Eric Williams pursued his disconsolate way to the station, and found
that his money only just sufficed to get him something to eat during the
day, and carry him third class by the parliamentary train to
Charlesbury, the little station where he had to take the branch line to
Ayrton.
He got into the carriage, and sat in the far corner, hiding himself from
notice as well as he could. The weary train--(it carried poor people
for the most part, so, of course, it could matter but little how tedious
or slow it was!)--the weary train, stopping at every station, and often
waiting on the rail until it had been passed by trains that started four
or five hours after it,--dragged its slow course through the fair
counties of England. Many people got in and out of the carriage, which
was generally full, and some of them tried occasionally to enter into
conversation with him. But poor Eric was too sick and tired, and his
heart was too full to talk much, and he contented himself with civil
answers to the questions put to him, dropping the conversation as soon
as he could.
At six in the evening the train stopped at Charlesbury, and he got down.
"Ticket," said the station-man.
Eric gave it, turning his head away, for the man knew him well from
having often seen him there. It was of no use; the man looked hard at
him, and then, opening his eyes wide, exclaimed--
"Well, I never! what, Master Williams of Fairholm, can that be you?"
"Hush, John, hush yes, I am Eric Williams. But don't say a word, that's
a good fellow; I'm going on to Ayrton this evening."
"Well, sir, I _am_ hurt like to see you looking so ragged and poorly.
Let me give you a bed to-night, and send you on by first train
to-morrow."
"Oh no, thank you, John, I've got no money, and--"
"Tut, tut, sir I thought you'd know me better nor that. Proud I'd be
any day to do anything for Mrs Trevor's nephew, let alone a young
gentleman like you. Well, then, let me drive you, sir, in my little
cart this evening."
"No, thank you, John, never mind; you are very, very good, but," he
said, and the tears were in his eyes, "I want to walk in alone
to-night."
"Well, God keep and bless you, sir," said the man, "for you look to need
it," and touching his cap he watched the boy's painful walk across some
fields to the main road.
"Who'd ha' thought it, Jenny!" he said to his wife. "There's that young
Master Williams, whom we've always thought so noble like, just been here
as ragged as ragged, and with a face the colour o' my white signal
flag."
"Lawks!" said the woman; "well, well! poor young gentleman, I'm afeard
he's been doing something bad."
Balmily and beautiful the evening fell, as Eric, not without toil, made
his way along the road towards Ayrton, which was ten miles off. The
road wound through the valley, across the low hills that encircled it,
sometimes spanning or running parallel to the bright stream that had
been the delight of Eric's innocent childhood. There was something
enjoyable at first to the poor boy's eyes, so long accustomed to the
barren sea, in resting once more on the soft undulating green of the
summer fields, which were intertissued with white and yellow flowers,
like a broidery of pearls and gold. The whole scene was bathed in the
exquisite light, and rich with the delicate perfumes of a glorious
evening, which filled the sky over his head with every perfect gradation
of rose and amber and amethyst, and breathed over the quiet landscape a
sensation of unbroken peace. But peace did not remain long in Eric's
heart; each well-remembered landmark filled his soul with recollections
of the days when he had returned from school, oh! how differently; and
of the last time when he had come home with Vernon by his side. "O
Verny, Verny, dear little Verny, would to God that I were with you now!
But you are resting, Verny, in the green grave by Russell's side, and
I--O God, be merciful to me now!"
It was evening, and the stars came out and shone by hundreds, and Eric
walked on by the moonlight. But the exertion had brought on the pain in
his knee, and he had to sit down a long time by the roadside to rest.
He reached Ayrton at ten o'clock, but even then he could not summon up
courage to pass through the town where he was so well-known, lest any
straggler should recognise him, and he took a detour in order to get to
Fairholm. He did not arrive there till eleven o'clock; and then he
could not venture into the grounds, for he saw through the trees of the
shrubbery that there was no light in any of the windows, and it was
clear that they were all gone to bed.
What was he to do? He durst not disturb them so late at night. He
remembered that they would not have heard a syllable of or from him
since he had run away from Roslyn, and he feared the effect of so sudden
an emotion as his appearance at that hour might excite.
