THE SILVER CORD BROKEN
“Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now!
E’en while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow.”--MRS. HEMANS.
They did not awake till noon. Montagu opened his eyes, and at first
could not collect his thoughts, as he saw the carpeted little room, the
bright fire, and the housekeeper seated in her arm-chair before it. But
turning his head, he caught a glimpse of Eric, who was still asleep, and
he then remembered all. He sprang out of bed, refreshed and perfectly
well, and the sound of his voice woke Eric; but Eric was still languid
and weak, and did not get up that day, nor was he able to go to work
again for some days; but he was young and strong, and his vigorous
constitution soon threw off the effects of his fast and exposure.
Their first inquiry was for Edwin. The nurse shook her head sadly. “He
is very dangerously ill.”
“Is he?” said they both, anxiously. And then they preserved a deep
silence; and when Montagu, who immediately began to dress, knelt down to
say his prayers, Eric, though unable to get up, knelt also over his
pillow, and the two felt that their young earnest prayers were mingling
for the one who seemed to have been taken while they were left.
The reports grew darker and darker about Edwin, At first it was thought
that the blow on his head was dangerous, and that the exposure to wet,
cold, fear, and hunger, had permanently weakened his constitution; and
when his youth seemed to be triumphing over these dangers, another
became more threatening. His leg never mended; he had both sprained the
knee badly, and given the tibia an awkward twist, so that the least
motion was agony to him.
In his fever he was constantly delirious. No one was allowed to see him,
though many of the boys tried to do so, and many were the earnest
inquiries for him day by day. It then became more fully apparent than
ever, that, although Edwin was among them without being _of_ them, no
boy in the school was more deeply honored and fondly loved than he. Even
the elastic spirits of boyhood could not quite throw off the shadow of
gloom which his illness cast over the school.
Very tenderly they nursed him. All that human kindness could do was done
for him by the stranger hands. And yet not all; poor Edwin had no
father, no mother, hardly any relatives. His only aunt, Mrs. Upton,
would have come to nurse him, but she was an invalid, and he was often
left alone in his delirium and agony.
Alone, yet not alone. There was One with him--always in his thoughts,
always leading, guiding, blessing him unseen--not deserting the hurt
lamb of his flock; one who was once a boy himself, and who, when he was
a boy, did his Father’s business, and was subject unto his parents in
the obscure home of the despised village. Alone! nay, to them whose
eyes were opened, the room of sickness and pain was thronged and
beautiful with angelic presences.
Often did Eric, and Upton, and Montagu, talk of their loved friend.
Eric’s life seemed absorbed in the thought of him, and in passionate,
unspeakable longings for his recovery. Now he valued more than ever the
sweet remembered hours spent with him; their games, and communnings, and
walks, and Russell’s gentle influence, and brave, kindly rebukes. Yet he
must not even see him, must not whisper one word of soothing to him in
his anguish; he could only pray for him, and that he did with a depth
of hope.
At last Upton, in virtue of his relationship, was allowed to visit him.
His delirium had become more infrequent, but he could not yet even
recognise his cousin, and the visits to his sick-room were so sad and
useless, that Upton forbore. “And yet you should hear him talk in his
delirium,” he said to Eric; “not one evil word, or bad thought, or
wicked thing, ever escapes him. I’m afraid, Eric, it would hardly be so
with you or me.”
“No” said Eric, in a low and humble tone; and guilty conscience brought
the deep color, wave after wave, of crimson into his cheeks.
“And he talks with such affection of you, Eric. He speaks sometimes of
all of us very gently; but you seem to be always in his thoughts, and
every now and then he prays for you quite unconsciously.”
Eric turned his head to brush away a tear. “When do you think I shall be
allowed too see him?”
“Not just yet, I fear.”
After a week or two of most anxious suspense, Russell’s mind ceased to
wander, but the state of his sprain gave more cause for alarm. Fresh
advice was called in, and it was decided that the leg must be amputated.
When Eric was told of this, he burst into passionate complaints. “Only
think, Monty, isn’t it hard, isn’t it cruel? When we see our brave,
bright Edwin again, he will be a cripple.” Eric hardly understood that
he was railing at the providence of a merciful God.
