Eric, or Little by Little Part 44

But Eric heard not and the man, touched with the deepest pity, carried him down tenderly into his hammock, and wrapped him up in a clean blanket, and sat by him till the swoon should be over.

It lasted very long, and the sailor began to fear that his words had been prophetic.

"How is the young varmint?" shouted the skipper, looking into the forecastle.

"You've killed him, I think."

The only answer was a volley of oaths; but the fellow was sufficiently frightened to order Roberts to do all he could for his patient.

At last Eric woke with a moan. To think was too painful, but the raw state of his back, ulcerated with the cruelty he had undergone, reminded him too bitterly of his situation. Roberts did for him all that could be done, but for a week Eric lay in that dark and foetid place, in the languis.h.i.+ng of absolute despair. Often and often the unbidden tears flowed from very weakness from his eyes, and in the sickness of his heart, and the torment of his wounded body, he thought that he should die.

But youth is very strong, and it wrestled with despair, and agony, and death, and after a time, Eric could rise from his comfortless hammock.

The news that land was in sight first roused him, and with the help of Roberts, he was carried on deck, thankful, with childlike grat.i.tude, that G.o.d suffered him to breathe once more the pure air of heaven, and sit under the canopy of its gold-pervaded blue. The breeze and the sunlight refreshed him, as they might a broken flower; and, with eyes up-raised, he poured from his heart a prayer of deep unspeakable thankfulness to a Father in heaven.

Yes! at last he had remembered his Father's home. There, in the dark berth, where every move caused irritation, and the unclean atmosphere brooded over his senses like lead, when his forehead burned, and his heart melted within him, and he had felt almost inclined to curse his life, or even to end it by crawling up and committing himself to the deep cold water which he heard rippling on the vessel's side; then, even then, in that valley of the shadow of death, a Voice had come to him--a still small voice--at whose holy and healing utterance Eric had bowed his head, and had listened to the messages of G.o.d, and learned His will; and now, in humble resignation, in touching penitence, with solemn self-devotion, he had cast himself at the feet of Jesus, and prayed to be helped, and guided, and forgiven. One little star of hope rose in the darkness of his solitude, and its rays grew brighter and brighter, till they were glorious now. Yes, for Jesus' sake he was washed, he was cleansed, he was sanctified, he was justified, he would fear no evil, for G.o.d was with him, and underneath were the everlasting arms.

And while he sat there, undisturbed at last, and unmolested by harsh word or savage blow, recovering health with every breath of the sea wind, the skipper came up to him, and muttered something half like an apology.

The sight of him, and the sound of his voice, made Eric shudder again, but he listened meekly, and, with no flash of scorn or horror, put out his hand to the man to shake. There was something touching and n.o.ble in the gesture, and thoroughly ashamed of himself for once, the fellow shook the proffered hand, and slunk away.

They entered the broad river at Southpool.

"I must leave the s.h.i.+p when we get to port, Roberts," said Eric.

"I doubt whether yon'll let you," answered Roberts, jerking his finger towards the skipper's cabin.

"Why?"

"He'll be afeared you might take the law on him."

"He needn't fear."

Roberts only shook his head.

"Then I must run away somehow. Will you help me?"

"Yes, that I will."

That very evening Eric escaped from the _Stormy Petrel_ unknown to all but Roberts. They were in the dock, and he dropped into the water in the evening, and swam to the pier, which was only a yard or two distant; but the effort almost exhausted his strength, for his knee was still painful, and he was very weak.

Wet and penniless, he knew not where to go, but spent the sleepless night under an arch. Early the next morning he went to a p.a.w.nbroker's, and raised 2 pounds 10 s.h.i.+llings on his watch, with which money he walked straight to the railway station.

It was July, and the Roslyn summer holidays had commenced. As Eric dragged his slow way to the station, he suddenly saw Wildney on the other side of the street. His first impulse was to spring to meet him, as he would have done in old times. His whole heart yearned towards him. It was six weeks now since Eric had seen one loving face, and during all that time he had hardly heard one kindly word. And now he saw before him the boy with whom he had spent so many happy hours of schoolboy friends.h.i.+p, with whom he had gone through so many schoolboy adventures, and who, he believed, was still his friend.

Forgetful for the moment of his condition, Eric moved across the street.

Wildney was walking with his cousin, a beautiful girl, some four years older than himself, whom he was evidently patronising immensely. They were talking very merrily, and Eric overheard the word Roslyn. Like a lightning-flash the memory of the theft, the memory of his ruin, came upon him; he looked down at his dress--it was a coa.r.s.e blue s.h.i.+rt, which Roberts had given him in place of his old one, and the back of it was stained and saturated with blood from his unhealed wounds; his trousers were dirty, tarred, and ragged, and his shoes, full of holes, barely covered his feet. He remembered too that for weeks he had not been able to wash, and that very morning, as he saw himself in a looking-gla.s.s at a shop window, he had been deeply shocked at his own appearance. His face was white as a sheet, the fair hair matted and tangled, the eyes sunken and surrounded with a dark colour, and dead and l.u.s.treless. No!

he could not meet Wildney as a sick and ragged sailor boy; perhaps even he might not be recognised if he did. He drew back, and hid himself till the merry-hearted pair had pa.s.sed, and it was almost with a pang of jealousy that he saw how happy Wildney could be while _he_ was thus; but he cast aside the unworthy thought at once. "After all, how is poor Charlie to know what has happened to me?"

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

HOME AT LAST.

I will arise and go to my Father.

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 cla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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, G.o.d 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d that I were with you now!

But you are resting, Verny, in the green grave by Russell's side, and I--O G.o.d, 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 pa.s.s 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 gra.s.s," said f.a.n.n.y, 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."