So ended the perilous adventure of that eventful night of the Easter holidays.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SILVER CORD BROKEN

"Calm on the bosom of thy G.o.d, 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 const.i.tution 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 const.i.tution; 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 pa.s.sionate, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d.

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 compa.s.sion.

"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 fl.u.s.tered, "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 G.o.d 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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.