So, under the starlight he lay down to sleep on a cold bank beside the
gate, determining to enter early in the morning. It was long before he
slept, but at last weary nature demanded her privilege with importunity,
and gentle sleep floated over him like a dark dewy cloud, and the sun
was high in heaven before he woke.
It was about half-past nine in the morning, and Mrs Trevor, with Fanny,
was starting to visit some of her poor neighbours, an occupation full of
holy pleasure to her kind heart, and in which she had found more than
usual consolation during the heavy trials which she had recently
suffered; for she had loved Eric and Vernon as a mother does her own
children, and now Vernon, the little cherished jewel of her heart, was
dead--Vernon was dead, and Eric, she feared not dead but worse than
dead, guilty, stained, dishonoured. Often had she thought to herself,
in deep anguish of heart, "Our darling little Vernon dead--and Eric
fallen and ruined!"
"Look at that poor fellow asleep on the grass," said Fanny, pointing to
a sailor boy, who lay coiled up on the bank beside the gate. "He has
had a rough bed, mother, if he has spent the night there, as I fear."
Mrs Trevor had grasped her arm. "What is Flo doing?" she said,
stopping, as the pretty little spaniel trotted up to the boy's reclining
figure, and began snuffing about it, and then broke into a quick short
bark of pleasure, and fawned and frisked about him, and leapt upon him,
joyously wagging his tail.
The boy rose with the dew wet from the flowers upon his hair;--he saw
the dog, and at once began playfully to fondle it, and hold its little
silken head between his hands; but as yet he had not caught sight of the
Trevors.
"It is--O good heavens it is Eric," cried Mrs Trevor, as she flew
towards him. Another moment and he was in her arms, silent, speechless,
with long arrears of pent-up emotion.
"Oh, my Eric, our poor, lost, wandering Eric--come home; you are
forgiven, more than forgiven, my own darling boy. Yes, I knew that my
prayers would be answered; this is as though we received you from the
dead." And the noble lady wept upon his neck, and Eric, his heart
shaken with accumulated feelings, clung to her and wept.
Deeply did that loving household rejoice to receive back their lost
child. At once they procured him a proper dress and a warm bath, and
tended him with every gentle office of female ministering hands. And in
the evening, when he told them his story in a broken voice of penitence
and remorse, their love came to him like a sweet balsam, and he rested
by them, "seated, and clothed, and in his right mind."
The pretty little room, fragrant with sweet flowers from the greenhouse,
was decorated with all the refinement of womanly taste, and its glass
doors opened on the pleasant garden. It was long, long since Eric had
seen anything like it, and he had never hoped to see it again. "Oh,
dearest aunty," he murmured, as he rested his weary head upon her lap,
while he sat on a low stool at her feet, "O aunty, you will never know
how different this is from the foul horrible hold of the _Stormy
Petrel_, and its detestable inmates."
When Eric was dressed once more as a gentleman, and once more fed on
nourishing and wholesome food, and was able to move once more about the
garden by Fanny's side, he began to recover his old appearance, and the
soft bloom came back to his cheek again, and the light to his blue eye.
But still his health gave most serious cause for apprehension; weeks of
semi-starvation, bad air, sickness, and neglect, followed by two nights
of exposure and wet, had at last undermined the remarkable strength of
his constitution, and the Trevors soon became aware of the painful fact
that he was sinking to the grave, and had come home only to die.
Above all, there seemed to be some great load at his heart which he
could not remove; a sense of shame, the memory of his disgrace at
Roslyn, and of the dark suspicion that rested on his name. He avoided
the subject, and they were too kind to force it on him, especially as he
had taken away the bitterest part of their trial in remembering it, by
explaining to them that he was far from being so wicked in the matter of
the theft as they had at first been (how slowly and reluctantly!) almost
forced to believe.
"Have you ever heard--oh, how shall I put it?--have you ever heard,
aunty, how things went on at Roslyn after I ran away?" he asked one
evening, with evident effort.
