Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
ERIC, A WAIF
A Story of Last Century
BY
EMMA LESLIE
Author of
"The Story of a Christmas Sixpence," "Audrey's Jewels," etc.
London
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56 PATERNOSTER ROW 65 ST PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
AND 164 PICCADILLY
BUTLER & TANNER
THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS
FROME, AND LONDON
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
ERIC, A WAIF.
[CHAPTER I.]
ERIC HUNTER.
"SO the old witch is dead, and Dame Willoughby may hope to raise a whole brood of chickens, and Farmer Sawyer need not fear his cheese will be spoiled;" and the speaker lifted his broad-brimmed tattered hat, and wiped the perspiration from his brow, looking expectantly at the landlord of The Magpie as he did so.
"That news is worth a horn of ale, isn't it, Master Tyler?" he asked, when he found it met with little response.
"Humph! The news might have been better, and it might have been worse. The poor woman was a stranger in these parts, I'll allow, but that was all that could be proved against her. Where's the boy?" added the landlord, with a little more interest.
"Him they call Eric? Did ever an English-born lad have such a name as that?" said the other in a grumbling tone, as he slowly raised the horn of ale to his lips before answering the landlord's question. "He'll be up there with his mother, I suppose; the two were always together."
"Poor little chap, he'll find the world a hard place, I'm afraid, now his mother has gone."
"Serve 'em right. They should ha' bided in their own parish, and not come poking their noses where they wasn't wanted," said the other.
The landlord made no reply to this, for he knew the man did but express the sentiment of the whole neighbourhood in the words he had spoken.
Summerleigh was a quiet, self-contained little village on the edge of Epping Forest, far enough from London to be very jealous of the intrusion of strangers if they stayed more than a night at the inn, unless they happened to be visitors at the Hall. So when the poor woman came with her only son, a lad of ten, to occupy the little cottage that had stood tenantless so long on the edge of the forest clearing, the whole parish was stirred to discover who she was and why she came there.
She said herself that it was for the fresh air of the forest; but nobody believed this, any more than they believed that fresh air made any difference to people's health; they chose to believe any but this simple reason for seeking a home in their locality.
They soon discovered that she was poor, but industrious, for mother and son worked in the garden early and late, selling the herbs they raised, and also salves and lotions made from them, until the rumour spread somehow, that the knowledge she possessed of the healing qualities of herbs and simples growing about the forest had not been gained by any good means. In other words, she was a witch, and people professed to be afraid of buying her salves.
Then another overheard her singing a hymn one day to the hum of her spinning-wheel as she sat at work, and this was held to be proof that she was a Methodist, which was quite as bad as being a witch, and equally punishable by law, at the time of which we write.
That Mrs. Hunter had not sought to make friends among her gossiping neighbours was sufficient for either or both of these charges to be deemed capable of proof, by those who openly declared they hated all strangers, so that it was not wonderful that she lived an isolated life. That she did not mind this, but seemed to find her boy Eric an all-sufficient companion and friend, was another wonder to Summerleigh, and one it bitterly resented; for there was small scope for persecuting a woman so independent as Mrs. Hunter, especially as they were glad to buy her herbs, because they could not get them so good anywhere else.
How long the poor woman had been ill before she died, none seemed to know. The landlord of The Magpie asked several of his customers who dropped in during the evening, but none seemed to know anything about it, or had troubled to inquire. All seemed to know of her death, but nothing beyond this fact.
When closing time came, John Tyler made a great business of looking over the stables before shutting them, and when he went back to the inn parlour, where his wife was waiting for him to go up to bed, he said, "If old Toby don't soon come back, I shall have to get somebody else to look after things out there."
"I should think so, indeed," said Mrs. Tyler tartly. "You might have looked after somebody else a month ago. When are you coming upstairs?" she added, as he turned to secure the wooden latch of the door.
There was no more said that night, but the next morning, when Tyler was dressing himself, he remarked, in a casual way, "I think I shall get a boy to take old Toby's place."
His wife laughed. "So you've come to my way of thinking at last, John Tyler," she said, as she briskly tied the strings of her white muslin cap before going downstairs.
Eric Hunter's name had not been mentioned; but that was the lad Tyler had in his mind when he spoke to his wife. And after breakfast, he went across the garden and orchard, and out into the forest road, for that was the nearest way to the widow's cottage, and he had made up his mind to see Eric at once and conclude the business, for fear another village lad should come after the place.
Eric was fourteen now, a tall, sturdy lad, strong and healthy, in spite of his refined face, that flushed crimson when he opened the door and saw the landlord of The Magpie standing on the step.
"Mother is dead, sir," he said, in a quiet, weary tone, as though it was an everyday fact he was speaking of.
"Yes, my boy, I heard about it yesterday, and I thought I would just step up and see if things had been put comfortable for her." And there the landlord stopped, and gazed round the little bare room.
The widow's spinning-wheel stood in one corner, a small deal table in the centre, and two rush-bottomed chairs were placed back against the wall, but all was scrupulously clean and neat.
"I've done everything that mother told me, you will see, sir." And the boy led the way into an inner room, and there, in the dim light, Tyler saw the outlined figure of the poor woman, with a sheet carefully drawn over it. "Mother told me I was to do that, and then wait until God sent help to me, and I've been waiting, only somehow it seemed a long time. Did God send you, sir?" asked the boy, as though he had expected a less commonplace messenger than the landlord of The Magpie.
The question evidently puzzled the man a good deal, for God was not in all his thoughts, as He was in Eric's; but the sight of the clean, tidy home made him think Eric would make an excellent ostler, and so he said, as he scratched his head thoughtfully, "I don't understand much about parson's work; I've got enough to do to mind The Magpie and please The Magpie's missis, and so I've come to see if you'd lend a hand in the stable, as Toby don't seem likely to get better yet awhile."
Eric was a little puzzled, but at last he said, "Do you mean me to help with the horses, sir?"
"To be sure I do; that's what I've come to see you about, my lad," replied Tyler, with another look round the room.
"Thank you, sir," answered the boy eagerly; "I've always loved horses, and wanted to have something to do with them. Mother said if it was good for me to be with the beasts, God would let me do it some day; so that I am sure God sent you, though you may not quite understand it, any more than I do."
"Then you'll come to The Magpie?" said Tyler.
"Oh yes, sir, and thank you; but—but—didn't God say anything about burying mother?" added the boy in a changed tone, the tears filling his eyes, though he tried to wink them away, for fear his visitor should see them.
"Hasn't anybody been to see about that? Haven't you got any friends or relatives?" exclaimed the landlord in a helpless tone.
