"Papa, papa! oh, come quickly! There's some one drowning in the lake. And oh! I was standing in the hall when Jeff rushed down-stairs and out of the front door, with his face all white and his eyes staring. He must have seen from upstairs—he was standing at the window, you know. Oh papa, perhaps it is Brian; he never came in to tea."
Little Jessie, with eyes distended and panting breath, astonished Mr. Colquhoun and her mother by the unusual impropriety of bursting open the dining-room door at dinner-time. In a moment her father was on his feet and out of the door, followed by the butler and footman. A presentiment of how it had all happened flashed upon him as he hurried down to the edge of the water. There were cries, muffled cries, growing gradually fainter, and splashes as though of some one struggling; a scream, and then what seemed an ominous silence.
It did not take a minute to launch a boat, and row out a few yards from the shore. An upturned skiff told its tale of a repeated disobedience. Clinging to it by one hand was Jeff, with the other he gripped Brian's hair; but his little hand had just relaxed its hold as Mr. Colquhoun approached. The effort to hold up his cousin had taxed his strength to the utmost, and unconsciousness stole over him at the moment of rescue.
They were both saved. In five minutes, time the butler and footman had carried in the two insensible forms and laid them safely on the rug in the library.
It was not long before Brian gave signs of life. A gasp, a sigh, a fluttering breath, and his eyes opened to see his mother hanging over him. They wandered round the room and saw his father watching beside Jeff for some sign of returning consciousness.
There was an ugly contraction of Brian's brow at this moment. To Mr. Colquhoun the moments of doubt were full of anguish. Perchance Jeff had given his life for his son's, for life seemed long in returning to the little face that lay so still and white, with the pretty yellow curls dripping wet. At last Jeff opened his eyes, but it was with no rational gaze.
"Mother—I did try—they will tell you that I did try," he said faintly. Then his eyelids closed again, and he muttered, "I will say it now—'as we forgive them that trespass against us.'"
Mr. Colquhoun understood at last. Here was verily a little hero who had suffered the guilt and punishment of another—a weak and sensitive child who had borne a wrong silently, and had finally all but lost his life to save the life of one he knew had sacrificed him.
By and by the doctor came, and Jeff was undressed and taken upstairs without any other revival. Maggie had been sent for at once, to her brother's cottage, and was installed in Jeff's little room as his nurse. The doctor had lifted the wet curls above Jeff's temple, and had revealed a dark bruise there. Evidently the boy had come in contact with some obstacle in his wild plunge from the shore to the skiff, only a few yards off. Jeff and Brian had both been learning to swim with Sandy this summer; but Brian had made no progress, whereas Jeff could manage a few strokes.
That was a very anxious night for the household at Loch Lossie. Even little Jessie was suffered to wander about the passages till after ten o'clock; and there was no assembly for prayers in the dining-room as usual. A great shadow and fear seemed to hang over the house. Brian was taken away by his mother to his own room and put to bed.
"Take him out of my sight. He is the cause of all this," Mr. Colquhoun had said sternly, seeing he was fully recovered and inclined to make explanations.
Mr. Colquhoun and Maggie sat up together by Jeff's bedside. He lay most of the night still and white. Towards daybreak a pink spot came into each cheek, and he breathed more quickly and grew restless. At last he began to speak:
"Oh, mother, I cannot bear it—indeedI cannot bear it! No one loves me here, it is lonely—and they won't even believe me or trust me—they think I am a liar. Brian looks so good, and he is never found out—they think he must be true. When will you come, mother?—oh, I want you, I want you."
All the pent-up sorrow of weeks and months went out in the last bitter cry. Then, as if awakened by his own intensity of feeling, Jeff opened his eyes and was suddenly conscious of his surroundings.
"Uncle Hugh, where am I? Why are you sitting here? Have I been ill? Oh, yes, I remember all now. I heard Brian scream, and I ran down to the lake. He was not drowned, was he? Oh, if I had saved him! mother would be so glad; because he is my enemy, you know. Why does my head ache so much; it all seems confused too. I wish you would believe me, Uncle Hugh; indeed I told the truth."
The man of starch bent down till his face was very near to Jeff. His voice was a little husky:
"I believe you now, my little lad. I could never doubt you again; you have behaved like a hero!"
