Eric, or Little by Little | Page 2

a clear impression of
his own superiority. His passion, too, was imperious, and though it
always met with prompt correction, his cousin had latterly found it

difficult to subdue. She felt, in a word, that he was outgrowing her rule.
Beyond a certain age no boy of spirit can be safely guided by a
woman's hand alone.
Eric Williams was now twelve years old. His father was a civilian in
India, and was returning on furlough to England, after a long absence.
Eric had been born in India, but had been sent to England by his
parents at an early age, in charge of a lady friend of his mother. The
parting, which had been agony to his father and mother, he was too
young to feel; indeed the moment itself passed by without his being
conscious of it. They took him on board the ship, and, after a time, gave
him a hammer and some nails to play with. These had always been to
him a supreme delight, and while he hammered away, Mr and Mrs
Williams, denying themselves, for the child's sake, even one more
tearful embrace, went ashore in the boat and left him. It was not till the
ship sailed that he was told he would not see them again for a long,
long time. Poor child, his tears and cries were piteous when he first
understood it; but the sorrows of four years old are very transient, and
before a week was over, little Eric felt almost reconciled to his position,
and had become the universal pet and plaything of every one on board,
from Captain Broadland down to the cabin-boy, with whom he very
soon struck up an acquaintance. Yet twice a day at least his mirth
would be checked as he lisped his little prayer, kneeling at Mrs Munro's
knee, and asked God "to bless his dear, dear father and mother, and
make him a good boy."
When Eric arrived in England, he was entrusted to the care of a
widowed aunt, whose daughter, Fanny, had the main charge of his early
teaching. At first, the wayward little Indian seemed likely to form no
accession to the quiet household, but he soon became its brightest
ornament and pride. Everything was in his favour at the pleasant home
of Mrs Trevor. He was treated with motherly kindness and tenderness,
yet firmly checked when he went wrong. From the first he had a
well-spring of strength against temptation, in the long letters which
every mail brought from his parents; and all his childish affections
were entwined round the fancied image of a brother born since he had
left India. In his bedroom there hung a cherub's head, drawn in pencil

by his mother, and this winged child was inextricably identified in his
imagination with his "little brother Vernon." He loved it dearly, and
whenever he went astray, nothing weighed on his mind so strongly as
the thought, that if he were naughty he would teach little Vernon to be
naughty too when he came home.
And Nature also--wisest, gentlest, holiest of teachers--was with him in
his childhood. Fairholm Cottage, where his aunt lived, was situated in
the beautiful Vale of Ayrton, and a clear stream ran through the valley
at the bottom of Mrs Trevor's orchard. Eric loved this stream, and was
always happy as he roamed by its side, or over the low green hills and
scattered dingles which lent unusual loveliness to every winding of its
waters. He was allowed to go about a good deal by himself, and it did
him good. He grew up fearless and self-dependent, and never felt the
want of amusement. The garden and orchard supplied him a theatre for
endless games and romps, sometimes with no other companion than his
cousin and his dog, and sometimes with the few children of his own
age whom he knew in the hamlet. Very soon he forgot all about India;
it only hung like a distant golden haze on the horizon of his memory.
When asked if he remembered it, he would say thoughtfully, that in
dreams and at some other times, he saw a little boy, with long curly
hair, running about in a flower-garden, near a great river, in a place
where the air was very bright. But whether the little boy was himself or
his brother Vernon, whom he had never seen, he couldn't quite tell.
But, above all, it was happy for Eric that his training was religious and
enlightened. With Mrs Trevor and her daughter, religion was not a
system but a habit--not a theory but a continued act of life. All was
simple, sweet, and unaffected, about their charity and their devotions.
They loved God, and they did all the good they could to those around