"No, sir; there's only mother and me. The doctor came to see her last week, and he told me when he went away that she couldn't live long, and yesterday she said she was going home to God, and I should have to stay here a bit without her." And again the tears rose to his eyes, in spite of all his efforts to keep them back.
"Bless me, somebody must come and see about the business for you," interrupted his visitor; and he turned away to go to the parish clerk, who lived at the other end of the village, nearly two miles off.
When he got home about an hour later, it was to hear that old Toby had hobbled out to resume his work. Some rumour had reached him of a boy being engaged to do this for the future, which made the old fellow decide that he could "look after things in the stable" once more; and so the landlord was met with the news of his return as soon as he got back.
"It's lucky you hadn't engaged a boy," said Mrs. Tyler, looking keenly at her husband as she spoke; "for if you had, there's no telling but what you might think of keeping the two, soft as you are; but I asked Marple if you had been after his Jack."
"I should want a boy a long time before I took Jack Marple," interrupted Tyler, with some spirit; "but all the same, I have engaged a boy. Widow Hunter's son is a decent lad."
"The witch-wife's boy?" almost screamed Mrs. Tyler.
"Nobody can prove she was a witch, any more than they can prove she was a Methodist," said Tyler angrily. Though, as he thought of Eric's talk, he feared the latter charge would be easy enough of proof, and he decided to give the boy a word of warning to keep all such thoughts to himself for the future.
Fortunately for the landlord, customers arrived the next minute, and so he left his wife to exhaust her grumbling on Betty, while he went to the cellar to draw the cider that had been called for, and to ascertain whether the visitors who had just alighted from a post-chaise would want dinner prepared for them.
That his services should be required so soon was a real grievance to old Toby, who had seated himself in a sunny corner of the gateway, with a fixed determination that he would not move again until he went home at night, when this obnoxious chaise arrived; and the occupants were so inconsiderate as to say that they were going to spend some hours in the forest, and would want the horse fed and rubbed down, and the chaise looked over, as one wheel had sunk in the rutty road rather deeper than usual.
To hear the old man's grumbling maledictions on all strangers who came to Summerleigh annoyed the landlord, and seeing Eric pass down the road, he called to him.
"Are you busy just now, my lad?" he said, when Eric came up.
"No; I'm only going to see if parson is at home, to tell him about mother," he replied.
"Well, I can tell you that parson went to London three days ago, and won't be back for another week; but Mr. Jackson is going to see about your mother's funeral. He is a friend of mine," added Tyler.
"Thank you, sir. Can I do anything for you now?" said Eric, with a glance towards the stable-yard.
"Yes—no—I've visitors, and old Toby is in the stable; but—"
"You would like me to help Toby with the horse?" said Eric eagerly.
"That's just about it, my lad; but I'm not sure how he'll take your help."
Eric did not wait to hear more, but ran down the stable-yard to where the old man was fumbling with the buckles of the harness, and swearing at the horse, which was impatient to get out of the shafts and into the cool stable.
"Here, you boy, just come here and undo this," called the old man when he heard Eric approaching; "they don't know how to make straps now; every man seems to forget how things ought to be done," he grumbled, as he seated himself on an upturned bucket to superintend the cleaning and feeding of the horse; for, as Eric had proved himself handy in unfastening the buckles, the old man set him to feed the horse, and then to rub it down before leading it to the stable for a rest.
Eric took a real interest in his work, patting the horse and stroking him as he slowly munched his food, and rubbing him down with as gentle a touch as possible, so that Toby, finding his work done so well for him, was disposed to be civil to the boy, until just as the work was over, he discovered who he was. Then he burst into a storm of passionate protests against all strangers, be they witches or Methodists, declaring that he believed he was himself bewitched by the boy to let him do this work for him.
"That's all very well, Toby," said the landlord, who had stepped outside to see how Eric was getting on; "you take good care not to find fault until the work is done. Ah, and well done, too," said the master, as he slowly walked round the horse and surveyed it with a critical eye.
"Send him away, master, send him away!" foamed old Toby, hobbling to his feet, and trying to seize Eric.
"Now go and sit down, and be reasonable, Toby, and we may be able to settle this matter without any fuss. Before you came back this morning, I had arranged with this lad that he should come and help me in the stable."
"Don't you think I would save you from it, master?" said old Toby imploringly. "Remember what his mother was—a witch woman, if ever there was one. Don't you think old Toby would save you from that, master?" And there was no doubt of the old man being genuinely concerned for his master's welfare.
"Now look here, that talk about Mrs. Hunter being a witch is all moonshine, and I mean to give the lad a trial here in the stable. If you choose to come back and overlook things for me, well and good; but if you won't work with the lad fairly and squarely, as an Englishman should, then say so at once, and I shall know what to be about."
"Why, master, he's bewitched you as well as me," said the old fellow complainingly.
"Very well; if you think that, keep away from The Magpie for the future, and we will manage the stables by ourselves without your help," said the landlord.
But this did not at all suit old Toby, much as he might dislike Eric, and even fear him, as he doubtless did; for to lose his occupation entirely would never do; so he went back to his seat grumbling about new men and new ways; which the landlord understood well enough as a slight reminder that he could not boast of being born in Summerleigh, as Toby himself could.
The landlord did not wish old Toby to give up his post as ostler of The Magpie. It would pay him much better to keep old Toby, and to have Eric to do his work, for Toby by himself drove customers away, but since he had come back, it would not do to let him say he would not work with Eric; so that the landlord was quite as much disposed to settle the matter in a friendly fashion as the old ostler was.
So, while Eric was set to sweep up the stable and yard, Tyler talked to the old man, and at last it was settled that he should come every day and overlook the affairs of the stables, while Eric was to do the actual work, and get his food from the kitchen, which, with occasional tips from customers, would be considered remuneration enough—at least for the present.
[CHAPTER II.]
AT THE MAGPIE.
ERIC HUNTER'S quiet life had made him thoughtful beyond his years, and old Toby's invectives, while they did not surprise him very much, awoke once more the fears that had tortured him ever since the doctor had told him his mother could not live long.
But he bravely kept back the tears of grief and dismay, and went on with his task of sweeping up the stable-yard, while old Toby and the landlord adjusted their quarrel over him.
He longed to say, "I will not stay in this place to hear my mother called a witch;" but she had made him promise that if he could possibly get employment in Summerleigh, he would not venture into the world beyond, until he was older. And so, for this promise sake, he held his peace.