The day for the operation came. When it was over, poor Russell seemed to
amend, and the removal of the perpetual pain gave him relief. They were
all deeply moved at his touching resignation; no murmur, no cry escaped
him; no words but the sweetest thanks for every little office of
kindness done to him. A few days after, he asked Dr. Underhay “if he
might see Eric?”
“Yes, my boy,” said the doctor kindly, “you may see him, and one or two
other of your particular friends if you like, provided you don’t excite
yourself too much. I trust you will get better now.”
So Eric and Montagu were told by Dr. Rowlands that at six they might go
and see their friend. “Be sure,” he added, “that you don’t startle or
excite him.”
They promised, and after school on that beautiful evening of early
summer they went to the sick-room door Stopping, they held their breath,
and knocked very gently. Yes! it was the well-known voice which gave the
answer, but it was faint and low. Full of awe, they softly opened the
door, which admitted them into the presence of the dear companion whom
they had not seen for so long. Since then it seemed as though gulfs far
deeper than the sea had been flowing between him and them.
Full of awe, and hand in hand, they entered the room on tiptoe--the
darkened room where Russell was What a hush and oppression there seemed
to them at first in the dim, silent chamber; what an awfulness in all
the appliances which showed how long and deeply their schoolfellow had
suffered. But all this vanished directly they caught sight of his face.
There he lay, so calm, and weak, and still, with his bright, earnest
eyes turned towards them, as though to see whether any of their
affection for him had ceased or been forgotten!
In an instant they were kneeling in silence by the bed with bowed
foreheads; and the sick boy tenderly put his hands on their heads, and
pushed the frail white fingers through their hair, and looked at them
tearfully without a word, till they hid their faces with their hands,
and broke into deep suppressed sobs of compassion.
“Oh hush, hush!” he said, as he felt their tears dropping on his hands
while they kissed him. “Dear Eric, dear Monty, why should you cry so for
me? I am very happy.”
But they caught the outline of his form as he lay on the bed, and had
now for the first time realized that he was a cripple for life; and as
the throng of memories came on them--memories of his skill and fame at
cricket, and racquets, and football--of their sunny bathes together in
sea and river, and all their happy holiday wanderings--they could not
restrain their emotion, and wept uncontrollably. Neither of them could
speak a word, or break the holy silence; and as he patted their heads
and cheeks, his own tears flowed fast in sympathy and self-pity. But he
felt the comforting affection which they could not utter; he felt it in
his loneliness, and it did him good.
The nurse broke in upon the scene, which she feared would agitate Edwin
too much; and with red eyes and heavy hearts the boys left, only
whispering, “We will come again to-morrow, Edwin!”
They came the next day, and many days, and got to talk quite cheerfully
with him, and read to him. They loved this occupation more than any
game, and devoted themselves to it. The sorrow of the sick-room more
than repaid them for the glad life without, when they heard Russell’s
simple and heartfelt thanks. “Ah! how good of you, dear fellows,” he
would say, “to give up the merry playground for a wretched cripple,” and
he would smile cheerfully to show that his trial had not made him weary
of life. Indeed, he often told them that he believed they felt for him
more than he did himself.
One day Eric brought him a little bunch of primroses and violets. He
seemed much better, and Eric’s spirits were high with the thoughts and
hopes of the coming holidays. “There, Edwin,” he said, as the boy
gratefully and eagerly took the flowers, “don’t they make you glad? They
are one of our _three_ signs, you know, of the approaching holidays. One
sign was the first sight of the summer steamer going across the bay;
another was May eve, when these island-fellows light big gorse fires all
over the mountains, and throw yellow marsh-lilies at their doors to keep
off the fairies. Do you remember, Eddy, gathering some last May eve, and
sitting out in the playground till sunset, watching the fires begin to
twinkle on Cronck-Irey and Barrule for miles away? What a jolly talk we
had that evening about the holidays; but my father and mother were here
then, you know, and we were all going to Fairholm. But the third
sign--the first primrose and violet--was always the happiest. You can’t
think how I _grabbed_ at the first primrose this year; I found it by a
cave on the Ness. And though these are rather the last than the first,
yet I knew you’d like them, Eddy, so I hunted for them everywhere. And
how much better you’re looking too; such shining eyes, and, yes! I
positively declare, quite a ruddy cheek like your old one. You’ll soon
be out among us again, that’s clear----”
He stopped abruptly: he had been rattling on just in the merry way that
Russell now most loved to hear, but, as he was talking, he caught the
touch of sadness on Russell’s face, and saw his long, abstracted, eager
look at the flowers.
