor's intention. Immediately after school Mr Rose had been strongly endeavouring to change the Doctor's mind, and had dwelt forcibly on all the good points in Eric's character, and the promise of his earlier career. And Montagu had gone with Owen and Duncan to beg that the expulsion might be commuted into some other punishment. They had failed to convince him; but perhaps, had they not thus exerted themselves, Dr Rowlands might have been unshaken, though he could not be unmoved, by Vernon's gentle intercession and Eric's passionate prayers.

Wildney, full of joy, and excited by the sudden revulsion of feeling, only shook Eric's hands with all his might, and then darted out into the playground to announce the happy news. The boys all flocked round him, and received the intelligence with unmitigated pleasure. Among them all there was not one who did not rejoice that Eric and Wildney were yet to continue of their number.

But the two brothers returned to the study, and there, sorrowful in his penitence, with his heart still aching with remorse, Eric sat down on a chair facing the window, and drew Vernon to his side. The sun was setting behind the purple hills, flooding the green fields and silver sea with the crimson of his parting rays. The air was full of peace and coolness, and the merry sounds of the cricket-field blended joyously with the whisper of the evening breeze. Eric was fond of beauty in every shape, and his father had early taught him a keen appreciation of the glories of nature. He had often gazed before on that splendid scene, as he was now gazing on it thoughtfully with his brother by his side. He looked long and wistfully at the gorgeous pageantry of quiet clouds, and passed his arm more fondly round Vernon's shoulder.

"What are you thinking of, Eric? Why, I declare, you are crying still," said Vernon playfully, as he wiped away a tear which had overflowed on his brother's cheek; "aren't you glad that the Doctor has forgiven you?"

"Gladder, far gladder than I can say, Verny. O Verny, Verny, I hope your school-life may be happier than mine has been. I would give up all I have, Verny, to have kept free from the sins I have learnt. God grant that I may yet have time and space to do better."

"Let us pray together, Eric," whispered his brother reverently, and they knelt down and prayed; they prayed for their distant parents and friends; they prayed for their school-fellows and for each other, and for Wildney, and they thanked God for all His goodness to them; and then Eric poured out his heart in a fervent prayer that a holier and happier future might atone for his desecrated past, and that his sins might be forgiven for his Saviour's sake.

The brothers rose from their knees calmer and more light-hearted in the beauty of holiness, and gave each other a solemn affectionate kiss, before they went down again to the playground. But they avoided the rest of the boys, and took a stroll together along the sands, talking quietly and happily, and hoping bright hopes for future days.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER NINE.

WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG.

Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?
A tress of maiden's hair,
Of drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea!
_Kingsley_.

Eric and Wildney were flogged and confined to gates for a time instead of being expelled, and they both bore the punishment in a manly and penitent way, and set themselves with all their might to repair the injury which their characters had received. Eric especially seemed to be devoting himself with every energy to regain, if possible, his long-lost position, and by the altered complexion of his remaining school-life, to atone in some poor measure for its earlier sins. And he carried Wildney with him, influencing others also of his late companions in a greater or less degree. It was not Eric's nature to do things by halves, and it became obvious to all that his exertions to resist and abandon his old temptations were strenuous and unwavering. He could no longer hope for the school distinctions, which would have once lain so easily within his reach, for the ground lost during weeks of idleness cannot be recovered by a wish; but he succeeded sufficiently, by dint of desperately hard work, to acquit himself with considerable credit, and in the Easter examination came out high enough in the upper fifth to secure his remove into the sixth-form after the holidays.

He felt far happier in the endeavour to do his duty, than he had ever done during the last years of recklessness and neglect, and the change for the better in his character tended to restore unanimity and goodwill to the school. Eric no longer headed the party which made a point of ridiculing and preventing industry; and sharing as he did the sympathy of nearly all the boys, he was able quietly and unobtrusively to calm down the jealousies and allay the heart-burnings which had for so long a time brought discord and disunion into the school society. Cheerfulness and unanimity began to prevail once more at Roslyn, and Eric had the intense happiness of seeing how much good lay still within his power.