Before he went home in the evening, the landlord contrived to give him half a rye loaf and a bottle of cider for his supper; but, though he was hungry and faint, the boy could not eat just yet.
Going into the inner room, where all that he could see of his mother still lay, he threw himself on his knees beside the bed, and sobbed out his grief and fears for the future.
"Oh, mother, mother!" he sobbed. "Let me go away from this place; I can never stop here. Anything would be better than stopping here with that old Toby for a master. Let me find my way to London, and try to get work there. I have waited as you told me for God to send a messenger to help me, but nobody has come but the landlord of The Magpie, and surely he wasn't God's messenger—he can't help me much."
It was a relief to the boy to pour out his grief and fear and doubt in this fashion, but he had no intention of breaking his promise; and hard as it was to think that Tyler could be the expected messenger of mercy who was to come and help him out of his difficulties, he had no intention of breaking away from the engagement he had made to work in the stable under old Toby.
But he grew calmer and more content before he rose from his knees; and as he folded back the sheet to look at the waxen face that lay beneath, he whispered once more, "I will keep my promise, mother, and stay here as long as I can."
He heard the next day that arrangements had been made for the funeral, but it would cost all the money their poor furniture would fetch to pay for it, and the owner of the cottage wanted that for another tenant by the end of the week, so that before Sunday, Eric would be homeless as well as motherless.
This was a difficulty the landlord had not foreseen when he engaged him to help Toby, but it did not make him the less determined to befriend the lad, although his wife saw in it a reason for sending him before the justice of the peace, to have him transported as a beggar, and thus rid Summerleigh of him for ever.
"There's no occasion for that," said her husband quickly; "the boy is not a beggar, and never likely to become one, unless he is driven to it. Remember you were left motherless, and might have shared a similar fate, if my mother had not taken pity on you." And with this timely reminder, that never failed to bring Mrs. Tyler to reason, the landlord left her, to think out for himself a plan of lodging Eric.
Fortunately there was plenty of room in the numerous outhouses in the stable-yard, and at last it was settled that he should bring his little box, that contained his few clothes and some letters that his mother had told him to keep, and put it in the hayloft, where he could sleep.
It was a rough lodging, but in those times, boys were used to rough treatment generally, and so he had little cause to complain. Old Toby grumbled and found fault continually, but Eric soon began to learn that the master's eye was upon him, and if he took pains with a visitor's horse, though Toby might pocket the gratuity that should of right have been his, the landlord often gave him a kind word or look of appreciation that was worth more than money to him.
Betty and her mistress were by no means friendly to him for some time. They professed to be afraid of him, to see something in his eyes that told of his witch parentage, and they often kept him waiting for his meals, if the master was not about to see that he had his food given to him at the proper time.
But although old Toby was cross and suspicious, and seldom gave him a kind word, the old man was so fond of airing his knowledge of horses and their ways and ailments, that Eric could not fail to learn a good deal from him, although he was careful to keep this knowledge to himself, and never attempt the expression of an opinion upon anything, whatever he might think upon the matter.
There were a few post-horses owned by the landlord, and these soon learned to know and welcome the lad when he went into the stable; for he often saved a morsel of bread from his own meal as a dainty for them, and when they came back from a journey, tired and over-driven, as they often did, he contrived to rub them with some lotion his mother had taught him how to make from herbs growing in the forest, the secret of which he kept to himself; for old Toby would be sure to object to its use if he found it out, and he was not sure that his master might not fear he was trying to hurt the poor brutes instead of helping them.
His love for these dumb friends, and the liberty that he had to show his love to them in his own way, was almost his only comfort in life now; for he was never allowed to forget that his mother was under the ban of suspicion, and that he shared it.
There were a good many hours in the course of a week when he was not wanted at all about the stables; and as Betty disdained receiving any help from him in her kitchen work, he was left free to roam about the forest almost as he had done during his mother's life. To search for herbs and roots to make his lotions and salves for the horses, and watch the ways and habits of the creatures who lived among its thickets, became the pastime of his life, since he was denied human friendship. Here, too, he found comfort and solace for his grief, and at last began to hope that there might be a place for him in the world after all.
"If I could only hope there was room for me somewhere, that I was of use to somebody, it would be something to live for," he would whisper to himself; for he had been told more than once by Toby and Betty too that his master had only taken him out of charity, and not at all because he wanted him, so that Eric might be excused for thinking there was no room for him in this great busy world that God had made, but which man seemed to manage so badly.
His master had given him a word of warning about speaking to Toby or anybody else as he had to him when he first went to the cottage.
"If you were to speak to Toby about God caring for you, as you seem to think He does, he would be sure to say you were one of these Methodists who are turning the world upside down; and much as I might want to help you, I couldn't do it, for parson and squire too are both dead against the Methodists, and I should lose my licence if it was thought I harboured one of these pestilent people about The Magpie stables. Not that I think you are a Methodist," the landlord hastened to add; "but you see I couldn't have a fuss here, as there would be if anybody heard you talk as I did."
"Thank you, sir; I'll remember what you say," replied Eric; but he sighed as he spoke, for he had been used to talk to his mother quite freely about these matters, and she had taught him to believe in God as a very present help in every time of trouble—a Friend who would never fail to help the helpless, and who loved to have His children seek that help and talk about it among themselves.
To be debarred from speaking of what had grown to be a part of his very life was not easy therefore to Eric, who had been taught to connect God with every portion of it, and to believe that the small events, as well as the larger and more important ones, were under the guiding hand of Him who had promised to lead and guide His children every step of their way.
Being thus thrown upon himself, it was not strange that, as the months passed, and he grew more accustomed to the work in the stable, and consequently able to do it quicker, he should betake himself to the forest more frequently, making friends with its furred and feathered inhabitants, and enjoying the society of those who would trust themselves to him. He never sought to entrap them or make prisoners of them longer than they desired to stay near him; but the dainties he brought in his pocket made them willing to display to him many of the secrets hidden from the rest of mankind.
Nor did he allow these excursions into the forest to trench upon his duty at The Magpie stables. It was customary for most of the visitors who came there to blow a horn at the corner of the village, announcing their arrival; and the moment he heard this, Eric would leave whatever employment he was engaged in, and run with all speed to take the horse, or attend to the customer if he did not want to change horses.
By this means, old Toby had no excuse for grumbling over his absence, though it might extend to several hours, if he was not thus summoned back to his duty.
So the first spring and summer passed at The Magpie. During the winter old Toby frequently had to stay at home, but nobody missed him, for by that time, Eric knew as well how to manage the horses as the old man himself, and kept everything about the stables and yard so neat and trim, that no one could find fault with him on that score; and his master hoped he would soon be able to live down the foolish prejudice that was felt against him, and so be admitted to the society of other village lads, who at present only made fun of him whenever they chanced to meet.
