CONCLUSION.
"WHERE'S Eric? how long has he been home?" Mr. Consett spoke sharply,
for he felt annoyed that the lad, as he supposed, had left Boston
without waiting for him at The Old Bell, according to the arrangement
made in the morning.
Mrs. Consett stopped her spinning-wheel at the sound of her husband's
voice, and came to meet him.
"Where is Eric?" she asked, not having heard the precise words her
husband used.
"That is what I ask you," said the farmer in a tone of irritation.
"Where is the lad? What time did he get home?"
"He hasn't come home; I haven't seen him since he went with you this
morning," said Mrs. Consett, in a tone of surprise.
Husband and wife stood looking at each other for a minute in blank
amazement.
"What has become of the lad?" said Mrs. Consett. "A man came here about
two hours ago to ask about Mason's horses that were to be delivered in
Boston to-day."
"But—but hasn't he got them?" asked the farmer. "I left them with the
lad to be given up, and when I went at four o'clock there were no
horses there, nor Eric either."
"What can have happened?" asked Mrs. Consett, after a pause. "Have we
been deceived in the lad?"
The farmer shook his head. "I can't believe that," he said.
He turned to the door, and called to another stable helper to take the
horses he had brought back with him, hung up the riding-whip in its
place, and then sat down to think.
"I was to have met him at The Old Bell yard at four o'clock, but it
was nearly five before I got there, for I was hindered talking to some
of the British officers, and I had to go to the store about your tea;
and finding that nobody knew anything of Eric or the horses, I thought
Mason and Treve might have fetched them early, and he had gone in
search of Sister Martin or the Osprey. But I soon found that the Osprey
sailed the day before yesterday, and so I concluded the lad had started
for home without waiting for me."
"But he wouldn't do that, if you had told him to wait for you,"
objected Mrs. Consett.
"What has he done, then? Gone off with the horses like any common
thief!" exclaimed the farmer.
"No, I can't believe that of him. Do you think any of those who have
led our other lads into mischief sometimes have had a hand in this?"
asked Mrs. Consett, after a lengthened pause.
"I might have thought so if the lad had not been used to the ways and
manners of a stable-yard in the old country. He told me he knew too
much to be played tricks with; and he has been so steady and thoughtful
the time he has been with us, that it is not easy to account for this,
as it would have been if he was like the others we have had."
"But you don't think he has gone off with the horses to steal them, do
you?" exclaimed his wife.
"I don't know what to think. I would rather lose the horses than the
lad ten times over. Mary, what shall we do?"
It was not often that Mr. Consett was so upset over anything as he was
over this, and he said so.
"There's only one thing we can do. God knows all about what has
happened, and where the lad is. Suppose we kneel down and ask Him to
direct our way in this difficulty," suggested Mrs. Consett; and having
secured the latch of the door, the two knelt down at once and poured
out their hearts before God.
Mrs. Consett never knew until then how much her husband had grown
attached to the lad. How much easier it would be for him to lose the
horses than the boy, she knew well enough now, after listening to his
pleading with God on the lad's behalf.
As soon as they rose from their knees, he said, "I shall go back to The
Bell at once. Get me a morsel of food that I can eat on the way."
"Go back to Boston to-night!" said Mrs. Consett.
And yet she was not surprised, for she knew how anxious her husband
felt about Eric, and she set about getting him bread and meat cut into
sandwiches, while a fresh horse was saddled for him to ride back to
town.
It was nearly midnight before he returned, and when he came he was, if
possible, looking more anxious than when he went away. "The boy is not
a thief; I have got that comfort out of my journey," he said, as he
jumped off his horse at the gate, where his wife was waiting for him.
"You have heard of the horses, then?" said Mrs. Consett.
"They were brought back to the stable just before I got there. They had
been ridden hard for some hours, and were well-nigh exhausted; so that
I feel sure more than one has had a hand in this, and I am not without
hope of finding out in the morning. I could do no more to-night, so
thought I had better ride home and tell you what I had discovered."
"But the lad—you have not been able to hear of him?" said Mrs. Consett
anxiously.