So the Easter holidays commenced with promise, and the few first days glided away in innocent enjoyments. Eric was now reconciled again to Owen and Duncan, and, therefore, had a wider choice of companions more truly congenial to his higher nature than the narrow circle of his late associates.

"What do you say to a boat excursion to-morrow?" asked Duncan as they chatted together one evening.

"I won't go without leave," said Eric; "I should only get caught, and get into another mess. Besides, I feel myself pledged now to strict obedience."

"Ay, you're quite right. We'll get leave easily enough though, provided we agree to take Jim the boatman with us; so I vote we make up a party."

"By the bye, I forgot; I'm engaged to Wildney to-morrow."

"Never mind. Bring him with you, and Graham too, if you like."

"Most gladly," said Eric, really pleased; for he saw by this that Duncan observed the improvement in his old friends, and was falling in with the endeavour to make all the boys really cordial to each other, and destroy all traces of the late factions.

"Do you mind my bringing Montagu?"

"Not at all. Why should I?" answered Eric, with a slight blush. Montagu and he had never been formally reconciled, nor had they, as yet, spoken to each other. Indeed, Duncan had purposely planned the excursion to give them an opportunity of becoming friends once more, by being thrown together. He knew well that they both earnestly wished it, although, with the natural shyness of boys, they hardly knew how to set about effecting it. Montagu hung back lest he should seem to be patronising a fallen enemy, and Eric lest he should have sinned too deeply to be forgiven.

The next morning dawned gloriously, and it was agreed that they should meet at Starhaven, the point where they were to get the boat, at ten o'clock. As they had supposed, Dr Rowlands gave a ready consent to the row, on condition of their being accompanied by the experienced sailor whom the boys called Jim. The precaution was by no means unnecessary, for the various currents which ran round the island were violent at certain stages of the tide, and extremely dangerous for any who were not aware of their general course.

Feeling that the day would pass off very unpleasantly if any feeling of restraint remained between him and Montagu, Eric, by a strong effort, determined to `make up with him' before starting, and went into his study for that purpose after breakfast. Directly he came in, Montagu jumped up and welcomed him cordially, and when without any allusion to the past, the two shook hands with all warmth, and looked the old proud look into each other's faces, they felt once more that their former affection was unimpaired, and that in heart they were real and loving friends. Most keenly did they both enjoy the renewed intercourse, and they found endless subjects to talk about on their way to Starhaven, where the others were already assembled when they came.

With Jim's assistance they shoved a boat into the water, and sprang into it in the highest spirits. Just as they were pushing off they saw Wright and Vernon running down to the shore towards them, and they waited to see what they wanted.

"Couldn't you take us with you?" asked Vernon, breathless with his run.

"I'm afraid not, Verny," said Montagu; "the boat won't hold more than six, will it, Jim?"

"No, sir, not safely."

"Never mind, you shall have my place, Verny," said Eric, as he saw his brother's disappointed look.

"Then Wright shall take mine," said Wildney.

"Oh dear, no," said Wright, "we wouldn't turn you out for the world. Vernon and I will take an immense walk down the coast instead, and will meet you here as we come back."

"Well, good-bye, then; off we go;" and with light hearts the boaters and the pedestrians parted.