That he was growing up a silent, taciturn, if not morose lad was scarcely to be wondered at, for shut away from his fellows as he had always been, he felt shy in their company, and rather avoided than sought them. If there was any fun going on in the village, Eric was sure to be away in the forest, where he had as many secret hiding places as the hares and squirrels, whose friendship he sought in preference to that of lads his own age, even if they would have forgotten the old prejudice and been willing to make friends with him.
There had been nothing to awaken this prejudice against him personally until the winter was nearly over, and it happened one day that a horse was brought back to the stable in a very bad condition.
It had been over-driven, and a wound that had long since healed had been re-opened by the hard usage he had received during the few days he had been away from Eric's care. Tyler himself was the first to remark the broken-down condition of the poor animal, and when he called Eric, he said, "Give him a warm mash, my lad; I wanted to take him out myself to-morrow, but I am afraid he won't be fit for anything for a week."
"If you could put off your journey till the day after, I think he would be ready," Eric ventured to say, as he looked the horse over.
But the landlord shook his head.
"You don't know as much about the business as I do, my boy," he said. "All the work has been taken out of poor Peggy for a week to come, and yet I would rather drive her than any other in the stable. Mind you look after her well," he added, though he knew Eric did not need to be told this, for the pity he felt for her would induce him to do everything possible to bring her into good condition again, independent of business considerations, so that he did not follow to see what was done for her relief.
The next morning, however, he went to have a look at her, to see whether it would be better to send and get old Toby to come round and see her, for he had the reputation of being a clever horse doctor, and the plight she had come home in—covered with mud and bleeding from this freshly-opened wound—made him think Toby's skill would be needful before the horse could go out again. And he had just made up his mind to send Eric and tell him to help the old man along, when he met the lad leading Peggy slowly up and down. Her knees were bandaged, and she limped a little occasionally, but otherwise seemed in good condition again.
"Did you go and see old Toby about her last night?" asked the landlord, as his eyes took in the improvement in Peggy's condition.
"No, sir; I just rubbed her with some salve I've learned to make, and gave her a dose of herbs in her warm mash—you ordered that you know, sir," added the boy.
"Yes; but I never saw a horse pick up from a simple warm mash as this one has done. What did you give her?"
"Just a few herbs, sir, that I keep here;" and as he spoke he pointed to an outhouse, where the landlord saw several bunches of dried herbs hanging from the rafters.
"Where did you get them?" asked the landlord of The Magpie.
"Just out of the forest, sir. I saw the creatures eating them, so I knew they would do no harm, and I had heard they were good physic for men, so I thought they might do our Peggy good, for she was bad enough last night."
Eric was afraid to say that his mother had taught him the use of the herbs, for fear he should be accused of meddling with witchcraft. But he was delighted to see that his master was pleased at the improvement in the horse, and assured him that she would be able to go a short journey the next day.
"But what about that old wound? How is that?" asked his master.
"Better, sir. I had made some salve—Betty gave me the fat when the last pig was killed—and I knew what herbs to put in it to make a famous heal-all, for they cured my chilblains and—"
"So you thought what would cure you could not fail on poor Peggy's hide?" laughed his master; and he felt so pleased and proud of Eric's skill that he went indoors and spoke of it to his wife.
"Summerleigh need not be afraid of losing old Toby now, for if he should take himself off to-morrow my clever little stable lad can doctor all the horses that he leaves behind."
It was an incautious speech, and he regretted having uttered it the next moment, for his wife said, in a tone of stern rebuke, "John Tyler, I am ashamed of you. To think that you, the landlord of an inn like The Magpie, should encourage witchcraft in your own stable is truly dreadful."
"Witchcraft!" uttered the astonished man. "Who said a word about witchcraft? I only told you how cleverly the boy had doctored poor Peggy."
"Ah, and how did he do it?" solemnly asked his wife. "Did he go and ask old Toby—a decent, respectable man—what he ought to do? Did he, I say?"
"Well, no; it seems to me he knew better how to manage the job by himself, so of course he didn't go to trouble the old man," replied her husband, in rather a crestfallen tone.
"And who taught him all this, if it wasn't his witch-mother, I should like to know?" demanded the lady, in a tone of great severity.
"Oh no, it can't be witchcraft," said Tyler, remembering the salve. "He told me he had used the salve to cure his own chilblains."
"And you believed him, of course. You would believe anything he said, because you are as mad under his witch spells as the horses are. I shouldn't wonder but he bewitched Peggy before she went away this last journey, and it's through that she seemed to be in such a plight. Of course that would account for it all, for it would be easy enough to lift a spell he had put on himself. Didn't his mother do the same thing when she wanted to sell her salves and ointment—didn't every brat in the village have a sore mouth at one time?"
"Yes, and didn't the doctor say it was because the well had been sunk too near the churchyard," retorted her husband. "Mrs. Hunter had nothing to do with that, she only tried—"
"To bewitch everybody and everything that came near her," interrupted his wife, growing more angry every moment. "I believe now she laid her spells upon you before she died, and that is why you had to take that boy in Toby's place," she added, actually bursting into tears as this thought suddenly occurred to her.
With his wife's words came the recollection of what Eric had said when he went to the cottage to ask him to come. What could the lad have meant by asking if he was God's messenger whom he had been told to wait for? Tyler was by no means free from the superstition of the time, and it might be that, all unknown to himself, he had been sent to befriend this lad; and the bare suspicion of such leading on the part of another, exercised upon himself, made the man shudder, he knew not why.
Yet he sometimes repeated the well-known formula, "Lead us not into temptation"; but it was only a formula, or at most a mystic charm, and by no means words of truth to live by and seek help from, as they were to Eric himself, as he had learned them from his mother.
So, leaving the matter in this unsatisfactory condition, the landlord went to serve a customer, while Mrs. Tyler went to Betty with the tale that their stable boy had began to practise witchcraft like his mother before him.
[CHAPTER III.]
A FATAL JOURNEY.
IT was a wet, windy day in March. The few people who had ventured out in Summerleigh had taken care to secure hats and wigs by tying handkerchiefs over both, lest they should go sailing down the village street in the mud and pools of water with which the ill-kept roads abounded. The portrait of The Magpie—a gem of art in the eyes of the villagers—swung creakingly in its frame, and the landlord, looking scarcely less uneasy, stood in the porch with his eyes fixed on a distant bend of the road.