"Only this, that he was seen going down towards the harbour, and I have
seen some of the harbour watchmen, and told them to let me know early
to-morrow morning, if they hear anything about such a lad. I must be
off again at five, so we won't stay talking any longer now," said the
farmer; and it was plain that he was well-nigh exhausted with his long
day's work, but was not so anxious about Eric as when he went away.
At five o'clock the next morning, he was in the saddle again, and had
reached The Old Bell yard by the time the gates were opened. The first
person he happened to see was the young fellow who had led Eric astray
about the Osprey being in the harbour.
"I hope nothing serious has happened to the lad," he said, as Mr.
Consett alighted from his horse. "It isn't murder, sir, as you seemed
to think last night."
"Oh, indeed! What do you know about the matter? I didn't see you here
yesterday when I came about the horses."
"No, I was out in the country then," said the young man; but his manner
was so confused that Mr. Consett felt sure that he could tell more
about Eric than he had heard yet, and so he said,—
"Now, young man, I give you your choice—you can tell me all you know of
what went on here with my lad as soon as my back was turned yesterday,
or I shall have you taken before the justices on the charge of making
away with him." And as he spoke, the farmer laid his hand upon the
young man's shoulder in such a determined fashion, that in a fright he
said,—
"I will tell you all I know, and I hope the lad will soon be found, for
I never intended any harm; it was all done for a lark."
He then told Mr. Consett all that had occurred the previous day,
adding, "We went for a ride the other side of Boston as soon as we knew
he had gone to look for the ship, and did not get the horses back until
late last night."
"So you are at the bottom of the mischief, are you? Well, I shall hand
you over to the care of a watchman until I find out something about my
lad." And the next minute, he found himself in the custody of one of
the city watch, who happened to be near the gate.
Mr. Consett looked to his horses, and then another watchman arrived,
who brought him some news of Eric. It was not the man who had arrested
him for not paying the boatman's fare, but this one had heard all about
it, and, having seen the farmer the previous night, now came to tell
him what he had heard, and that Eric would be taken before the justices
at eight o'clock that morning.
So, when the court opened for the admission of the public, Mr. Consett
went in with the rest, and happened to stand near the boatman who had
come to state the charge against Eric.
"It ain't the first time I have been set to row some young fool round
the harbour, and then when it came to paying they had got no money,"
grumbled the man, as he told one of the crowd how cruelly he had been
served.
"Then you mean to make this one pay, if possible?" said his friend.
"I do; I mean this one shall pay for himself and the rest too, if there
is any justice to be had in Boston. Two or three hours and more was I
rowing agin the tide a-looking for the Osprey. He knowed there was no
such ship in port, of course."
"What did you say was the name of the vessel you went in search of?"
asked Mr. Consett at this point.
"The Osprey, and the young rascal knew she had left the port a day or
two before," answered the man angrily.
Mr. Consett would not enter into an argument about this, but asked what
he thought the lad owed him for his boat fare.
The man stated the sum, and to his astonishment the farmer said, "I
will pay you at once, if we can find an officer of the court who will
take a note of the matter and order the lad's release."
This was done with very little difficulty, and when Eric was fetched,
he heard to his surprise that he would not be taken before the justices
after all, for the debt had been paid, and so he was free.
The next minute he saw his friend standing near, waiting for him, and
knew at once who had paid his debt and obtained his release. But an
overwhelming sense of shame and contrition seized him as he recognised
Mr. Consett.
"Can you ever forgive me, sir?" he said.
But the farmer was too pleased to see him to think of anything but the
gladness that was in his heart.
"My lad, my lad," he said, taking both his hands, "how did it all
happen?"
But Eric was thinking of what might have happened to the horses through
his folly, and so he said, "Where are the horses, sir? Did you find
them all safe?"
"Yes, they are safe. But never mind the horses just now; tell me about
yourself, and how you managed to get into this trouble."
"I am ashamed to meet you, sir, after the foolish, if not wicked way
in which I acted yesterday," replied Eric, his face crimsoning as he
spoke; for what Mr. Consett would think of him when he heard all the
story, he dreaded to discover.
"Well, well, you can tell me the particulars later on. We will go back
to The Bell now and have some breakfast, and then go home."
