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Updated: June 22, 2025
She had to take her mother to New York shortly; but as "that dear old dunce" was the worst of all possible sailors, it would be necessary to wait for the largest of all possible steamers, and as the largest steamers sailed from Liverpool, and Ellan was so near to that port, perhaps I would not mind . . . just for a week or two longer. . . . What could I say?
The reception was to surpass in grandeur any fête ever held in Ellan. Not knowing what high stakes my father was playing for, I was frightened by this extravagance, and from that cause alone I wished to escape from the sight of it. I could not escape.
Ah, what did I say about the mysterious power of that solemn and sacred sacrament? Good-bye!" I meant what I had said. I meant to do what I had promised. God knows I did. But does a woman ever know her own heart? Or is heaven alone the judge of it? At four o'clock that afternoon my husband left Ellan for England. I went with him. Having made my bargain I set myself to fulfil the conditions of it.
Every day the insular newspapers devoted columns to the event, giving elaborate accounts of what limitless wealth could accomplish for a single night's entertainment. In these descriptions there was much eulogy of my father as "the uncrowned king of Ellan," as well as praise of Alma, who was "displaying such daring originality," but little or no mention of myself.
By some means nobody knew how the boy who could not learn his lessons studied his father's German atlas, and there was not a name in it north of Spitzbergen which he had not got by heart. He transferred them all to Ellan, so that the Sky Hill became Greenland, and the Black Head became Franz Josef Land, and the Nun's Well became Behring Strait, and Martha's Gullet became New Siberia, and St.
It soon grew too dark to distinguish them, and Montagu at full speed flew to Ellan, which was a mile off. When he got to the harbor he told some sailors of the danger in which his friends were, and then ran on to the school. It was now eight o'clock, and quite dark. Tea was over, and lock-up time long past, when he stood excited, breathless, and without his jacket, at Dr. Rowlands' door.
Some of the party had come over from the coach, and Lord Robert was jotting down in a notebook the particulars of betting commissions for his fair companions. "And am I to be honoured with a commission from the Hurricane?" he asked. "Yes; what's the price for Ellan Vannin?" "Come down to five to one, pretty lady." "Get me one to five that he's going to lose."
"Noble boy," he exclaimed, with enthusiasm; "I shall find it hard to believe any evil of him after this." They reached Ellan, and went to the boat-house. "Have you put out the life-boat?" said Dr. Rowlands anxiously. "Ill luck, sir," said one of the sailors, touching his cap; "the life-boat went to a wreck at Port Vash two days ago, and she hasn't been brought round again yet."
His father was dead and he had succeeded to the baronetcy. He had also inherited a racing establishment which the family had long upheld, and a colt which had been entered for the Derby nearly three years ago was to run in the race that day. Its name was Ellan Vannin, and it was not a favourite.
But Eric half sang, half murmured to himself, a hymn with which his mother's sweet voice had made him familiar in their cottage-home at Ellan: "There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found; They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, Low in the ground. "The storm that wrecks the winter sky, No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose."
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