"How is she now, Betty?" he said anxiously, as he caught the sound of a heavy footstep behind him.
"Powerful bad, master. Ain't the doctor came?"
"Not yet. I'll have out the gig and go for him myself, if he don't come soon," he added.
"I doubt whether that limb of Satan ever went near him. He knows my missis always had a sharp eye on him and his wicked ways; and if he could—"
"There, go in, Betty, you know nothing about it," said Tyler sharply; and yet, as he spoke, he began to wonder whether he had not better give in to the popular notion, and get rid of Eric before the summer came round again.
A minute or two later Eric peeped round the gateway, and seeing his master said, "Will you want Peggy this morning, sir?"
"Is she fit? This weather has been hard on the poor brutes." And the landlord sighed as he thought of the broken-down condition of his horses.
"Peggy could do it, sir," said Eric; "she picks up quicker than the others do."
"Well, put her in and bring the gig round," said his master; and then he went into the house and called to Betty, took his three-cornered hat from its peg, and his heavy driving coat out of the recess, and when Eric brought round the gig, he stood in the porch, ready equipped for his journey.
"Jump in, lad; I shall take you with me, and we can kill two birds with one stone. We shall soon meet the doctor, and then I can ride back with him while you go on and see Thompson about that harness again, and tell Wilson I shall want the oats a week earlier than I expected. You're sure the doctor said he was coming round by Leaburn?"
"Yes, sir," answered Eric.
His preparations for the journey were soon made, for he had outgrown the few clothes he possessed when his mother died, and an old coat and knee breeches of his master's supplied the place of all other garments, so that he had but to turn up the high collar of the coat, button it a little closer, draw his long grey stocking-like cap a little further over his ears, and he was ready.
Betty came to the door again just as they were starting.
"The pain be awful bad agin," she said, with a keen look at Eric as she spoke.
"I'll have the doctor here soon. We shall him before he turns off to Leaburn;" and as she spoke, Tyler gave the signal to Peggy that she might move on, the chaise lurched a little, as the wheels were dragged out of a rut deeper than usual, and then they went on as fast as the holes and water-filled cart-tracks would permit.
Horse and riders were soon well bespattered with mud and water, for the road after the winter frosts and the present rain were more like a fresh-ploughed field than the king's highway and a main road to London. It was nobody's business in those times to keep the roads in order, and so the gig went floundering through the mud and water for the first mile without anything worse happening than an occasional bump and shake, with a good deal of straining on the part of Peggy, when the gig came to a positive standstill in one of the numerous holes.
Eric had gone on foot earlier in the morning, picking his way better than Peggy could, and now, seeing how slow their progress was, he proposed that he should get out, make his way to the cross roads, and tell the doctor to come straight on to Summerleigh before he went to Leaburn, while his master went back with Peggy and the gig.
But Tyler looked suspiciously at Eric as he made this proposal. Betty's words were still in his mind, and he was determined to find out whether the boy had been to the doctor, or whether he had shirked the disagreeable journey before. He had no cause to suspect the lad, for he had always done his work faithfully, and the horses fared better under his care than under old Toby's; but he knew that everybody else suspected him of evil practices, and now his own mind was a little affected by it, although the notion of its being witchcraft he could afford to laugh at by this time.
So to the lad's suggestion, he returned rather a surly answer, and they plunged on again through the mire and water, which effectually concealed the larger boulders with which this part of the road was liberally strewn.
"We must be careful here, master," said Eric, when Peggy came to a standstill before some obstacle which was hidden from sight by the sea of mud and water.
"Of course we must," said Tyler impatiently, and he gave Peggy a flick with the whip as he spoke.
The horse started forward, the wheel struck against one of the large stones, and the next minute the chaise was lying on its side, and Eric found himself in the hedge that skirted the roadway. His master lay motionless a few feet from the overturned gig, while Peggy kicked and plunged to be freed from the broken shafts and harness.
As soon as he could scramble out, Eric ran to soothe the frightened horse, thinking his master would set things straight and send him on now for the doctor. But to his dismay, Tyler never moved, never uttered a groan, though it was some minutes before he could make the horse stand still.
As soon as he had managed this, he ran to his master, and raised his head, which he found resting upon a large stone. Blood was flowing from the forehead, and Eric grew more alarmed as he noticed the deathly whiteness of the face.
"Can't you speak, master? Can't you tell me what to do?" he said in an agonised tone; and then he put his hand upon the cold lips.
They were growing stiff, and the boy, recalling his mother's death, felt sure that his kind master had received his death-blow.
He burst into tears, as he thought of the kind words he had so often received. The only really kind words that had been given him by anybody except his mother had come from this man, and now he was dead. Eric seemed to know it beyond a shadow of a doubt before any one else came near to confirm it.
How long he sat with his master's head propped upon his knee, he did not know, but presently a shout to move out of the way made him look up, and he saw the ruddy face of the old doctor, mounted on his horse, but without his gig, only a few feet from him.
"What's the matter here?" he said. "Ain't you the boy from The Magpie?"
"Yes, sir, and this is my master. We were coming to fetch you when the gig tipped over."
"Your master ought to know better than to bring a gig out in such weather," said the doctor in a grumbling tone, as he dismounted and picked his way round to where Tyler was lying.
"This is an awkward place to examine him properly," said he, after feeling the man's pulse; but Eric noticed that the doctor spoke in an altered tone, and he had turned pale while feeling his pulse.
He looked at Eric, and then at the broken chaise.
"How can we get him home quickly?" he said in a puzzled tone.
"Couldn't we carry him if I took this gate down?" said Eric, pointing to one that had been well-nigh torn from its post by the recent gale.
Fortunately a man from the neighbouring farm came in sight the next moment, and Eric shouted to him to come to their assistance.
"Why, it be the landlord of The Magpie, surely," said the man, "and he be dead too. Who did see him die?" he asked suspiciously, looking from Eric to the doctor.
"Come, help us to move him; we may lose the chance of doing anything for him, if he stays here any longer," said the doctor, without replying to the man's question.
And thus commanded, he helped Eric take down the gate, and then, when a bed of their coats had been spread on it, the injured man was carefully lifted up, and the doctor prepared to take his share in carrying him home. But before they had gone many steps, another man appeared, who took the doctor's place, and so he mounted his horse and rode forward to prepare Mrs. Tyler for the return of her husband.
The travellers had not been gone very long as it seemed to Betty before the doctor rode up, and she was beginning to describe her mistress's symptoms, when he said,—
"Yes, yes, the boy told me she was very bad when he came this morning, but she always has a fit of the megrims about this time. Something worse has happened now, I'm afraid. Where is your mistress? She must get up, if she is in bed."