"Will you take me home with you again, sir? I think I should like
to tell you all about it first, for you may not think I ought to be
trusted again, after what has happened."
"I see it will ease your mind to give me your account of it all," said
the farmer with a smile; and as they walked through the street back
to the inn, Eric told him the whole story, not sparing himself in the
least, for he saw clearly enough where he had been to blame, and how
ready he was to fall into the trap laid for him, though he had thought
he should be too clever for any one to betray him into such mischief.
When Mr. Consett had heard the whole, he said gravely, "Now do you
see why Mr. Wesley founded his society, and laid down rules for the
help and guidance of the people who call themselves Methodists? They
all profess to love and serve God rather than the world, but he knew
that the world would at once set about tempting them or persecuting
them, and so, for their mutual help and guidance, he framed and laid
down certain rules, much as we put up fences for the protection of
weaker animals. One of these is that we should avoid the company of the
foolish and ungodly.
"Now, if you had joined our society, and promised to obey its rules,
when this stranger offered his friendship and his drink, you would have
had the protection of that rule which you had promised to obey. Of
course you might have broken that promise, but I don't think you would,
after once giving it. Now do you see the help that our society gives
to each of its members? When this fellow said to you yesterday, 'Come,
drink with me for friendship's sake,' you could have said, 'Thank you,
friend, but I am a Methodist.' If you could only have said that, they
might have laughed and jeered at you, but they would have known that it
was little use tempting you, as they did when they found you were bound
by no such rules as we impose."
Eric sighed. "I never thought I should be such a fool," he said.
"Well, let this teach you wisdom for the future, my lad. Perhaps you
were a little over-confident in despising our rules as so many props
and stays that you could do without. As you said you preferred to
serve God your own way and after the teaching of your own conscience,
I thought it best to let you make a trial of it and see how you could
get on walking alone, instead of in the company of God's people. These
rules and regulations were not laid down to take the place of love
to God and devotion to His service, but rather to be the props and
crutches that may help to keep us in the right path when the way would
otherwise be dark and unknown."
"I had not thought of it in that way before," said Eric. "Do you think
I should be allowed to join and call myself a Methodist after what has
happened?"
"Yes, I do; for you are truly penitent for your fault, and I can feel
sure that if you promise to obey the rules of our society, you will
faithfully endeavour to do so. But now let us go in to breakfast, for I
am hungry, and then I must see about getting this fellow released who
sent you off on this wild goose chase after the Osprey."
"I was almost as much to blame as he was, for if I had only remembered
my duty, and refused to leave the horses, as you had told me, it could
not have happened; so I hope you will not punish him."
They had sat down to a well-spread table, and Eric was too full of
thankfulness for his escape from prison to desire that another should
be kept there; and so he was very glad to know that the young man was
released before they left town.
"Now we must go back at a canter," said the farmer; "for the good wife
only knows that you are not a thief, and she will be glad to have you
back safe and sound again."
"What, after giving you so much trouble and anxiety?" said Eric, in
some surprise.
The love and kindness of this friend was wonderful to him, for he had
known so little of the long-suffering of love extended to him.
"Ah, my boy, you don't understand how you have crept into our hearts,"
said the farmer, as they went gently up a hill outside of the town. "I
have been thinking as I came along, that we all think of the Heavenly
Father very much as you have thought of us in this matter. You thought
of the horses and my loss of time and vexation, but never once thought
that all these would be forgotten in the gladness of having you back in
your old place once more, and this because you did not understand how
we love you—the good wife and I." And as he spoke, the farmer looked as
tenderly at Eric as he might have done if he had been his own son.
The boy felt a strong impulse to throw himself into his friend's arms,
if they had not both been on horseback. But from that moment, he felt
that he knew what a father's love was, and that this friend was a
parent rather than a master to him henceforth.
Mrs. Consett was delighted to see him return safe and well, for she had
been haunted by the fear that he might have fallen overboard and been
drowned, and so to see him come riding up the avenue once more was a
joy indeed.
Eric needed no urging to become a Methodist after this—he regarded it
as part of the love and duty that he owed his adopted father—and so the
very first letter that was sent to Sister Martin in England told how
Eric, her waif, had become a professed Methodist at his own desire.