Eric, Graham, Duncan, and Montagu took the first turn at the oars, while Wildney steered. Graham's "crabs," and Wildney's rather crooked steering, gave plenty of opportunity for chaff, and they were full of fun, as the oar-blades splashed and sparkled in the waves. Then they made Jim sing them some of his old sailor-songs as they rowed, and joined vigorously in the choruses. They had arranged to make straight for Saint Catharine's Head, and land somewhere near it to choose a place for their picnic. It took them nearly two hours to get there, as they rowed leisurely, and enjoyed the luxury of the vernal air. It was one of the sunniest days of early spring; the air was pure and delicious, and the calm sea-breeze, just strong enough to make the sea flame and glister in the warm sunlight, was exhilarating as new wine. Underneath them the water was transparent as crystal, and far below they could see the green and purple seaweeds rising like a many-coloured wood, through which occasionally they saw a fish, startled by their oars, dart like an arrow. The sky overhead was a cloudless blue, and as they kept not far from shore, the clearly cut outline of the coast, with its rocks and hills standing out in the vivid atmosphere, made a glowing picture, to which the golden green of the spring herbage, bathed in its morning sunlight, lent the magic of enchantment. Who could have been otherwise than happy in such a scene and at such a time? but these were boys with the long bright holiday before them, and happiness is almost too quiet a word to express the bounding exultation of heart, the royal and tingling sense of vigorous life, which made them shout and sing, as their boat rustled through the ripples, from a mere instinct of inexpressible enjoyment.

They had each contributed some luxury to the picnic, and it made a very tempting display as they spread it out under a sunny pebbled cave, by Saint Catharine's Head; although instead of anything more objectionable, they had thought it best to content themselves with ginger beer and lemonade. When they had done eating, they amused themselves on the shore; and had magnificent games among the rocks, and in every fantastic nook of the romantic promontory. And then Eric suggested a bathe to wind up with, as it was the first day when it had been quite warm enough to make bathing pleasant.

"But we've got no towels."

"Oh! chance the towels. We can run about till we're dry." So they bathed, and then getting in the boat to row back again, they all agreed that it was the very jolliest day they'd ever had at Roslyn, and voted to renew the experiment before the holidays were over, and take Wright and Vernon with them in a larger boat.

It was afternoon--an afternoon still warm and beautiful--when they began to row home; so they took it quietly, and kept near the land for variety's sake, laughing, joking, and talking as merrily as ever.

"I declare I think this is the prettiest, or anyhow the grandest bit of the whole coast," said Eric, as they neared a glen through whose narrow gorge a green and garrulous little river gambolled down with noisy turbulence into the sea. He might well admire that glen; its steep and rugged sides were veiled with lichens, moss, and wild-flowers, and the sea-birds found safe refuge in its lonely windings, which were coloured with topaz and emerald by the pencillings of nature and the rich stains of time.

"Yes," answered Montagu, "_I_ always stick up for Avon Glen as the finest scene we've got about here. But, I say, who's that gesticulating on the rock there to the right of it? I verily believe it's Wright, apostrophising the ocean for Vernon's benefit. I only see one of them though."

"I bet you he's spouting:--

"Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll
Ten thousand fleets, etcetera."

said Graham, laughing.

"What do you say to putting in to shore there?" said Duncan. "It's only two miles to Starhaven, and I daresay we could make shift to take them in for that distance. If Jim says anything we'll chuck him overboard."

They rowed towards Avon Glen, and to their surprise Wright, who stood there alone (for with a pocket telescope they clearly made out that it _was_ Wright), still continued to wave his arms and beckon them in a manner which they at first thought ridiculous, but which soon made them feel rather uneasy.

Jim took an oar, and they soon got within two hundred yards of the beach. Wright had ceased to make signals, but appeared to be shouting to them, and pointing towards one corner of the glen; but though they caught the sound of his voice, they could not hear what he said.

"I wonder why Vernon isn't with him," said Eric anxiously; "I hope--why, what _are_ you looking at, Charlie?"

"What's that in the water there?" said Wildney, pointing in the direction to which Wright was also looking.

Montagu snatched the telescope out of his hand and looked. "Good God!" he exclaimed, turning pale; "what can be the matter?"

"Oh, _do_ let me look," said Eric.

"No! stop, stop, Eric; you'd better not, I think; pray don't, it may be all a mistake. You'd better not--but it looked--nay, you really _mustn't_, Eric," he said, and, as if accidentally, he let the telescope fall into the water, and they saw it sink down among the seaweeds at the bottom.