"Oh, doctor, what can you mean? You know how the poor thing suffers." And Betty began to cry; but the rough old doctor went straight upstairs and told Mrs. Tyler that her husband had been thrown from his gig and seriously hurt.
"I suppose it's only the megrims again that ails you," he added.
Whatever it might be, Mrs. Tyler was ready to help when they carried her husband upstairs and laid him on the bed; only the doctor told her he must see to him first, and sent for a neighbour to give him what help he needed. But somehow, before a word had been spoken as to what the doctor feared, the neighbours knew that the landlord of The Magpie would never walk up the village street again, and when at last the announcement was made that he was dead, men and women looked at each other, and with a sagacious nod whispered,—
"I told you so; I knew how it would be when he was so obstinate about keeping that limb of Satan about the stable."
"But the horse threw him out of the gig," said another, "and his head struck one of those great boulders in the road."
"Ah! But that boy was with him, and the horse that he had bewitched did all the mischief," said a friend of old Toby's, who strongly resented Eric's doctoring the horses.
"Well, now, I've just heard he's more of a Methodist than a witch," said another; "for my Jack caught him once kneeling down in the forest saying his prayers, which is just what they Methodys do, I have heard."
"Very likely; but where is the difference, pray, when they are both agin the Church and the parsons? At all events, here's the landlord of The Magpie goes out well and hearty with this lad, and soon afterwards the doctor comes along and finds him stone dead. It'll be a case for the coroner, and twelve of us 'll have to sit on the body. Now what are we going to say about that boy?"
"What will the law allow us to say?" asked the parish clerk, who joined the group at this moment.
"That's the question we've got to consider, Mr. Jackson. Will the widow keep him on here at The Magpie, do you think?" he asked.
"He ought to be took before the justices," said another.
"He'll have to tell all he knows to the coroner."
"He's told Bill Newman and the doctor all he knows," put in another speaker; but it was evidently a gratification to all of them when the parish constable arrived and took Eric under his charge.
This was done at the doctor's suggestion, and was not unkindly meant on his part, for he had heard enough from one and the other to make him decide that the only safe place for the lad at this time was the constable's cottage. He could be kept there in safety until the inquest was over, but here in the village, when a little more ale had been consumed, some of the more brutal and reckless of the mob would probably try the experiment of ducking him in the overfull horsepond, thus adding murder to the present accident.
Poor Eric was full of trouble at the untimely death of his only friend, but there was no time for him to indulge his grief. As soon as his master had been carried home, he went back to fetch the horse and broken gig, and the latter was not an easy task, and took him some time to accomplish.
He had just got within sight of The Magpie, wearily plunging through mud and water, dragging the wrecked chaise behind him, when the constable laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"You must come with me, my lad," said the man.
The boy started and turned pale, and visions of men hung in chains for murder rose before him. "What have I done?" he gasped.
"That's just what we mean to find out," said a man who stood near.
"You go quietly home with the constable, my boy," said the doctor, who came out of The Magpie parlour on purpose to say a word to Eric.
The widow was in hysterics now she had been told the news about her husband, and really needed the doctor's care; but he was concerned for the poor boy who had happened to be the dead man's companion on that unfortunate journey, for he knew the popular opinion concerning him.
"Why should I have to go with the constable when I am wanted at the stable? Who will see to Peggy while I am away?" asked the lad.
"Never mind Peggy; she will be taken care of, never fear," said the doctor.
"Somebody ought to give her a warm mash at once," said Eric, looking tenderly at his four-footed friend, who stood shivering in the bitter wind, but did not know whether she ought to seek the shelter of the stable, if Eric did not take her there.
This same bleak wind made the constable impatient.
"You'll have to come, you know," he said rather roughly; "for Mrs. Tyler won't have you again, and has told me to arrest you as a beggar if you do not go quietly."
So poor Eric, feeling sadly depressed and apprehensive of what might happen next, went home with the constable, who took pity on him, and gave him an old suit of clothes to wear while his own were drying, and for lodging let him have a loft over his own kitchen, which was warm and dry, if not very cheerful.
Of course there was a good deal of excited talk over Tyler's accident, and but for the doctor's care, Eric might have found himself much worse off than in the constable's loft, for all the old tales talked of during his mother's lifetime were revived now, and Summerleigh was ready to believe that the landlord of The Magpie had died from magical arts, though the verdict of the coroner's jury upon the doctor's testimony could only make it accidental death, and there was no longer any excuse for keeping Eric out of the way.
He of course had to appear before the coroner's court to be questioned and cross-questioned as to what had happened during that morning when his master met with his death, though he had told the story to one and another half a dozen times over at least.
Mrs. Tyler took care to see him before he went into the room, to let him know that he need expect no help from her. "I have got another stable boy—a respectable lad, whose mother was an honest woman and not a witch," she added.
So Eric knew that when this ordeal was over, he would be a homeless waif for whom no man cared in all the wide world. That he would be free however, to go where he pleased he had no doubt or until, when the little crowd was moving away, he was again laid hold of by the constable.
"The justices have ordered it this time," he said, in answer to the boy's appealing look.
"But what have I done?" asked Eric.
The man scratched his head. "You have no employment, no means of living, and so in the eyes of the law you are a beggar and vagabond; some say you are a poacher too, and that looks very black against you," said the man, trying to speak severely.
"Poaching?" repeated Eric. "What need had I to do that? My master always took care that I had enough to eat, and I was too fond of watching the gambols of the creatures to want to kill them."
"Well, you can tell the justices that, and anything else you can think of; but I've got my orders, and I must do my duty."
Not to the friendly constable's loft was he taken this time, but to the gaol at the next town; for a beggar was accounted no better than a thief in those days, and so with pickpockets and highwaymen, he was forced to associate during the next few weeks.
That the lad should sometimes lose heart and think that God had forgotten him was not wonderful, for here in the gaol, he was forced to hear that holy name taken in vain every hour of the day; so that to think that his mother could be right when she said God cared for every soul He had created, seemed hard of belief just now.
His habit of quiet thought and silent musing saved him a great deal now, for he was soon declared to be a poor milksop by those who sought his company at first, and he was left to himself, while the older thieves instructed the younger ones how to carry on fresh robberies when they were released.
[CHAPTER IV.]
ENGLISH SLAVES.
LIMEHOUSE HOLE in the last century was a place of some importance, for from this port wherries for Tilbury, Gravesend, and other places started with goods and passengers, to meet the larger vessels bound for distant shores.