"No, love, I have not. After they had sent home your things, I heard no
more; only two most kind and excellent letters--one from Dr Rowlands,
and one from your friend Mr Rose--informed me of what had happened
about you."
"Oh, have they sent home my things?" he asked eagerly. "There are very
few among them that I care about; but there is just one--"
"I guessed it, my Eric, and, but that I feared to agitate you, should
have given it you before;" and she drew out of a drawer the little
likeness of Vernon's sweet childish face.
Eric gazed at it till the sobs shook him, and tears blinded his eyes.
"Do not weep, my boy," said Mrs Trevor, kissing his forehead. "Dear
little Verny, remember, is in a land where God Himself wipes away all
tears from off all eyes."
"Is there anything else you would like?" asked Fanny, to divert his
painful thoughts. "I will get you anything in a moment."
"Yes, Fanny dear, there is the medal I got for saving Russell's life,
and one or two things which he gave me;--ah, poor Edwin, you never knew
him!"
He told her what to fetch, and when she brought them it seemed to give
him great pleasure to recall his friends to mind by name, and speak of
them--especially of Montagu and Wildney.
"I have a plan to please you, Eric," said Mrs Trevor. "Shall I ask
Montagu and Wildney here? we have plenty of room for them."
"Oh, thank you," he said, with the utmost eagerness. "Thank you,
dearest aunt." Then suddenly his countenance fell. "Stop--shall we?--
yes, yes, I am going to die soon, I know; let me see them before I die."
The Trevors did not know that he was aware of the precarious tenure of
his life, but they listened to him in silence, and did not contradict
him; and Mrs Trevor wrote to both the boys (whose directions Eric
knew), telling them what had happened, and begging them, simply for his
sake, to come and stay with her for a time. She hinted clearly that it
might be the last opportunity they would ever have of seeing him.
Wildney and Montagu accepted the invitation and they arrived together at
Fairholm on one of the early autumn evenings. They both greeted Eric
with the utmost affection; and he seemed never tired of pressing their
hands, and looking at them again. Yet every now and then a memory of
sadness would pass over his face, like a dark ripple on the clear
surface of a lake.
"Tell me, Monty," he said one evening, "all about what happened after I
left Roslyn."
"Gladly, Eric; now that your name is cleared, there is--"
"My name cleared!" said Eric, leaning forward eagerly. "Did you say
that?"
"Yes, Eric. Didn't you know, then, that the thief had been discovered?"
"No," he murmured faintly, leaning back again; "oh, thank God, thank
God! Do tell me all about it, Monty."
"Well, Eric, I will tell you all from the beginning. You may guess how
utterly astonished we were in the morning, when we heard that you had
run away. Wildney here was the first to discover it, for he went early
to your bedroom--"
"Dear little Sunbeam," interrupted Eric, resting his hand against
Wildney's cheek; but Wildney shook his fist at him when he heard the
forbidden name.
"He found the door locked," continued Montagu, "and called to you, but
there came no answer; this made us suspect the truth, and we were
certain of it when some one caught sight of the sheet hanging from your
window. The masters soon heard the report, and sent Carter to make
inquiries, but they did not succeed in discovering anything definite
about you. Then, of course, everybody assumed as a certainty that you
were guilty, and I fear that my bare assertion on the other side had
little weight."
Eric's eyes glistened as he drank in his friend's story.
"But, about a fortnight after, _more_ money and several other articles
disappeared from the studies, and all suspicion as to the perpetrator
was baffled; only now the boys began to admit that, after all, they had
been premature in condemning you. It was a miserable time; for every
one was full of distrust, and the more nervous boys were always afraid
lest any one should on some slight grounds suspect _them_. _Still_
things kept disappearing.
"We found out at length that the time when the robberies were effected
must be between twelve and one, and it was secretly agreed that some one
should be concealed in the studies for a day or two during those hours.