Then Jeff half raised himself on his pillows, and the dim morning light revealed an elastic [Transcriber's note: ecstatic?] smile on his pale face.
"Oh, say that again. I do want to be a hero before mother comes."
He fell back once more, murmuring,
"I am so tired and sleepy, and so happy now. Uncle Hugh, will you hear me say my prayers? After I had been unhappy mother always heard me say my prayers. And I think—perhaps I have cheated God lately—since you punished me, for I would not say 'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' I did not forgive you or Brian, and I could not say it. Now I can, and it will be all right. God will understand."
Soon after Jeff fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. He slept far into a bright morning, and when the doctor came he pronounced his little patient as convalescent.
"You may get up to-morrow, and we shall have you out with the otter hounds on Saturday, my little man," he said with a kind smile.
Jeff's eyes sought Mr. Colquhoun's face with an eager look of inquiry.
"We will see, Jeff"—he called him Jeff for the first time—"but you must make haste and get well."
And Jeff did get well and rode right bravely. Better sport was never seen.
Jeff was now ten years old, for nearly two years have gone by since he came to England. He has grown very much, and is a tall muscular boy, with a bright smiling face; only when he is alone or unconscious of observation he is sometimes subdued, and there is a yearning wistful look in his big brown eyes that seems to declare he is not quite happy.
"You have news from India to-day, Geoffry," said Uncle Hugh one morning rather stiffly as he met the boy coming down the stairs with a letter in his hand. "Your Aunt Annie has also had a letter from your mother."
Jeff looked rather as if he had been crying, and his voice trembled a little when he answered Mr. Colquhoun:
"Yes, there is news.Sheis coming—at last. But oh, she is ill!"
Jeff nearly broke down here. "Uncle Hugh, I may go to London and meet her next week."
The passionate pleading of the boy's voice in the last words was indescribable.
He had grown used to negatives presented to his requests during his stay at Loch Lossie, but this was a widely different and an urgent matter.
"I think, my boy, it will be better not. Your aunt has fully discussed the matter with me, and she does not wish it. She thinks that her meeting with her sister will be a painful one; she did not part on very friendly terms with your mother. A reconciliation will be more pleasant at Loch Lossie."
Jeff coloured deeply. He knew what all this meant. Uncle Hugh's carefully-worded speech was clear to him.
"Yes, I know—Sandy told me. You and Aunt Annie did not want her to marry father, because he was poor and only a soldier in a marching regiment. You were all unkind to her about it and made her very unhappy; but she did not care for money and a grand house—and—and she loved father. She is very happy with him—we were all happy together till I had to be sent home. Think of it only, Uncle Hugh, two whole years without seeing her. Didn't you love your mother too? And now to lose a single day or hour, after so long! Oh, do let me go, Maggie will take me if you can't."
Mr. Colquhoun stood a moment in silence looking out of the window. His heart went with the boy, for Jeff had grown dear to him, with his frank impulsive ways and deep strong affections.
"Well, well, perhaps something may be done. You had better go and have a little talk about it to your aunt before you go to Mr. M'Gregor's."
Jeff looked very blank and despairing as he turned round and went slowly up the stairs again. Aunt Annie was one of those superior people who never change their mind. She took a vast amount of pride in her own prompt judgment, and not for worlds would have admitted herself in the wrong. Jeff was sure that the most urgent pleading would not prevail to alter her decision.
No sympathetic throb for the child and mother once more to be united would alter her resolution.
"No, Jeff, I have told your uncle that I have fully made up my mind that the reconciliation to take place between your mother and her family shall be under this roof. It is impossible for a child of your age to understand this matter, and I beg that you will cease to argue. Your mother and I parted in great bitterness, but that is past and forgiven."
Jeff made a little gesture of anger.
"Mylips will be closed with regard to bygones, and when Mary is once here I shall never recur to painful matters."
This was all very grand and magnanimous in words, but the effect it had upon Aunt Annie's auditor was anything but soothing.
"But surely mother, when she comes by herself and is ill, would think it kinder of you to meet her at once," he said in hot indignation.
But no words availed, and Mrs. Colquhoun kept to her determination. She probably did not observe the set and dogged look upon the boy's face as he turned to leave the room. He was of the same blood as herself, and something of her own resolute nature formed part of his character.