A few weeks after the death of Eric's master, a party of weary, woe-begone travellers arrived at Limehouse Hole, under the charge of several gaolers, for they were all prisoners under sentence of transportation to His Majesty's plantations of America. Here they would be sold as slaves to the settlers—Englishmen, like themselves, who had gone out earlier from the mother country and settled there as farmers or traders, each growing richer and more independent every year.
But in this colony, where all were masters, there was one great and ever-growing want among them—servants, or slaves to do the harder and more menial work.
The native Indians were too wild and independent to be coaxed or driven into serving the conquerors of their land, and so the mother country found it cheap and convenient to send out every spring a few shiploads of thieves and beggars to be sold as slaves to the colonists; and this was a contingent from country gaols of those doomed to be sent out to America.
There were no very desperate characters among them, but a weary-looking, patient crowd of men and women, boys and girls, and among them our friend Eric, who had been condemned by the bench of justices to transportation as a beggar, that Summerleigh might not be troubled by him again.
His clothes were a little more ragged and dirty than when he was stable boy at The Magpie, but otherwise he was not much altered by his stay in prison, and he neither looked stupid nor vicious, as many of his companions did.
As they slowly passed along the landing stage on to the deck of the wherry, Eric noticed that a middle-aged woman stood near and looked hard at each as they passed. Something in her appearance and manner reminded him strangely of his mother, and he looked straight into the clear grey eyes as he passed; and then he hoped that she was going with them on their voyage, though why he should wish for this, he could not understand, for she did not look at all the kind of woman who would be likely to go either as prisoner or warder. But still, when he and his companions were driven to the other end of the vessel, he contrived to keep his eye upon her, and when at last the boat pushed oft, and he saw she had not returned to the shore, he felt as glad as though some good fortune had come to him.
Poor fellow! He had prayed and hoped to escape from this terrible doom. And that his prayers had not been answered in the way he had expected had made him question whether God did see and know all that happened to His children in this world, or whether the argument he heard in prison, that every man was left to fight for himself and do the best he could for himself, was not true after all.
He had reached this point, but could not quite give up all hope in God and His loving care; and now the sight of this woman's face and the tender look in her eyes made him lay hold of his old faith and hope with a tighter grip once more.
There was not much accommodation for the crowd of convicts on board the wherry, barely standing room for them, in fact, at the end where they were crowded together; but Eric, with hope revived once more, could look out how to help some of his fellow convicts worse off than himself. He had got a place on the outermost edge of the crowd, but there were two poor women close by who could scarcely stand from weakness and fatigue, and so he offered to give up his place to somebody that wanted it, if they would stand close, so as to make room for the women to sit down.
"One of 'em is your mother, I 'spose," said the man; but though he said this in a sneering tone, he contrived to make some of the others move so as to leave space for the women to sit down, and, as the rest could see over their heads if they sat at the side of the boat, this was also accorded them.
Eric did not know that his action had been noticed by any one, and was greatly surprised when one of the warders touched him on the shoulder and told him he was wanted. He was near the middle of the crowd then, and not sorry to get away from his close quarters, though what he could be wanted for he did not know, and rather dreaded to discover.
But, to his relief, he saw the woman he had noticed when he came on board watching for him as he struggled through the crowd, and the warder said, "You can try him if you like, but I must keep my eye upon him till I give him up to the captain of the vessel presently."
"Will you give me your word not to try to escape?" asked the woman, looking earnestly at Eric. "I think I may trust you," she added.
"I promise," said Eric, though he felt it somewhat hard to give it, for all along he had indulged the hope of being able to get away from this unjust imprisonment, and he supposed there would be some facility for this presently, and it was hard that he should thus be required to give up the last shred of hope, so far as this world was concerned. But having given his word he would never make the attempt now.
"I want you to help me with these poor people," she said, as they moved a little way from the edge of the crowd. "I saw you give up your place to those poor women, and I noticed you as you came on board. How old are you?"
"Fifteen next month, ma'am."
"Call me Sister Martin, for that is what I want to be to each one of you," said the woman, with a smile at the boy's look of wonder.
"You made me think of my mother," said Eric, the tears slowly filling his eyes as he spoke.
"Where is your mother?" asked Sister Martin. And she was going to add, "Why have you been sent here?" But the boy's answer arrested her attention too closely.
"My mother went home to our Father in heaven about a year ago," he replied.
"Can you say 'Our Father,' then?" asked she eagerly, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and drawing further from the crowd.
Eric hesitated for a moment. "I am not sure whether I can. I have thought He had forgotten me, or that there was no God. I could not tell which it was, and I have been very miserable."
"My poor boy, has life been so very hard for you, then? Had you no friends who could help you?"
"My only friend was thrown out of his gig and killed, and I believe some thought I had done it; for they called my mother a witch and a Methodist."
"But if she was a Methodist, surely the people called Methodists would have helped you?"
"But I would not have had their help," replied Eric, almost fiercely; "my mother was no Methodist, but a good woman who loved and served God, and taught me to believe that He was my Father, who would care for me and love me."
"And so He does, my boy. The sun does not fall out of the heavens or leave off shining when the clouds hide much of his brilliance. He shines through them and gives us light still, though we may not see his face, or be able to rejoice in the sunshine. So God our Father may be hidden from us for a time by the trouble and sorrow that we meet with by the way, but He does not cease to be our Father because we cannot hold to Him as firmly as before; and He does not cease to lead and guide us because the way is rough, and not the path we would like to take. So I think you may still say that God is your Father and Friend, my lad."
"Thank you. Did you know my mother?" asked Eric, happy tears shining in his eyes; for he had given up all hope of ever hearing such words again as those he had just been listening to.
"Why should you think I knew your mother?" asked Sister Martin in some surprise.
"Because my mother used to talk to me as you do, and I have never heard any one speak like that since she died."
"Perhaps not; but God's truth lies in many hearts, but it is mostly hidden from the world, too much hidden sometimes, and that is why some of us who are called Methodists have determined to speak out and tell other poor sinners the wonderful things God has done for us. It may be that some of the people you have met had this truth lying secure in their hearts, but it was no comfort or help to you, nor were they rejoiced to know that you too were a child of God, because you could not speak out the truth that was in you."
"I was afraid, after my master told me that if I spoke about God, people would say I was a Methodist; for you see they had said my mother was a witch, and that was just about the same thing."
"Oh no, it was not," said his friend, with a smile. "You will learn to know what Methodists are like before long. Now I want you to help me with these people. Some of them are hungry, I expect. When did you have your last meal?" she asked.
