Died At Roslyn School, May 1847,
Aged Fifteen Years.
_Is it well with the child? It is well_.
I Kings iv. 26.
The three boys stood by the grave in silence and sorrow for a time.
"He would have been the gladdest at our success, Monty," said Eric; "let
us leave the signs of it upon his grave."
And, with reverent hand, scattering over that small mound the choice
rosebuds and fragrant lilies with their green leaves, they turned away
without another word.
The next morning the great piles of corded boxes which crowded the
passage were put on the coach, and the boys, gladly leaving the deserted
building, drove in every sort of vehicle to the steamer. What joyous,
triumphant mornings those were! How the heart exulted and bounded with
the sense of life and pleasure, and how universal was the gladness and
good-humour of every one. Never were voyages so merry as those of the
steamer that day, and even the "good-byes" that had to be said at
Southpool were lightly borne. From thence the boys quickly scattered to
the different railways, and the numbers of those who were travelling
together got thinner and thinner as the distance increased. Wright and
one or two others went nearly all the way with Eric, and when he got
down at the little roadside station, from whence started the branch rail
to Ayrton, he bade them a merry and affectionate farewell. The branch
train soon started, and in another hour he would be at Fairholm.
It was not till then that his home feelings woke in all their intensity.
He had not been there for a year. At Roslyn the summer holidays were
nine weeks, and the holidays at Christmas and Easter were short, so that
it had not been worth while to travel so far as Fairholm, and Eric had
spent his Christmas with friends in another part of the island. But now
he was once more to see dear Fairholm, and his aunt, his cousin Fanny,
and above all, his little brother. His heart was beating fast with joy,
and his eyes sparkling with pleasure and excitement. As he thrust his
head out of the window, each well-remembered landmark gave him the
delicious sensation of meeting again an old friend. "Ah! there's the
white bridge, and there's the canal, and the stile; and _there_ runs the
river, and there's Velvet Lawn. Hurrah! here we are." And springing
out of the train before it had well stopped, he had shaken hands
heartily with the old coachman, who was expecting him, and jumped up
into the carriage in a moment.
Through the lanes he knew so well, by whose hedgerows he had so often
plucked sorrel and wild roses; past the old church with its sleeping
churchyard; through the quiet village, where every ten yards he met old
acquaintances who looked pleased to see him, and whom he greeted with
glad smiles and nods of recognition; past the Latin-school, from which
came murmurs and voices as of yore (what a man he felt himself now by
comparison!)--by the old Roman camp, where he had imagined such heroic
things when he was a little child; through all the scenes so rich with
the memories and associations of his happy childhood, they flew along;
and now they had entered the avenue, and Eric was painfully on the
look-out.
Yes! there they were all three--Mrs Trevor, and Fanny, and Vernon, on
the mound at the end of the avenue; and the younger ones ran to meet
him. It was a joyous meeting; he gave Fanny a hearty kiss, and put his
arm round Vernon's neck, and then held him in front to have a look at
him.
"How tall you've grown, Verny, and how well you look," he said, gazing
proudly at him; and indeed the boy was a brother to be justly proud of.
And Vernon quite returned the admiration as he saw the healthy glow of
Eric's features, and what a tall strong boy he had grown to be.
And so they quickly joined Mrs Trevor, who embraced her nephew with a
mother's love; and, amid all that nameless questioning of delightful
trifles, that "blossoming vein" of household talk, which gives such an
incommunicable charm to the revisiting of home, they all three turned
into the house, where Eric, hungry with his travels, enjoyed at leisure
the "jolly spread" prepared for him, luxurious beyond anything he had
seen for his last year at school. When he and Vernon went up to their
room at night--the same little room in which they slept on the night
when they first had met--they marked their heights on the door again,
which showed Eric that in the last year he had grown two inches, a fact
which he pointed out to Vernon with no little exultation. And then they
went to bed, and to a sleep over which brooded the indefinite sensation
of a great unknown joy;--that rare heavenly sleep which only comes once
or twice or thrice in life, on occasions such as this.
He was up early next morning, and, opening his window, leaned out with
his hands among the green vine-leaves which encircled it. The garden
looked beautiful as ever, and he promised himself an early enjoyment of
those currants which hung in ruby clusters over the walls. Everything
was bathed in the dewy balm of summer morning, and he felt very happy
as, with his little spaniel frisking round him, he visited the great
Newfoundland in his kennel, and his old pet the pony in the stable. He
had barely finished his rounds when breakfast was ready, and he once
more met the home circle from which he had been separated for a year.
And yet over all his happiness hung a sense of change and half
melancholy; they were not changed, but _he_ was changed.
