It was the first time for many a long day that the brothers had been alone together, the first time for many a long day that any acts of kindness had passed between them. Both seemed to remember this, and, at the same time, to remember home, and their absent parents, and their mother's prayers, and all the quiet half-forgotten vista of innocent pleasures, and sacred relationships, and holy affections. And why did they see each other so little at school? Their consciences told them both, that either wished to conceal from the other his wickedness and forgetfulness of God.
They wept together; and once more, as they had not done since they were children, each brother put his arm round the other's neck, and remorseful Eric could not help being amazed, how, in his cruel heartless selfishness, he had let that fair child go so far astray; left him as a prey to such boys as were his companions in the lower school.
"Eric, did you know I was caught to-night at the dinner?"
"You!" said Brie, with a start and a deep blush. "Good heavens! I didn't notice you, and should not have dreamt of coming, if I'd known you were there. Oh, Vernon, forgive me for setting you such, a bad example."
"Yes, I was there, and I was caught."
"Poor boy! but never mind; there are such a lot that you can't get much done to you."
"It isn't _that_ I care for; I've been flogged before, you know.
But--may I say something?"
"Yes, Vernon, anything you like."
"Well, then,--oh, Eric! I am so, so sorry that you did that to Mr. Rose to-night. All the fellows are praising you up, of course; but I could have cried to see it, and I did. I wouldn't have minded if it had been anybody but Rose."
"But why?"
"Because, Eric, he's been so good, so kind to both of us. You've often told me about him, you know, at Fairholm, and he's done such, lots of kind things to me. And only to-night, when he heard I was caught, he sent for me to the library, and spoke so firmly, yet so gently, about the wickedness of going to such low places, and about so young a boy as I am learning to drink, and the ruin of it and--and"--His voice was choked by sobs for a time,--"and then he knelt down and prayed for me, so as I have never heard any one pray but mother;--and do you know, Eric, it was strange, but I thought I _did_ hear our mother's voice praying for me too, while he prayed, and"--He tried in vain to go on; but Eric's conscience continued for him; "and just as he had ceased doing this for one brother, the other brother, for whom he has often done the same, treated him with coarseness, violence, and insolence."
"Oh, I am utterly wretched, Verny. I hate myself And to think that while I am like this, they are yet loving and praising me at home. And, oh, Verny, I was so sorry to hear from Duncan, how you were talking the other day."
Vernon hid his face on Eric's shoulder; and as his brother stooped over him, and folded him to his heart, they cried in silence, until wearied with sorrow, the younger fell asleep; and then Eric carried him tenderly down stairs, and laid him, still half-sleeping, upon his bed.
He laid him down, and looked at him as he slumbered. The other boys had not been disturbed by their noiseless entrance, and he sat down on his brother's bed to think, shading off the light of the candle with his hand. It was rarely now that Eric's thoughts were so rich with the memories of childhood, and sombre with the consciousness of sin, as they were that night, while he gazed on his brother Vernon's face. He did not know what made him look so long and earnestly; an indistinct sorrow, an unconjectured foreboding, passed over his mind, like the shadow of a summer cloud. Vernon was now slumbering deeply; his soft childish curls fell off his forehead, and his head nestled in the pillow; but there was an expression of uneasiness on his sleeping features, and the long eyelashes were still wet with tears.
"Poor child," thought Eric; "dear little Vernon; and he is to be flogged, perhaps birched, to-morrow."
He went off sadly to bed, and hardly once remembered, that _he_ too would come in for certain punishment the next day.
CHAPTER IV
MR. ROSE AND BRIGSON
"Raro antecedentem scelestum Deseruit pede Poena claudo."--HOR.
After prayers the next morning Dr. Rowlands spoke to his boarders on the previous day's discovery, and in a few forcible vivid words set before them, the enormity of the offence. He ended by announcing that the boys who were caught would be birched,--"except the elder ones, Bull and Brigson, who will bring me one hundred lines every hour of the half-holidays till further notice. There are some," he said, "I am well aware, who, though present yesterday, were not detected. I am sorry for it, for _their_ sakes; they will be more likely to sin again. In cases like this, punishment is a blessing, and impunity a burden." On leaving the room he bade Eric follow him into his study. Eric obeyed, and stood before the head-master with downcast eyes.
"Williams," he said, "I have had a great regard for you, and felt a deep interest in you from the day I first saw you, and knew your excellent parents. At one time I had conceived great hopes of your future course, and your abilities seemed likely to blossom into noble fruit. But you fell off greatly, and grew idle and careless. At last an event happened, in which for a time you acted worthily of yourself, and which seemed to arouse you from your negligence and indifference. All my hopes in you revived; but as I continued to watch your course (more closely, perhaps, than you supposed), I observed with pain that those hopes must be again disappointed. It needs but a glance at your countenance to be sure that you are not so upright or right-minded a boy as you were two years ago.