Eric looked at him reproachfully. "What's the fun of that, Monty? you let it drop on purpose."

"Oh, never mind; I'll get Wildney another. I really daren't let you look, for fear you should _fancy_ the same as I did, for it must be fancy. Oh, _don't_ let us put in there--at least not all of us."

What _was_ that thing in the water?

When Wright and Vernon left the others, they walked along the coast, following the direction of the boat, and agreed to amuse themselves in collecting eggs. They were very successful, and, to their great delight, managed to secure some rather rare specimens. When they had tired themselves with this pursuit, they lay on the summit of one of the cliffs which formed the sides of Avon Glen, and Wright, who was very fond of poetry, read Vernon a canto of _Marmion_ with great enthusiasm.

So they wiled away the morning, and when the canto was over, Vernon took a great stone and rolled it for amusement over the cliff's edge. It thundered over the side, bounding down till it reached the strand, and a large black cormorant, startled by the reverberating echoes, rose up suddenly, and flapped its way with protruded neck to a rock on the farther side of the little bay.

"I bet you that animal's got a nest somewhere near here," said Vernon eagerly. "Come, let's have a look for it; a cormorant's egg would be a jolly addition to our collection."

They got up, and looking down the face of the cliff saw, some eight feet below them, a projection half hidden by the branch of a tree, on which the scattered pieces of stick clearly showed the existence of a rude nest. They could not, however, see whether it contained eggs or no.

"I must bag that nest; it's pretty sure to have eggs in it," said Vernon, "and I can get at it easy enough."

He immediately began to descend towards the place where the nest was built, but he found it harder than he expected.

"Hallo," he said, "this is a failure. I must climb up again to reconnoitre if there isn't a better dodge for getting at it."

He reached the top, and, looking down, saw a plan of reaching the ledge which promised more hope of success.

"You'd better give it up, Verny," said Wright. "I'm sure it's harder than we fancied. _I_ couldn't manage it, I know."

"Oh no, Wright, never say die. Look; if I get down more toward the right the way's plain enough, and I shall have reached the nest in no time."

Again he descended in a different direction, but again he failed. The nest could only be seen from the top, and he lost the proper route.

"You must keep more to the right."

"I know," answered Vernon; "but, bother take it, I can't manage it, now I'm so far down. I must climb up _again_."

"_Do_ give it up, Verny, there's a good fellow. You _can't_ reach it, and really it's dangerous."

"Oh no, not a bit of it. My head's very steady and I feel as cool as possible. We mustn't give up; I've only to get at the tree, and then I shall be able to reach the nest from it quite easily."

"Well, do take care, that's a dear fellow."

"Never fear," said Vernon, who was already commencing his third attempt.

This time he got to the tree, and placed his foot on a part of the root, while with his hands he clung on to a clump of heather.

"Hurrah!" he cried, "it's got two eggs in it, Wright," and he stretched downwards to take them. Just as he was doing so, he heard the root on which his foot rested give a great crack, and with a violent start he made a spring for one of the lower branches. The motion caused his whole weight to rest for an instant on his arms; unable to sustain the wrench, the heather gave way, and with a wild shriek he fell headlong down the surface of the cliff.

With a wild shriek!--but silence followed it.

"Vernon! Vernon!" shouted the terrified Wright, creeping close up to the edge of the precipice. "O Vernon! for Heaven's sake, speak."