But Aunt Annie turned back complacently to the translation of her German novel, without giving another thought to the deep strong child-nature with which she came daily in contact. The persistence of her small adversary had, indeed, ruffled her serenity for a few minutes, but her emphatic denial of his request must certainly have convinced him of her strength of purpose. What was the bitter disappointment to the little aching heart in comparison with the maintenance of her own dignity and authority!
But Jeff went brooding down the avenue with his books slung over his back, and on his face there was a set look of despair, which boded no good to Mr. Colquhoun's authority.
The week passed quietly, and without any further pleading on Jeff's part; only, he was unusually quiet and thoughtful.
On the morning before the expected arrival of the steamer from India, Jeff was missing from Loch Lossie. Brian came in hot haste to his father, eager to inform him of the unwarranted disappearance. Brian was fond of establishing his own virtue by declaring the faults of others.
"Mr. M'Gregor must not be kept waiting, Brian. You go down to him at once. Never mind your cousin." This was not what Brian had anticipated, and he departed in great disgust.
"I do believe he's gone up on the moor," said this youngster vindictively as a parting shot, sincerely hoping that Jeff might be called to account for some serious delinquency. He had never forgiven him for having been found out himself in a serious fault last year. The recollection of Jeff's endurance under a false accusation was a continual mortification to his small soul. He knew that his father had never forgotten that episode, and from time to time regarded him with suspicion of a new deception.
All that day till nightfall, though keepers and scouts were sent about in all directions, no word came of the missing lad. Inquiry was made in the nearest township and at Lossie Bridge station in vain. No little traveller had been seen to arrive or depart. Late at night a porter from the next station down the line came up to the house and informed Mr. Colquhoun that a little boy answering to the description of Jeff had taken that morning's mail to London from Drumrig.
It was too late for Mr. Colquhoun to set off in pursuit of the culprit that night, but all preparations were made for his departure the next morning.
Meanwhile Jeff had arrived in the great city, to which he was a stranger, towards evening. A little waif and stray in London, with only five shillings in his pocket! But no fears assailed him. He was encouraged by the great hope of the meeting on the morrow. His heart began beating at the very thought of the loving arms into which he would nestle.
Naturally he was puzzled to know what to do with himself. It was more than probable that the great hotel at the railway station would swallow up his five shillings and leave him without the means of getting to the steamer. He addressed himself to a friendly-looking porter who was staring at him with a certain amount of curiosity, seeing he had no luggage:
"What does it cost to get a bed in there for the night?" he said.
The porter grinned satirically.
"More nor such as you can pay. Yer wouldn't get much change out of a sovereign, I'll be sworn."
He walked down the platform, and Jeff saw that he was making merry with one of his friends over his inquiry. In terror lest some detaining hand might even yet be stretched forth, he hurried out of the station and was soon lost in the small streets about King's Cross.
He at length found a humble-looking lodging, attracted thereto by a card in the window, to the effect that "Lodgings for single men" were to be had.
The woman who opened the door to him looked doubtfully at this youthful customer, but the production of a couple of shillings and an offer from Jeff to pay in advance settled all difficulty.
"I am going down to the docks to-morrow to meet my mother, who is coming from India," he said, giving a frank explanation of his plans. "I shall have to leave quite early and I will pay you to-night."
The woman smiled at the dignified attitude of her would-be lodger, and bade him come in and she would find him a bed to suit.
She saw very well that this was no roughly-nurtured child, and possibly guessed partly at the truth.
There were two or three labouring men taking supper in a back kitchen, and a strong smell of onions and frying fat pervaded the atmosphere.
Jeff felt it would not do to appear squeamish in such company, and drew near to the fire, making a pretence of warming his hands.
"Here's a new lodger, Timothy; you make room for him," said the woman with a broad grin.
"Runned away from school, young marster, I'll be bound," said one rough giant, catching hold of Jeff by the arm. The boy turned his brown eyes steadily on his captor.
"No, I have never been at any school," he said with composure. "But they would not let me meet my mother, who is coming home from India, so I took all the money out of my savings-box and came by the train without telling anyone."
The navvy released him.