I can judge only from your outward course; but I deeply fear, Williams, I deeply fear, that in _other_ respects also you are going the down-hill road. And what am I to think now, when on the _same_ morning, you and your little brother _both_ come before me for such serious and heavy faults? I cannot free you from blame even for _his_ misdoings, for you are his natural guardian here; I am only glad that you were not involved with him in that charge."
"Let _me_ bear the punishment, sir, instead of him," said Eric, by a sudden impulse; "for I misled him, and was there myself."
Dr. Rowlands paced the room in deep sorrow. "You, Williams! on the verge of the sixth form. Alas! I fear, from this, that the state of things among you is even worse than I had supposed."
Eric again hung his head.
"No; you have confessed the sin voluntarily, and therefore at present I shall not notice it; only, let me entreat you to beware. But I must turn to the other matter. What excuse have you for your intolerable conduct to Mr. Rose, who, as I know, has shown you from the first the most unusual and disinterested kindness?"
"I cannot defend myself, sir. I was excited, and could not control my passion."
"Then you must sit down here, and write an apology, which I shall make you read aloud before the whole school at twelve to-day."
Eric, with trembling hand, wrote his apology, and Dr Rowlands glanced at it. "Come to me again at twelve," he said.
At twelve all the school were assembled, and Eric, pale and miserable, followed the Doctor into the great school-room. The masters stood at one end of the room, and among them Mr. Rose, who, however, appeared an indifferent and uninterested spectator of the transaction. Every eye was fixed on Eric, and every one pitied him.
"We are assembled," said Dr. Rowlands, "for an act of justice. One of your number has insulted a master publicly, and is ashamed of his conduct, and has himself written the apology which he will read. I had intended to add a still severer punishment, but Mr. Rose has earnestly begged me not to do so, and I have succumbed to his wishes. Williams, read your apology."
There was a dead hush, and Eric tried once or twice in vain to utter a word. At last, by a spasmodic effort, he regained his voice, and read, but in so low and nervous a tone, that not even those nearest him heard what he was saying.
Dr. Rowlands took the paper from him. "Owing," he said, "to a very natural and pardonable emotion, the apology has been read in such a way that you could not have understood it. I will therefore read it myself.
It is to this effect--
"'I, Eric Williams, beg humbly and sincerely to apologise for my passionate and ungrateful insult to Mr. Rose.'
"You will understand that he was left quite free to choose his own expressions; and as he has acknowledged his shame and compunction for the act, I trust that none of you will be tempted to elevate him into a hero, for a folly which he himself so much regrets. This affair,--as I should wish all bad deeds to be after they have once been punished,--will now be forgiven, and I hope forgotten."
They left the room and dispersed, and Eric fancied that all shunned and looked coldly on his degradation But not so: Montagu came, and taking his arm in the old friendly way, went a walk with him. It was a constrained and silent walk, and they were both glad when it was over, although Montagu did all he could to show that he loved Eric no less than before. Still it was weeks since they had been much together, and they had far fewer things in common now than they used to have.
"I'm so wretched, Monty," said Eric at last; "do you think Rose despises me?"
"I am _sure_ of the contrary. Won't you go to him, Eric, and say all you feel?"
"Heigh ho! I shall never get right again. Oh, to recover the last two years!"
"You can redeem them, Eric, by a nobler present. Let the same words comfort you that have often brought hope to me--'I will restore the years which the locust hath eaten.'"
They reached the school-door, and Eric went straight to the library. Mr.
Rose was there alone. He received him kindly, as usual, and Eric went up to the fire-place where he was standing. They had often stood by that library fire on far different terms.
"Forgive me, sir," was all Eric could say, as the tears rushed to his eyes.
"Freely, my boy," said Mr. Rose, sadly. "I wish you could feel how fully I forgive you; but," he added, laying his hand for the last time on Eric's head, "you have far more, Eric, to forgive yourself. I will not talk to you, Eric; it would be little good, I fear; but you little know how much I pity and tremble for you."
While these scenes were being enacted with Eric, a large group was collected round the fire-place in the boarders' room, and many tongues were loudly discussing the recent events.
Alas for gratitude! there was not a boy in that group to whom Mr. Rose had not done many an act of kindness; and to most of them far more than they ever knew. Many a weary hour had he toiled for them in private, when his weak frame was harassed by suffering; many a sleepless night had he wrestled for them in prayer, when, for their sakes, his own many troubles were laid aside. Work on, Walter Rose, and He who seeth in secret will reward you openly! but expect no gratitude from those for whose salvation you, like the great tenderhearted apostle, would almost be ready to wish yourself accursed.
Nearly every one in that noisy group was abusing Mr. Rose. It had long been Brigson's cue to do so; he derided him on every opportunity, and delighted to represent him as hypocritical and insincere. Even his weak health was the subject of Brigson's coarse ridicule, and the bad boy paid, in deep hatred, the natural tribute which vice must ever accord to excellence.
"You see how he turns on his pets if they offend him," said Brigson; "why, even that old beast Gordon isn't as bad."
"Yes; while poor Eric was reading, Rose reminded me of Milton's serpent," drawled Bull;