“Dear fellow, you’re not worse, are you?” he said quickly. “What a fool
I am to chatter so; it makes you ill.”
“No, no, Eric, talk on; you can’t think how I love to hear you. Oh, how
very beautiful these primroses are! Thank you, thank you, for bringing
them.” And he again fixed on them the eager dreamy look which had
startled Eric--as though he were learning their color and shape
by heart.
“I wish I hadn’t brought them, though,” said Eric, “they are filling
your mind with regrets. But, Eddy, you’ll be well by the holidays--a
month hence, you know--or else I shouldn’t have talked so gladly
about them.”
“No, Eric,” said Russell sadly, “these dear flowers are the last spring
blossoms that I shall see--_here_ at least. Yes, I will keep them, for
your sake, Eric, till I die.”
“Oh don’t talk so,” said Eric, shocked and flustered, “why everybody
knows and says that you’re getting better.”
Russell smiled and shook his head. “No, Eric, I shall die. There stop,
dear fellow, don’t cry,” said he, raising his hands quietly to Eric’s
face; “isn’t it better for me so? I own it seemed sad at first to leave
this bright world and the sea--yes, even that cruel sea,” he continued
smiling; “and to leave Roslyn, and Upton, and Monty, and, above all, to
leave _you_, Eric, whom I love best in all the world. Yes, remember I’ve
no home, Eric, and no prospects. There was nothing to be sorry for in
this, so long as God gave me health and strength; but health went for
ever into those waves at the Stack, where you saved my life, dear,
gallant Eric; and what could I do now? It doesn’t look so happy to
_halt_ through life. Oh Eric, Eric, I am young, but I am dying--dying,
Eric,” he said solemnly, “my brother; let me call you brother; I have no
near relations, you know, to fill up the love in my yearning heart, but
I _do_ love _you_. Kiss me, Eric, as though I were a child, and you a
child. There, that comforts me; I feel as if I _were_ a child again, and
had a dear brother;--and I _shall_ be a child again soon, Eric, in the
courts of a Father’s house.”
Eric could not speak. These words startled him; he never dreamt
_recently_ of Russell’s death, but had begun to reckon on his recovery,
and now life seemed darker to him than ever.
But Russell was pressing the flowers to his lips. “The grass
withereth,” he murmured, “the flower fadeth, and the glory of its beauty
perisheth; but--_but_ the word of the Lord endureth for ever.” And here
he too burst into natural tears, and Eric pressed his hand, with more
than a brother’s fondness, to his heart.
“Oh Eddy, Eddy, my heart is full,” he said, “too full to speak to you.
Let me read to you;” and with Russell’s arm round his neck he sat down,
beside his pillow, and read to him about “the pure river of water of
life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the
Lamb.” At first sobs choked his voice, but it gathered firmness as
he went on.
“In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was
there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded
her fruit every month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing
of the nations.
“And there shall be no more curse”--and here the reader’s musical voice
rose into deeper and steadier sweetness--“but the throne of God and of
the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him; and they
shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads.”
“And they shall see his face,” murmured Russell, “_and they shall see
his face_” Eric paused and looked at him; a sort of rapture seemed to be
lighted in his eyes, as though they saw heavenly things, and his
countenance was like an angel’s to look upon. Eric closed the book
reverently, and gazed.
“And now pray for me, Eric, will you?” Eric knelt down, but no prayer
would come; his breast swelled; and his heart beat fast, but emotion
prevented him from uttering a word. But Russell laid his hand on his
head and prayed.