"From Ingy! That's a long way to come. And they wouldn't let you meet her! It was a darned shame. You're a well plucked one for your size. Can ye stand treat, young maister? We'll drink to the health of the lady from Ingy."
Jeff took his few coins out of his pocket with a dubious frown.
"There's my bed to pay for here, and some supper, and I've got to get to the docks to-morrow by ten o'clock. This is all I've got; perhaps I can spare you a shilling."
They were honest labourers, though rough, and took his shilling, and no more, and went off to the public-house.
Jeff asked for an egg and some tea and bread and butter, and then said he would go to bed.
"I'll put you along of my boy 'Arry. He sleeps wonderful quiet, and some of them is roughish customers to lie alongside of when they comes in from the 'Lion,'" said the woman as she lighted a candle.
Jeff sighed when he was ushered into the dingy attic where he was to pass the night, thinking of his own little white bed at Loch Lossie and all the dainty arrangements of bath and dressing paraphernalia.
The next morning he was astir at day-break, and without casting a glance at his sleeping companion he went softly down the stairs and laid his payment on the kitchen table. He had some difficulty in unbarring the door, but succeeded after many endeavours.
Though it was an April morning the air was very raw and bleak at this early hour, and the boy shivered repeatedly.
At a coffee-stall in an adjoining street he bought a thick slice of bread and butter and a steaming cup of what was called tea, sweet and strong, if not particularly fragrant. Fortified by such nourishment against the biting air, he inquired of the first policeman he met the nearest way to the station, and reached it soon after seven o'clock. There was an hour and a half to wait before his train started, but he sat down on a sheltered bench and remained an unnoticed little figure till the train drew up. At about the same hour Mr. Colquhoun was crossing the border in a southern express in pursuit of the runaway.
It was the same steamer that Jeff had come home in two years ago. Much the same sort of scene was going on on the deck as on a former occasion.
The burly form of Captain Clark might be descried from afar pacing up and down. It seemed all like a dream to the boy, vividly recalling his own arrival. He rubbed his eyes hard, scarcely feeling sure of his own identity.
The great steamer had been in dock over half an hour, and those passengers who had not disembarked at Gravesend were busy with their luggage.
"Captain Clark, don't you remember me? It is Jeff Scott."
The boy had taken off his cap in a salute to his old friend. The beauty of his yellow curls was fully revealed. All the sickly paleness resulting from tropical heats had disappeared from Jeff's face, and he stood now on the deck a fair specimen of a healthy English lad.
Captain Clark instantly recognized the steady brown eyes. They recalled another pair of eyes, infinitely sadder, but oh, how like! The golden-haired lady down-stairs had been put under his especial charge, with many injunctions to see to her welfare. But the voyage had not brought back the expected health to her cheek or light to her eyes. It was with a heart full of pity that this good man turned to the boy.
"Eh, my boy, and is it really you? I am glad to see you. Have you come to take a passage back with me?"
But Jeff was not in the mood for any joking this morning.
"I have come to see mother," he said with infinite gravity. "I know she is one of your passengers. Let me go to her at once. Who will tell me which is her cabin?"
The good old sailor's weather-beaten face changed a little.
"You will perhaps take her by surprise, my lad. She is ill—very weak—she cannot stand any shock. Which of her friends or relatives has come to meet her?"
"I have come—only," said Jeff, "I ran away to do it. She would expect me, of course."
Captain Clark looked at the boy, whose fair face flashed at some painful recollection.
"Well done, Jeff." The old captain's voice was husky. "Come with me at once. We will find your mother's maid or the stewardess, but you must promise to be very gentle and not to agitate her."
Jeff smiled with superior wisdom. How could his presence agitate his beloved mother?
At one of the state-room doors off the saloon Captain Clark knocked gently.
An elderly woman answered the summons at once, and held up her finger with a warning "Hush! she is asleep, poor lady! do not wake her."
Then Jeff came a little forward, trembling with eagerness, his eyes full of yearning.
"This is her boy, Mrs. Parsons, who has come alone from Scotland to meet her."
Jeff's steadfast eyes met the woman's, but he did not understand the look of pity in them. Why should anyone be sorry for him, now that the sad years of separation had come to an end?