"Before we left the gaol, at five o'clock this morning."
"And now it is past twelve. You must be very hungry as well as the rest."
"Yes, but I can wait now; that talk has helped me more than anything else could." And indeed the boy's whole manner had changed during the few minutes that they had stood talking together.
"I have some bread here that I want you to help me give out to these poor people, and then some milk. But serve the women first," she added, as she filled his hands with huge slices of brown bread, and followed him with a basket filled with similar pieces.
"No scrambling, now," she said in a commanding tone, as a dozen hands were held out, and as many voices cried, "Give me a bit."
As she had surmised, Eric could slip in and out among the crowd quicker and better than she could, so that all were soon served with something like a meal; and when the last piece of bread was given out, she led the way to where a couple of cans, holding several gallons of milk, stood covered with a sack.
It required more care to serve out the tin pannikins of milk to each, but upon the whole, they were an orderly crowd, not more greedy than hungry men and women generally are; and when all had been served, she took Eric away and gave him a meal by himself, and as he ate, he told her something of his life in Summerleigh, and the cruel, narrow prejudice that had driven him away from the place.
"Where did you live before you went to this village?" asked the Methodist sister. "Had your mother no friends who could help you when she died?"
"I think we lived in London, but mother was ill there, and so we moved into the country, that she might get better. She did for a little while, and we were very happy, oh, so happy, until she told me one day that she would have to go away and leave me; but I must wait there until God sent somebody—some messenger to help me. I thought at first an angel would come and bring me what I wanted, or perhaps some of the birds out of the forest might bring me food, like the ravens took it to Elijah, but after a long time the landlord of The Magpie came and asked me to go and be stable boy at the inn, and I lived there nearly a year."
"And he was kind to you?" asked the woman.
"Oh yes, very kind; he would not care what people said about mother being a witch or a Methodist; he always took care that I had enough to eat, and plenty of clean hay to sleep in, and I could manage the rest for myself; only I was often puzzled to know whether I had done right—whether he was the messenger of God. Mother had not thought of him, I am sure, when she spoke to me about it."
"Perhaps not, but doubtless she had prayed to God to send help to you by one of His servants, but she left the choice of this servant to God Himself, knowing that He would choose more wisely than she could."
"Then you think the master of The Magpie was God's servant?" said Eric, with something like relief in his tone.
"Yes, he was undoubtedly called to do this service for you; and in doing this, he was doing God's service, though he might not know it or intend it; and in this way all the world can be made to do the will of God, though this is very different from consciously serving Him, as we have learned to do. Now I want to go and speak to the women, but you can sit at this end of the boat, and take charge of the things that are about here."
"Can I wash these?" he asked, pointing to the half-dozen pannikins that had been used in serving the milk; for he had learned while in The Magpie stables to wash every vessel after it had once been used.
"I see you are willing to be useful. Yes; one of the men will dip the water for you, and then you can wash the cans as well. They will go back in the wherry, but the pannikins we shall take with us on our voyage."
"Are you going all the way with us?" asked Eric, with a glad light in his eyes.
"Yes, my lad, I hope to be God's messenger to some of these poor people here. It is not the first time I have been out to the king's plantations of America, and if my life is spared, I hope it will not be the last. If we have a good voyage, I hope to make two journeys this year, for there is a great demand for slaves among the colonists, and the people are better off there than in our gaols."
"Then you do not think it is very dreadful to be a slave?" said Eric in some surprise.
"We will talk about that another time; I must go now," said his friend; and so he was left to wash his cans and pannikins, and afterwards to watch the green banks of the river as they slowly glided down with the tide, for there was little wind to fill their sail, or help them along; so that they could scarcely hope to reach Gravesend, where the vessel lay that was to take them across the Atlantic, until evening.
But Eric did not mind this. He could believe that this Sister Martin was God's messenger indeed, and his heart was at rest once more. He could believe that God cared for him, and was guiding him, though it might be by the rough way of slavery; still, if his Father saw that it would be best for him to travel by this road, then he would be content.
It was not until early in the evening that the large vessel was reached, and by that time everybody was hungry again, and there were no provisions on board the wherry for them; so that it was a cross, impatient crowd of convicts that were put on board the ship waiting to receive them; and Sister Martin knew that to get these fed and safely housed for the night must be her first care.
The government made no provision for the prisoners' comfort beyond finding them what was actually needful in the way of food and lodging, and the men and women themselves often preyed upon each other, for the want of some supervision—some care exercised for the protection of the weak against the tyranny of the strong.
To give this was not the chief object of these Methodist missionaries among these people, but they took the duty upon them very often, thus acting as stewardesses in the way of looking after the voyagers.
In this duty, Eric was of great service to Sister Martin, and after the first few days out, when the people began to get used to her, they were more willing than at first to listen to what she said. That she could tell them something of the country to which they were being sent; had seen it, and knew the condition of the slaves there, made them all the more willing to listen when she spoke of that other country to which all were journeying, and of the love of the Father and Friend who was willing to be their Guide thither.
To awaken something like hope in the hearts of these poor creatures was the task she set herself—hope in the Heavenly Father's love and care even for them; and that this transportation might not mean all the terrors they had dreamed of was the next step.
That they would be sold as slaves to the highest bidder without their own choice in the matter they knew very well, but beyond this they knew nothing of the probable conditions of life to which they would soon be bound.
But Sister Martin could give them some reassuring information about this. For the industrious, and those who were willing to work, life might not be so hard as in the old country. The colonists were Englishmen, and for their own sakes, if from no higher motive, were bound to provide their servants with such food, lodging and comforts as would keep them in health and ability to do their work.
The lazy and improvident were bound to find the life a hard one, for there was no room for beggars in a community where every one on entering was registered as belonging to a certain township, and carried a passport attesting the same. This was the settlers' protection against their slaves running away from them. Within the limit of the township to which he belonged, every man was free, but as soon as he got beyond the boundary, he must produce his passport, stating who he was, and where he belonged to, or he was taken off to the nearest gaol, where, if not claimed by his former master, he could be sold again; so that in getting away from one place the man would but be changing masters.
It was an outlook altogether better and more hopeful for those who did not mind working for their daily bread, and to Eric was a positive relief, especially when he heard that there were horses there as well as in England, and as he was used to them, he would probably be bought by somebody who wanted him to take care of them.
[CHAPTER V.]
THE VOYAGE.
"NOW help me lift him on to the other bed, where he will be more comfortable, Eric." And Sister Martin directed the lad how to hold the patient, and he carefully followed her directions, so as not to disturb the sick man more than was necessary.