“O gracious Lord God, look down, merciful Father on us, two erring,
weak, sinful boys; look down and bless us, Lord, for the love thou
bearest unto thy children. One thou art taking; Lord, take me to the
green pastures of thy home, where no curse is; and one remains--O Lord!
bless him with the dew of thy blessing; lead and guide him, and keep him
for ever in thy fear and love, that he may continue thine for ever, and
hereafter we may meet together among the redeemed, in the immortal glory
of the resurrection. Hear us, O Father, for thy dear Son’s sake.
Amen! Amen!”
The childlike, holy, reverent voice ceased, and Eric rose. One long
brotherly kiss he printed on Russell’s forehead, and, full of sorrowful
forebodings, bade him good night.
He asked Dr. Underhay whether his fears were correct. “Yes,” he said,
“he may die at any time; he _must_ die soon. It is even best that he
should; besides the loss of a limb, that blow on the head would
certainly affect the brain and the intellect if he lived.”
Eric shuddered--a long cold shudder.
The holidays drew on; for Russell’s sake, and at his earnest wish, Eric
had worked harder than he ever did before. All his brilliant abilities,
all his boyish ambition, were called into exercise; and, to the delight
of every one, he gained ground rapidly, and seemed likely once more to
dispute the palm with Owen. No one rejoiced more in this than Mr. Rose,
and he often gladdened Russell’s heart by telling him about it; for
every day he had a long visit to the sick boy’s room, which refreshed
and comforted them both.
In other respects, too, Eric seemed to be turning over a new leaf. He
and Upton, by common consent, had laid aside smoking, and every bad
habit or disobedient custom which would have grieved the dying boy, whom
they both loved so well. And although Eric’s popularity, after the
romantic Stack adventure and his chivalrous daring, was at its very
zenith,--although he had received a medal and flattering letter from the
Humane Society, who had been informed of the transaction by Dr.
Rowlands,--although his success both physical and intellectual was
higher than ever,--yet the dread of the great loss he was doomed to
suffer, and the friendship which was to be snapped, overpowered every
other feeling, and his heart was ennobled and purified by contact with
his suffering friend.
It was a June evening, and he and Russell were alone; he had drawn up
the blind, and through the open window the summer breeze, pure from the
sea and fragrant from the garden, was blowing refreshfully into the sick
boy’s room. Russell was very, very happy. No doubt, no fear, assailed
him; all was peace and trustfulness. Long and earnestly that evening did
he talk to Eric, and implore him to shun evil ways, striving to lead him
gently to that love of God which was his only support and refuge now.
Tearfully and humbly Eric listened, and every now and then the sufferer
stopped to pray aloud.
“Good night, Eric,” he said, “I am tired, _so_ tired. I hope we shall
meet again; I shall give you my desk and all my books, Eric, except a
few for Horace, Owen, Duncan, and Monty. And my watch, that dear watch
your mother, _my_ mother, gave me, I shall leave to Rose as a
remembrance of us both. Good night, brother.”
A little before ten that night Eric was again summoned with Upton and
Montagu to Russell’s bedside. He was sinking fast; and as he had but a
short time to live, he expressed a desire to see them, though he could
see no others.
They came, and were amazed to see how bright the dying boy looked. They
received his last farewells--he would die that night. Sweetly he blessed
them, and made them promise to avoid all evil, and read the Bible, and
pray to God. But he had only strength to speak at intervals. Mr. Rose,
too, was there; it seemed as though he held the boy by the hand, as
fearlessly now, yea, joyously, he entered the waters of the dark river.
“Oh, I should _so_ like to stay with you, Monty, Horace, dear, dear
Eric, but God calls me. I am going--a long way--to my father and
mother--and to the light. I shall not be a cripple there--nor be in
pain.” His words grew slow and difficult. “God bless you, dear fellows;
God bless you, dear Eric; I am going--to God.”
He sighed very gently; there was a slight sound in his throat, and he
was dead. A terrible scene of boyish anguish followed, as they kissed
again and again the lifeless brow. But quietly, calmly, Mr. Rose checked
them, and they knelt down with streaming eyes while he prayed.