Carter undertook the office, and was ensconced in one of the big
cupboards in a study which had not yet been touched. On the third day
he heard some one stealthily mount the stairs. The fellows were more
careful now, and used to keep their doors shut, but the person was
provided with keys, and opened the study in which Carter was. He moved
about for a little time--Carter watching him through the key-hole, and
prepared to spring on him before he could make his escape. Not getting
much, the man at last opened the cupboard door, where Carter had just
time to conceal himself behind a greatcoat. The greatcoat took the
plunderer's fancy; he took it down off the peg, and there stood Carter
before him! Billy--for it was he--stood absolutely confounded, as
though a ghost had suddenly appeared; and Carter, after enjoying his
unconcealed terror, collared him, and hauled him off to the police
station. He was tried soon after, and finally confessed that it was he
who had taken the cricket-money too; for which offences he was sentenced
to transportation. So, Eric, dear Eric, at last your name was cleared."
"As I always knew it would be, dear old boy," said Wildney.
Montagu and Wildney found plenty to make them happy at Fairholm, and
were never tired of Eric's society, and of his stories about all that
befell him on board the _Stormy Petrel_. They perceived a marvellous
change in him. Every trace of recklessness and arrogance had passed
away; every stain of passion had been removed; every particle of
hardness had been calcined in the flame of trial. All was gentleness,
love, and dependence, in the once bright, impetuous, self-willed boy; it
seemed as though the lightning of God's anger had shattered and swept
away all that was evil in his heart and life, and left all his true
excellence, all the royal prerogatives of his character, pure and
unscathed. Eric, even in his worst days, was, as I well remember, a
lovable and noble boy; but at this period there must have been something
about him, for which to thank God, something unspeakably winning and
irresistibly attractive. During the day, as Eric was too weak to walk
with them, Montagu and Wildney used to take boating and fishing
excursions by themselves, but in the evening the whole party would sit
out reading and talking in the garden till twilight fell. The two
visitors began to hope that Mrs Trevor had been mistaken, and that
Eric's health would still recover; but Mrs Trevor would not deceive
herself with a vain hope, and the boy himself shook his head when they
called him convalescent.
Their hopes were never higher than one evening about a week after their
arrival, when they were all seated, as usual, in the open-air, under a
lime-tree on the lawn. The sun was beginning to set, and the rain of
golden sunlight fell over them through the green ambrosial foliage of
the tree, whose pale blossoms were still murmurous with bees. Eric was
leaning back in an easy chair, with Wildney sitting on the grass beside
his feet, while Montagu, resting on one of the mossy roots, read to them
the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, and the ladies were busy with their work.
"There--stop now," said Eric, "and let's sit out and talk until we see
some of `the fiery a'es and o'es of light' which he talks of."
"I'd no idea Shakespeare was such immensely jolly reading," remarked
Wildney naively. "I shall take to reading him through when I get home."
"Do you remember, Eric," said Montagu, "how Rose used to chaff us in old
days for our ignorance of literature, and how indignant we used to be
when he asked if we'd ever heard of an obscure person called William
Shakespeare?"
"Yes, very well," answered Eric, laughing heartily. And in this strain
they continued to chat merrily, while the ladies enjoyed listening to
their schoolboy mirth.
"What a perfectly delicious evening. It's almost enough to make me wish
to live," said Eric.
He did not often speak thus; and it made them sad. But Eric half sang,
half murmured to himself, a hymn with which his mother's sweet voice had
made him familiar in their cottage-home at Ellan--
"There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.
"The storm that wrecks the winter sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose."
The last two lines lingered pleasantly in his fancy, and he murmured to
himself again in low tones--
"Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose."
"Oh, hush, hush, Eric!" said Wildney, laying his hand upon his friend's
lips; "don't let's spoil to-night by forebodings."
It seemed, indeed, a shame to do so, for it was almost an awful thing to
be breathing the splendour of the transparent air, as the sun broadened
and fell, and a faint violet glow floated over soft meadow and silver
stream. One might have fancied that the last rays of sunshine loved to
linger over Eric's face, now flushed with a hectic tinge of pleasure,
and to light up sudden glories in his bright hair, which the wind just
fanned off his forehead as he leaned back and inhaled the luxury of
evening perfume, which the flowers of the garden poured on the gentle
breeze. Ah, how sad that such scenes should be so rare and so
short-lived!
