excitement of their pleasure they were oblivious of time.
The Williamses, for the boys’ convenience, usually dined at one, but on this day they waited half an hour for Eric. Since, however, he didn’t appear, they dined without him, supposing that he was accidentally detained, and expecting him to come in every minute. But two o’clock came, and no Eric; half-past two, and no Eric; three, but still no Eric. Mrs. Williams became seriously alarmed, and even her husband grew uneasy.
Vernon was watching for his brother at the window, and seeing Duncan pass by, ran down to ask him, “If he knew where Eric was?”
“No,” said Duncan; “last time I saw him was on the shore. We bathed together, and I remember his clothes were lying by mine when I dressed. But I haven’t seen him since. If you like, we’ll go and look for him. I daresay he’s on the beach somewhere.”
But they found no traces of him there; and when they returned with this intelligence, his mother got so agitated that it required all her husband’s firm gentleness to support her sinking spirits. There was enough to cause anxiety, for Vernon repeatedly ran out to ask the boys who were passing if they had seen his brother, and the answer always was, that they had left him bathing in the sea.
Meanwhile our young friends, having caught several crabs, suddenly noticed by the sun that it was getting late.
“Good gracious, Edwin,” said Eric, pulling out his watch, “it’s half-past three; what have we been thinking of? How frightened they’ll be at home,” and running back as fast as they could, they reached the house at five o’clock, and rushed into the room.
“Eric, Eric,” said Mrs. Williams faintly, “where have you been? has anything happened to you, my child?”
“No, mother, nothing. I’ve only been crab-fishing with Russell, and we forgot the time.”
“Thoughtless boy,” said his father; “your mother has been in an agony about you.”
Eric saw her pale face and tearful eyes, and flung himself in her arms, and mother and son wept in a long embrace. “Only two months,” whispered Mrs. Williams, “and we shall leave you, dear boy, perhaps for ever. Oh do not forget your love for us in the midst of new companions.”
The end of term arrived; this time Eric came out eighth only, instead of first, and therefore, on the prize-day, was obliged to sit among the crowd of undistinguished boys. He saw that his parents were disappointed, and his own ambition was grievously mortified. But he had full confidence in his own powers, and made the strongest resolutions to work hard the next half-year, when he had got out of “that Gordon’s” clutches.
The Williamses spent the holidays at Fairholm, and now, indeed, in the prospect of losing them, Eric’s feelings to his parents came out in all their strength. Most happily the days glided by, and the father and mother used them wisely. All their gentle influence, all their deep affection, were employed in leaving on the boy’s heart lasting impressions of godliness and truth. He learnt to feel that their love would encircle him for ever with its heavenly tenderness, and their pure prayers rise for him night and day to the throne of God.
The day of parting came, and most bitter and heart-rending it was. In the wildness of their passionate sorrow, Eric and Vernon seemed to hear the sound of everlasting farewells. It is God’s mercy that ordains how seldom young hearts have to endure such misery.
At length it was over. The last sound of wheels had died away; and during those hours the hearts of parents and children felt the bitterness of death. Mrs. Trevor and Fanny, themselves filled with grief, still used all their unselfish endeavours to comfort their dear boys. Vernon, weary of crying, soon sank to sleep; but not so Eric. He sat on a low stool, his face buried in his hands, breaking the stillness every now and then with his convulsive sobs.
“Oh, Aunty,” he cried, “do you think I shall ever see them again? I have been so selfish, and so little grateful for all their love. Oh, I wish I had thought at Roslyn how soon I was to lose them.”
“Yes, dearest,” said Mrs. Trevor, “I have no doubt we shall all meet again soon. Your father is only going for five years, you know, and that will not seem very long. And then they will be writing continually to us, and we to them. Think, Eric, how gladdened their hearts will be to hear that you and Vernon are good boys, and getting on well.”
“Oh, I will be a better boy, I will indeed,” said Eric; “I mean to do great things, and they shall have nothing but good reports of me.”
“God helping you, dear,” said his aunt, pushing back his hair from his forehead, and kissing it softly; “without His help, Eric, we are all weak indeed.”
She sighed. But how far deeper her sigh would have been had she known the future. Merciful is the darkness that shrouds it from human eyes.
Volume One--Chapter Seven.
Eric a Boarder.
We were, fair queen,
Two lads that thought there was no more behind,
But such a day to-morrow as to-day,
And to be boy eternal.
Winter’s Tale, i. 2.
The holidays were over. Vernon was to have a tutor at Fairholm, and Eric was to return alone, and be received into Dr. Rowlands’s house.
As he went on board the steam-packet, he saw numbers of the well-known faces on deck, and merry voices greeted him.
“Hullo, Williams! here you are at last,” said Duncan, seizing his hand. “How have you enjoyed the holidays? It’s so jolly to see you again.”
“So you’re coming as a boarder,” said Montagu, “and to our noble house, too. Mind you stick up for it, old fellow. Come along, and let’s watch whether the boats are bringing any more fellows; we shall be starting in a few minutes.”
“Ha! there’s Russell,” said Eric, springing to the gangway, and warmly shaking his friend’s hand as he came on board.
“Have your father and mother gone, Eric?” said Russell, after a few minutes’ talk.
“Yes,” said Eric, turning away his head, and hastily brushing his eyes. “They are on their way back to India.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Russell; “I don’t think any one has ever been so kind to me as they were.”
“And they loved you, Edwin, dearly, and told me almost the last thing that they hoped we should always be friends. Stop! they gave me something for you.” Eric opened his carpet-bag, and took out a little box carefully wrapped up, which he gave to Russell. It contained a pretty silver watch, and inside the case was engraved—“Edwin Russell, from the mother of his friend Eric.”
The boy’s eyes glistened with joyful surprise. “How good they are,” he said; “I shall write and thank Mrs. Williams directly we get to Roslyn.”
They had a fine bright voyage, and arrived that night. Eric, as a newcomer, was ushered at once into Dr. Rowlands’s drawing-room, where the head-master was sitting with his wife and children. His greeting was dignified, but not unkindly; and, on saying “good-night,” he gave Eric a few plain words of affectionate advice.
At that moment Eric hardly cared for advice. He was full of life and spirits, brave, bright, impetuous, tingling with hope, in the very flush of boyhood. He bounded down the stairs, and in another minute entered the large room where all Dr. Rowlands’s boarders assembled, and where most of them lived, except the few privileged sixth-form, and other boys who had “studies.” A cheer greeted his entrance into the room. By this time most of the Rowlandites knew him, and were proud to have him among their number. They knew that