The following season she came again with another party of slaves,
but after this there was an end of sending convicts to His Majesty's
plantations of America, for the American War broke out the following
year, and so there were no more visits from Sister Martin. The war
which began so hastily, and was expected to end in a few months to the
confusion of the colonists, was not over until Eric was a full-grown
man, and all memory of him as a slave-convict had been forgotten here
in England; so that he could return to see his native country and the
one dear friend it held for him without fear of discovery.
So, ten years after he left his native shore, he returned on a visit to
Sister Martin, and to transact some business for his adopted father and
the Methodist congregation to which he belonged.
People did not cross the Atlantic for mere pleasure in those days, and
therefore, if business of some importance had not arisen, that he alone
could transact for Mr. Consett, it is unlikely that Eric would ever
have come back to his native land.
But when he had seen Sister Martin, and the friends of his adopted
father, a desire to see his mother's grave and his old home at The
Magpie took him to Summerleigh once more.
He went in very different guise from that in which he had left it ten
years before, but still he wondered whether any one would recognise him
as the Eric Hunter who had been driven away as a beggar and vagabond,
unworthy even to be stable boy at the village inn.
Now he went back as a gentleman traveller, who could command the best
horses and the best room at any inn where he might choose to put up,
and as such he was received by his old mistress when he ordered a good
dinner to be served, and the best bedroom in the house prepared for a
lady who would come by post-chaise a few hours later.
He had ridden out on horseback, but Sister Martin had promised to come
and stay with him for a few days in his old home, and it was for her
comfort he was so solicitous, and so particular as to what room she
would occupy.
He also insisted upon seeing to his horse himself, for this would give
him a peep at the old stable-yard, and a chance of finding out whether
his old dumb friend Peggy was still alive.
But although Summerleigh as a whole had stood still through all the
years he had been away, and the landlady herself was not much altered
from what he had known her, still there had been changes.
Old Toby lay in the churchyard, and not one of the horses he had
formerly tended at The Magpie was in its stables now. The old doctor
and the constable too were dead, and the boys he had known, and often
envied, were lounging, sleepy-looking men, like their fathers before
them.
But before he had been an hour in the place, he heard that the village
still boasted of its intolerance and hatred of strangers, especially
Methodists.
"I wouldn't have one o' them pestilent people in my house, no, not
if they was to pay me double, sir," said the mistress of The Magpie
to Eric when he ventured to make some inquiry about these people.
"Summerleigh wouldn't abide 'em," she continued. "One of 'em did
attempt to preach here once, but a good ducking in our horsepond cured
him, and we ain't never been pestered since."
Eric thought he would like to try what he could do to break down this
prejudice, but just now he had to think of Sister Martin, for her
health had given way, and she was coming to try what the forest air
would do for her restoration.
Eric told her what he wished the next day, as they slowly walked along
the grassy paths he remembered so well in the forest, and together they
formed a plan by which Summerleigh should be taken by guile.
Life in London could not be long for her, the doctor had said; but
here, in the fresh country air, her life might be prolonged for some
years, and so, as they walked, it was arranged that the little cottage
where Eric had lived, and his mother had died, should be bought by him
now, for Sister Martin's future home.
The owner would be glad to sell it, they had heard, for no one stayed
in it long, since the witch woman had lived there some years ago.
The cottage was bought and put into thorough repair by Eric for his
second mother, and before he returned to America, he had the joy of
seeing her installed there, and received by the villagers with respect
at least; for her connection with the wealthy gentleman who had bought
the property made her a person of some importance in their eyes.
Here Sister Martin settled down to spend the evening of her days, and
so to live the life known as Methodist, that these people could not but
be touched and helped, though they might never hear the name of Wesley;
for it was not Wesley, but the Lord Jesus Christ, who was the spring
and fount of life in these people, and it was of Him her Master that
she spoke whenever she could.
This method might be slow, but it was sure, and from her cottage home,
Sister Martin could send and tell Eric of the changed life of one and
another among his old friends, until at last she could venture to tell
them who was their benefactor, and why he had sought to help them, so
that "Eric the Waif" whom they had driven away, came to be a name of
honour and renown in many a home in Summerleigh.
THE END.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.