There was no answer, and leaning over, Wright saw the young boy outstretched on the stones three hundred feet below. For some minutes he was horror-struck beyond expression, and made wild attempts to descend the cliff and reach him. But he soon gave up the attempt in despair. There was a tradition in the school that the feat had once been accomplished by an adventurous and active boy, but Wright at any rate found it hopeless for himself. The only other way to reach the glen was by a circuitous route which led to the entrance of the narrow gorge, along the sides of which it was possible to make way with difficulty down the bank of the river to the place where it met the sea. But this would have taken him an hour and a half, and was far from easy when the river was swollen with high tide. There was no house within moderate distance at which assistance could be procured, and Wright, in a tumult of conflicting emotions, determined to wait where he was, on the chance of seeing the boat as it returned from Saint Catharine's Head. It was already three o'clock, and he knew that the boys could not now be longer than an hour at most; so with eager eyes he sat watching the headland, round which he knew they would first come in sight. He watched with wild eager eyes, absorbed in the one longing desire to catch sight of them; but the leaden-footed moments crawled on like hours, and he could not help shivering with agony and fear. At last he caught a glimpse of them, and springing up, began to shout at the top of his voice, and wave his handkerchief and his arms in the hope of attracting their attention. Little thought those blithe, merry-hearted boys, in the midst of the happy laughter which they sent ringing over the waters, little they thought how terrible a tragedy awaited them.

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 farmhouse 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-coloured weed, until they themselves were faintly discoloured 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.

"O 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 motionlessly 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. O God! O 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, he _cannot_ be dead. Take him quickly, and let us row home. O 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 lifted the lifeless boy into the cart, and heard from Wright how the accident had taken place. Few boys were about the playground, 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 darling brother! O 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.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TEN.

THE LAST TEMPTATION.

A quotation from Homer's Iliad, ix. 505.

Time, the great good angel, Time, the merciful healer, assuaged the violence of Eric's grief, which seemed likely to settle down into a sober sadness. At first his letters to his parents and to Fairholm were almost unintelligible in their fierce abandonment of sorrow; but they grew calmer in time,--and while none of his school-fellows ever ventured in his presence to allude to Vernon, because of the emotion which the slightest mention of him excited, yet he rarely wrote any letters to his relations in which he did not refer to his brother's death, in language which grew at length both manly and resigned.

A month after, in the summer term, he was sitting alone in his study in the afternoon (for he could not summon up spirit enough to play regularly at cricket), writing a long letter to his aunt. He spoke freely and unreservedly of his past errors,--more freely than he had ever done before,--and expressed not only deep penitence, but even strong hatred of his previous unworthy courses. "I can hardly even yet realise," he added, "that I am alone here, and that I am writing to my aunt Trevor about the death of my little brother, my noble, only brother, Vernon. Oh, how my whole soul yearns towards him. I _must_ be a better boy, I _will_ be better than I have been, in the hopes of meeting him again. Indeed, indeed, dear aunt, though I have been so guilty, I am laying aside, with all my might, idleness and all bad habits, and doing my very best to redeem the lost years. I do hope that the rest of my time at Roslyn will be more worthily spent than any of it has been as yet."

He finished the sentence, and laid his pen down to think, gazing quietly on the blue hills and sunlit sea. A feeling of hope and repose stole over him;--when suddenly he saw at the door, which was ajar, the leering eyes and villainously cunning countenance of Billy.

"What do you want?" he said angrily, casting at the intruder a look of intense disgust.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the man, pulling his hair. "Anything in my line, sir, to-day?"

"No!" answered Eric, rising up in a gust of indignation. "What business have you here? Get away instantly."

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

"What do you mean by having the insolence to begin talking to me? If you don't make yourself scarce at once, I'll--"

"Oh well," said the man; "if it comes to that, I've business enough. Perhaps you'll just pay me this debt," he continued, changing his fawning manner into a bullying swagger. "I've waited long enough."

Eric, greatly discomfited, took the dirty bit of paper. It purported to be a bill for various items of drink, all of which Eric _knew_ to have been paid for, and among other things, a charge of 6 pounds for the dinner at "The Jolly Herring."

"Why, you scoundrel, these have all been paid. What! six pounds for the dinner! Why, Brigson collected the subscriptions to pay for it before it took place."

"That's now't to me, sir. He never paid me; and as you was the young gen'leman in the cheer, I comes to you."