Mrs Trevor, and Fanny, and Vernon were the same as ever, but over _him_
had come an alteration of feeling and circumstance; an unknown or
half-known _something_ which cast a shadow between them and him, and
sometimes made him half shrink and start as he met their loving looks.
Can no schoolboy, who reads his history, understand and explain the
feeling which I mean?
By that mail he wrote to his father and mother an account of Russell's
death, and he felt that they would guess why the letter was so blurred.
"But," he wrote, "I have some friends still; especially Mr Rose among
the masters, and Monty and Upton among the boys. Monty you know; he is
more like Edwin than any other boy, and I like him very much. You
didn't know Upton, but I am a great deal with him, though he is much
older than I am. He is a fine handsome fellow, and one of the most
popular in the school. I hope you will know him some day."
The very next morning Eric received a letter which he at once recognised
to be in Upton's handwriting. He eagerly tore off the envelope, and
read--
"My Dearest Eric--I have got bad news to tell you, at least I feel it
to be bad news for me, and I flatter myself that you will feel it to
be bad news for you. In short, I am going to leave Roslyn, and
probably we shall never meet there again. The reason is, I have had a
cadetship given me, and I am to sail for India in September. I have
already written to the school to tell them to pack up and send me all
my books and clothes.
"I feel leaving very much; it has made me quite miserable. I wanted
to stay at school another year at least; and I will honestly tell you,
Eric, one reason; I'm very much afraid that I've done you, and Graham,
and other fellows no good; and I wanted, if I possibly could, to undo
the harm I had done. Poor Edwin's death opened my eyes to a good many
things, and now I'd give all I have never to have taught or encouraged
you in wrong things. Unluckily it's too late;--only, I hope that you
already see, as I do, that the things I mean lead to evil far greater
than we ever used to dream of.
"Good-bye now, old fellow! Do write to me soon, and forgive me, and
believe me ever--Your most affectionate, Horace Upton.
"P.S.--Is that jolly little Vernon going back to school with you this
time? I remember seeing him running about the shore with my poor
cousin when you were a home-boarder, and thinking what a nice little
chap he looked. I hope you'll look after him as a brother should, and
keep him out of mischief."
Eric folded the letter sadly, and put it into his pocket; he didn't
often show them his school letters, because, like this one, they often
contained allusions to things which he did not like his aunt to know.
The thought of Upton's leaving made him quite unhappy, and he wrote him
a long letter by that post, indignantly denying the supposition that his
friendship had ever done him anything but good.
The postscript about Vernon suggested a thought that had been often in
his mind. He could not but shudder in himself, when he thought of that
bright little brother of his being initiated in the mysteries of evil
which he himself had learnt, and sinking like himself into slow
degeneracy of heart and life. It often puzzled and perplexed him, and
at last he determined to open his heart, partially at least, in a letter
to Mr Rose. The master fully understood his doubts, and wrote him the
following reply--
"My Dear Eric--I have just received your letter about your brother
Vernon, and I think that it does you honour. I will briefly give you
my own opinion.
"You mean, no doubt, that, from your own experience, you fear that
Vernon will hear at school many things which will shock his modesty,
and much language which is evil and blasphemous; you fear that he will
meet with many bad examples, and learn to look on God and godliness in
a way far different from that to which he has been accustomed at home.
You fear, in short, that he must pass through the same painful
temptations to which you have yourself been subjected; to which,
perhaps, you have even succumbed.
"Well, Eric, this is all true. Yet, knowing this, I say, by all means
let Vernon come to Roslyn. The innocence of mere ignorance is a poor
thing; it _cannot_, under any circumstances, be permanent, nor is it
at all valuable as a foundation of character. The true preparation
for life, the true basis of a manly character, is not to have been
ignorant of evil, but to have known it and avoided it; not to have
been sheltered from temptation, but to have passed through it and
overcome it by God's help. Many have drawn exaggerated pictures of
the lowness of public school morality; the best answer is to point to
the good and splendid men that have been trained in public schools,
and who lose no opportunity of recurring to them with affection. It
is quite possible to be _in_ the little world of school-life, and yet
not _of_ it. The ruin of human souls can never be achieved by enemies
from without unless they be aided by traitors from within. Remember
our lost friend; the peculiar lustre of his piety was caused by the
circumstances, under which he was placed. He often told me before his
last hour, that he rejoiced to have been at Roslyn; that he had
experienced there much real happiness, and derived in every way
lasting good.
"I hope you have been enjoying your holidays, and that you will come
back with the `spell of home affection' alive in your heart. I shall
rejoice to make Vernon's acquaintance, and will do for him all I can.
Bring him with you to me in the library as soon as you arrive.--Ever,
dear Eric,
"Affectionately yours,
"Walter Rose."