"Come in then, laddie, very softly. She's been talking day and night of her bairn; but you must, mind, let her have her sleep out. She lay awake the long night through."
Then Jeff was cautiously admitted.
Child as he was, he staggered a little at the aspect of the white still form extended on a berth. He drew his breath quickly for a few seconds as his eyes rested on the dear familiar face—familiar, and yet how altered!
The fine oval face had indeed fallen away sadly, and the soft golden hair waved away from a brow like marble. Deep dark lines beneath the closed eyes hollowed the cheeks and seemed to speak of pain and sleepless nights. Slow tears welled up to Jeff's eyes and fell silently one by one.
He turned to the woman and spoke in a whisper:
"She has been very ill? She never told me."
"Very ill," said the elderly matron curtly. It was difficult to restrain her own tears.
Then Jeff sat down quietly and remained half-hidden by the curtain that sheltered the sleeper. Presently the noise of trampling overhead seemed to rouse the invalid. She stirred and sighed without opening her eyes.
"Mrs. Parsons, will you ask if any letters or telegrams have come for me. I shall never get ashore without my friends.Surelysomeone will come." Again a long-drawn sigh.
Jeff's little brown hand stole round the curtain and very softly clasped the thin white fingers.
"Mother,Iam here—your own little lad. Mother, oh, mother! Mother dear—"
The soft brown eyes opened with a startled look. Then suddenly the intensity of yearning mother-love met Jeff's gaze. In a moment he was on his knees beside her with his arms about her neck.
"Never, never to leave you any more, mother—to feel your hands—to kiss your cheek every night—to nurse you—to make you well—to cover you with love. Oh, howcouldI ever bear it all! There is none like you—none—none."
The sweet pale face flushed in an ecstasy of gratitude and passionate feeling beneath the endearing epithets and the loving touches.
"My lad—my little lad," she kept repeating to herself in a low murmur, "he has come to meet me, to make me well."
In the few moments that succeeded, Jeff poured forth the tale of his adventurous flight from Loch Lossie. He made haste to soften the neglect of his mother's relatives.
"They did not know you were very ill, mother. They only thought you were a little bit ill before you left India. Aunt Annie said your maid would bring you down to Scotland quite well; but oh, I had the ache in my heart. It was a real pain, and I felt I could not wait, and I knew you would not be angry."
"Angry, my darling!" the mother said with a wondering smile, touching his hair with her weak fingers. "How pretty your hair has grown, Jeff, and you are so tall and look so well! Your father would be pleased to see you so big and strong. He will come home soon now. We are not so poor as we were. His uncle has left us some money, you know; that is why I was able to come to England."
It flashed across Jeff's mind that Mrs. Colquhoun must have been aware of his parents' improved circumstances when she invited her sister to Loch Lossie. He put away the thought from him.
"And your grandmama, tell me all about her, Jeff, and your little cousins. I have longed to hear from your own lips about everyone."
There was a lovely pink flush on the mother's face now, and her beautiful eyes were as bright as stars. Mrs. Parsons came forward, and, looking at her anxiously, said gently:
"Indeed, ma'am, but I think you had better talk no more just now. I will fetch your beef-tea, and just let the laddie sit quietly beside you, where you can see him."
Mrs. Scott smiled gently, clasping Jeff's brown fingers more closely.
"He will not leave me, Mrs. Parsons—promise—even if I go to sleep."
And so Jeff sat through the morning hours hardly speaking or stirring.
At about twelve o'clock Captain Clark came to the door and was bidden to enter. He had come to say that he had made every arrangement to get Mrs. Scott comfortably conveyed to London, and that Mrs. Parsons must get her mistress ready early in the afternoon.
"And here is a telegram, Mrs. Scott, just come for you," he said, holding out the brown envelope. Languid fingers went out to receive the missive. Was not all her world beside her?
From Mr. Colquhoun, York Station, to Mrs. Scott, S.S. Jellalabad, Albert Docks.
"Will be at St. Pancras Hotel this evening. Send reply there. Say where you are staying. Is Geoffry with you?"
The answer was soon written, and the kind captain took it away to despatch. Preparations for Mrs. Scott's removal were carried on as quickly as possible, and Jeff made himself useful by running backwards and forwards with messages.