_Now_ Eric knew for the first time what Brigson had meant by his threatened revenge. He saw at once that the man had been put up to act in this way by some one, and had little doubt that Brigson was the instigator. Perhaps it might be even true, as the man said, that he had never received the money. Brigson was quite wicked enough to have embezzled it for his own purposes.

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

"And mind it bean't more nor a week. I don't chuse to wait for my money no more," said Billy impudently, as he retired with an undisguised chuckle, which very nearly made Eric kick him down stairs. With a heart-rending sigh Eric folded and directed his letter to Mrs Trevor, and then ran out into the fresh air to relieve the qualm of sickness which had come over him.

What was to be done? To mention the subject to Owen or Montagu, who were best capable of advising him, would have been to renew the memory of unpleasant incidents, which he was most anxious to obliterate from the memory of all. He had not the moral courage to face the natural consequences of his past misconduct, and was now ashamed to speak of what he had not then been ashamed to do. He told Graham and Wildney, who were the best of his old associates, and they at once agreed that they ought to be responsible for at least a share of the debt. Still, between them they could only muster three pounds out of the six which were required, and the week had half elapsed before there seemed any prospect of extrication from the difficulty; so Eric daily grew more miserable and dejected.

A happy thought struck him. He would go and explain the source of his trouble to Mr Rose, his oldest, his kindest, his wisest friend. To him he could speak without scruple and without reserve, and from him he knew that he would receive nothing but the noblest advice and the warmest sympathy.

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

"Ah, Eric, Eric!" said Mr Rose; "you see, my boy, that sin and punishment are twins."

"Oh but, sir, I was just striving so hard to amend, and it seems cruel that I should be checked at once."

"Let it teach you a life-long lesson, dear Eric;--the lesson that when a sin is committed _we_ may have done with _it_, but _it_ has by no means done with _us_. It is always so, Eric when we drink the wine it is red and sparkling, but we come afterwards to the ragged and bitter dregs."

"But what shall I do, sir?" said Eric sadly.

"There is only one way that I see, Eric. You must write home for the money, and confess the truth to them honestly, as you have to me."

It was a hard course for Eric's proud and loving heart to write and tell his aunt the full extent of his guilt. But he did it faithfully, extenuating nothing, and entreating her, as she loved him, to send the money by return of post.

It came, and with it a letter full of deep and gentle affection. Mrs Trevor knew her nephew's character, and did not add by reproaches to the bitterness which she perceived he had endured; she simply sent him the money, and told him, that in spite of his many failures, "she still had perfect confidence in the true heart of her dear boy."

Touched by the affection which all seemed to be showing him, it became more and more the passionate craving of Eric's soul to be worthy of that love. But it is far far harder to recover a lost path than to keep in the right one all along; and by one more terrible fall the poor erring boy was to be taught for the last time the fearful strength of temptation, and the only source in earth and heaven from which deliverance can come. Theoretically he knew it, but as yet not practically. Great as his trials had been, and deeply as he had suffered, it was God's will that he should pass through a yet fiercer flame ere he could be purified from pride and passion and self-confidence, and led to the cross of a suffering Saviour, there to fling himself down in heart-rending humility, and cast his great load of cares and sins upon Him who cared for him through all his wanderings, and was leading him back through thorny places to the green pastures and still waters, where at last he might have rest.

The money came, and walking off straight to "The Jolly Herring," he dashed it down on the table before Billy, and imperiously bade him write a receipt.

The man did so, but with so unmistakable an air of cunning and triumph that Eric was both astonished and dismayed. Could the miscreant have any further plot against him? At first he fancied that Billy might attempt to extort money by a threat of telling Dr Rowlands; but this supposition he banished as unlikely, since it might expose Billy himself to very unpleasant consequences.

Eric snatched the receipt, and said contemptuously, "Never come near me again; next time you come up to the studies I'll tell Carter to turn you out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Five Pounds Reward."

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

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

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

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

"Well?"

"I thinks I knows who took they pigeons."

"What's that to me?"

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

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

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

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

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