"Hark--tirra-la-lirra-lirra!" said Wildney, "there goes the postman's
horn! Shall I run and get the letter-bag as he passes the gate?"
"Yes, do," they all cried; and the boy bounded off full of fun, greeting
the postman with such a burst of merry apostrophe, that the man shook
with laughing at him.
"Here it is at last," said Wildney. "Now, then, for the key. Here's a
letter for me, hurrah!--two for you, Miss Trevor--_what_ people you
young ladies are for writing to each other! None for you, Monty--oh
yes! I'm wrong, here's one; but none for Eric."
"I expected none," said Eric, sighing; but his eye was fixed earnestly
on one of Mrs Trevor's letters. He saw that it was from India, and
directed in his father's hand.
Mrs Trevor caught his look. "Shall I read it aloud to you, dear? Do
you think you can stand it? Remember it will be in answer to ours,
telling them of--"
"Oh yes, yes," he said eagerly, "do let me hear it."
With instinctive delicacy Montagu and Wildney rose, but Eric pressed
them to stay. "It will help me to bear what mother says, if I see you
by me," he pleaded.
God forbid that I should transcribe that letter. It was written from
the depths of such sorrow as He only can fully sympathise with, who for
thirty years pitched his tent in the valley of human misery. By the
former mail Mrs Williams had heard of Verny's melancholy death; by the
next she had been told that her only other child, Eric, was not dead
indeed, but a wandering outcast, marked with the brand of terrible
suspicion. Let her agony be sacred; it was God who sent it, and He only
enabled her to endure it. With bent head, and streaming eyes, and a
breast that heaved involuntarily with fitful sobs, Eric listened as
though to his mother's voice, and only now and then he murmured low to
himself, "O mother, mother, mother--but I am forgiven now. O mother,
God and man have forgiven me, and we shall be at peace again once more."
Mrs Trevor's eyes grew too dim with weeping to read it all, and Fanny
finished it. "Here is a little note from your father, Eric, which
dropped out when we opened dear aunt's letter. Shall I read it too?"
"Perhaps not now, love," said Mrs Trevor. "Poor Eric is too tired and
excited already."
"Well, then, let me glance at it myself, aunty," he said. He opened it,
read a line or two, and then, with a scream, fell back swooning, while
it dropped out of his hands.
Terrified, they picked up the fallen paper; it told briefly, in a few
heart-rending words, that, after writing the letter, Mrs Williams had
been taken ill; that her life was absolutely despaired of, and that,
before the letter reached England, she would, in all human probability,
be dead. It conveyed the impression of a soul resigned indeed, and
humble, but crushed down to the very earth with the load of mysterious
bereavement and irretrievable sorrow.
"Oh, I have killed her, I have killed my mother!" said Eric, in a hollow
voice, when he came to himself. "O God, forgive me, forgive me!"
They gathered round him they soothed, and comforted, and prayed for him;
but his soul refused comfort, and all his strength appeared to have been
broken down at once like a feeble reed. At last a momentary energy
returned; his eyes were lifted to the gloaming heaven where a few stars
had already begun to shine, and a bright look illuminated his
countenance. They listened deeply--"Yes, mother," he murmured, in
broken tones, "forgiven now, for Christ's dear sake. Oh, Thou merciful
God! Yes, there they are, and we shall meet again. Verny--oh, happy,
happy at last--too happy!"
The sounds died away, and his head fell back; for a transient moment
more the smile and the brightness played over his fair features like a
lambent flame. It passed away, and Eric was with those he dearliest
loved, in the land where there is no more curse.
"Yes, dearest Eric, forgiven and happy now," sobbed Mrs Trevor; and her
tears fell fast upon the dead boy's face, as she pressed upon it a long,
last kiss.
But Montagu, as he consoled the poignancy of Wildney's grief, was
reminded by Mrs Trevor's words of that sweet German verse--
Doch sonst an keinem Orte
Wohnt die ersehnte Ruh,
Nur durch die dunkle Pforte
Seht man der Heimath zu.