In the evening the sick lady and the boy, under Captain Clark's care, reached the apartments in Brook Street that had been secured for them. About seven o'clock Uncle Hugh made his appearance. He forbore to speak one word of anger or reproach to Jeff; even greeting him with a certain degree of kindness. The poor boy was alone in the sitting-room turning over the pages of an oldGraphic. His eyes bore traces of recent tears.
"And how is your mother getting on, Jeff? I hope we shall be able to take her back to Scotland to-morrow."
"To-morrow, Uncle Hugh? oh, no! She is very ill—much worse than we thought. Perhaps she will be ill a long time. The doctor is here now. The railway tried her so much. She has fainted thrice since we got here."
All Jeff's stoical fortitude broke down when he began to speak—the tears could not be kept back, and he sobbed bitterly.
"Uncle Hugh, what shall I do? She does not look like the mother she used to be! She cannot walk across the room or even sit up."
Mr. Colquhoun had not realized anything seriously the matter with his sister-in-law, and this was the first intimation he had received of her critical condition.
By and by, when he had seen the doctor, he was made to recognize the gravity of the case. There was very little hope of the gentle mother's recovery. All the anticipations of convalescence in Scotland, and a reconciliation at Loch Lossie, were at an end. He remembered his wife's last injunction, "Be sure you bring Mary down here at once, and don't have any excuses."
Alas! poor Mary would never travel any more to her old home. Her days of rest were at hand.
Uncle Hugh was very gentle and considerate towards Jeff that night and during the ensuing days that dragged so slowly. The boy could hardly be persuaded to leave the house for half an hour, and always hurried back with feverish impatience after the shortest absence. He came in mostly laden with primroses and violets—her favourite flowers; often going into two or three shops to get them, never sufficiently satisfied with their freshness.
One night Jeff had gone to bed earlier than usual, for he mostly lingered about the passages or wandered restlessly from room to room till it was late. This evening he had been greatly comforted by some fancied improvement in the poor invalid's appearance.
"Mother darling, you are better—say you are better to-night, and that you will soon be well enough to go back to Loch Lossie," he said as he hung over her at saying "good-night."
She smiled fondly upon him.
"You wish me to get better so very much, Jeff, I almost feel as if I must."
"You must, you must," he repeated vehemently.
It hardly seemed any time since he had gone to bed when Jeff was roused by Uncle Hugh touching him on the shoulder.
"Get up, my boy, quickly, your mother wishes you to come to her."
Mr. Colquhoun's face was very grave, and his habitually cold voice had a thrill of sympathy in its tones. The boy was up in a moment. Nothing was surprising now. When he had put on his clothes he went down-stairs to his mother's room. The door was ajar and he pushed it open. There was a solemn hush here, though there were plenty of lights about, and a kettle steaming on the hearth. Jeff noticed at once an overpowering smell of drugs. There was a strange man in the room. The boy with a cold chill at his heart recognized him as a doctor. How still the figure on the bed was! How marble-white the face propped up by many pillows! The mother heard the gentle footfall of her beloved child, and the soft brown eyes unclosed at his approach—unclosed with the ever-loving glance. A fleeting smile passed over her face.
"My little lad," said a voice, oh, so faintly, but with such infinite tenderness, "you have been quick in coming. I have sent for you to say another good-night. Jeff, darling, try and understand—I am going—where it is always morning—I am going to leave you—after such a little stay—"
The boy had thrown himself beside her on the big bed. He had never seen the approach of death. He could not understand it.
"Mother, why should you go? why should they take you away from me again? Oh, no, no! Please, sir, do not be so cruel; I'm so lonely without her."
He turned with anguished eyes to the grave gentleman who had placed a hand on the dear mother's pulse.
Again she spoke:
"My boy, you must understand, God has called me—I am dying. In the morning I shall not see your dear eyes; I shall never touch your head again. Oh, dear, dear head—oh, soft curls!" She paused a minute and a little sob broke from her.
"Jeff, Uncle Hugh has been telling me about you the past few days. It has been a great happiness—a great comfort to know that you are so brave and truthful. There are faults, my darling, still; but I think, my own, that you will be a hero some day." She smiled upon him with indescribable content. "I have no fears for you. You will bear what is given you to bear patiently. You will not grieve your father—you will remember that—" Her voice failed.
"Oh, mother, stay with me. I can never be great or good without you—things are so hard. Only stay with me a little while. No one has ever loved me as you love me."
A glow of light passed over the sweet face.
"Darling, no onewillever love you like I have loved you. Jeff, you have been a great happiness to me. By and by, when you come to me, I shall know, perhaps, that you have remembered all that I have said to you. Oh, doctor, the pain—again."
She gasped for breath, and Mrs. Parsons lifted her up and put some cordial to her lips. When she spoke again she wandered a little:
"I was so happy in India—we were all so happy together. Dear husband—our little son—is growing up all that we could wish him—by and by—he will comfort you. I shall know—perhaps that you speak of me—sometimes."
"Mother, youshallknow," burst from Jeff. He spoke in a hoarse way. Only by a supreme effort could he choke back his sobs. Now he had raised himself and was gazing into the beloved eyes, which seemed to see some far-off vision.
"And, mother, I promise, when you are gone—I will be—all you wish. I will never, never forget—all my life through—and when—I see you again—I shall see you again, you know—you will know how much I have gone on loving you—and remembering. Oh, mother, can't I go with you?—must I wait here alone? You will never kiss me, never touch me—and when—I am a real hero—your voice will not praise me. Take me with you, mother, mother!" Then Jeff fell back unconscious, and was carried out of the room by Uncle Hugh, who was sobbing like a child. The angel of death did not tarry. In the morning Jeff knew that his sweet mother had said her last "good-night."
Years have gone by, and Jeff Scott is a man now. He is reckoned a real hero in these days, one whose name has been a household word. He is a soldier like all the men of his race—a right gallant soldier who wears a V.C. upon his broad breast. He has seen much service, and done brave deeds by flood and field, under the roar of cannon, and in instant fear of death.
His fiery impetuous spirit is in a measure subdued, but still his rash acts of bravery have been reproved with a smile by his superior officers.
In one campaign he had swam a river under hot fire of the enemy, carrying despatches between his teeth—he had rallied his regiment by picking up the colours dropped by two wounded comrades, though his own right arm was shattered by a shot—he had defended the sick and wounded in a quickly thrown up fort with desperate bravery against a host of attacking enemies.
He seemed to hold his life only to spend it for others. No privations were hard to him. He bore with a smiling face heat or cold, and encouraged with a cheerful word dispirited soldiers.
"Sir," said a gallant general, "you have won a Victoria Cross three times over. I honour you for your heroic bravery. Your mother may be proud to hear of such a son."
Ah! what a tender chord was touched by those words. In the darkness of the African night Jeff went out with a heavy heart from his tent, and, looking up at the silent stars, wondered ifsheknew, ifsheapproved.
And when he went home, and was sent for to Osborne to receive his decorations from the Queen's hand, the honour heaped upon him seemed more than he could bear. When the greatest lady in the land spoke a few kind words of praise the tears started to his brave brown eyes. Perchance the aspect of such a stripling moved her womanly heart to a special throb of sympathy, he looked so young to have achieved such deeds of valour.
But the applause of the world in general will never sound attractively in Jeff's ears; society will never claim him as one of her pet lions.
At Loch Lossie they speak of him with respectful admiration, and Aunt Annie no longer holds out any opinions against such a distinguished young man. She loses no opportunity of proclaiming her kinship to young Captain Scott. But Jeff only spends a short time occasionally in Scotland; most of his leave is generally passed with his father.
The deep strong affection between father and son seems to become a closer bond as the years rolls on. They speak sometimes of the dead mother, and even now Jeff's voice hushes and his steady eyes are misty at the mention of her name or the recalling of her words. He loves her with a love that time has no power to weaken; he has kept all her sayings faithfully in his heart; her letters to him are his most cherished possessions.
The passionate intensity of his nature has deepened and strengthened with his manhood. He never forgets. Oh, brave, true heart! oh, loyal breast! oh, faithful hero! guarding well the noble standard of courage and truth that was given you to guard in boyhood's days.
"Her little lad" that she loved so well is indeed "one full of courage and great patience, and dauntless before difficulties; one who allows no fear to assail him, who fulfils his duty andsomething over itunder hard and difficult circumstances."