Read Ebook: A Little Hero by Musgrave H Brock H M Henry Matthew Illustrator

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Ebook has 333 lines and 17511 words, and 7 pages

Jeff did not sob or cry when at last he lifted his brown eyes to his mother's face. Yet his voice was weak and trembling as he said slowly:

"I will go away from you bravely, mother, as you wish it. I have never been disobedient, have I? I will try and not forget till you come that you wish me to be brave--that it is a noble thing to be brave." Then, with a heart-rending sob, "Mother, oh mother, do not be very long before you come!"

On the voyage home Jeff found many things to amuse him, and made friends in every part of the big steamer. The stewards, and the crew, and the stokers would all smile, or have some joke ready, when his bright little face appeared round some unlikely corner. For Jeff soon knew his way about the ship, and was here, there, and everywhere all day long. Of course he was not always thinking of his home in India, or of the dear faces he had left behind. Even grown-up people easily forget their sorrows in new scenes. Still, Jeff would grow grave when he remembered he had seen the tears in his father's eyes for the first time, when he had said, "Good-bye, my little son."

Further back still, and yet more sacred, so sacred indeed that he only liked to think of it after his prayers, he cherished in his memory the picture of his sad mother, standing in the verandah of their bungalow, waving her hand to them as he and Maggie were driven away. The tight feeling at his heart came again at the bare recollection of the tall slim figure in white, the tearless pale face, the sad sweet smile.

When he lay in his berth at night time--above the creaking and groaning of machinery, above the din inevitable on a steamer--he heard a gentle voice bless him as on that last evening at home:

"God be with you, my own little lad. Be brave till I see you again. I shall be so proud to feel that my boy is a real hero."

On the way to Bombay Jeff had asked his father what a real hero was. Then he had been told that a hero was "one full of courage and great patience, and dauntless before difficulties; one who allowed no fear to overcome him, who fulfilled his duty, and something over it under hard and trying circumstances."

Jeff was unusually quiet and thoughtful for some little time after this explanation, and the father could not help wondering why he looked so grave and sad.

"It will be difficult to be a hero--very difficult," he said at length with a heavy sigh.

Then the gallant soldier, who was his father, sighed too.

It was not heroic--it was only a simple duty to send his little son so far from him, and yet how hard a thing it was.

There was nothing that Jeff liked better on the big steamer than going "forrard" to the men's quarters. He would sit huddled up on a sea-chest, with his elbows resting on his knees, or would climb into an empty hammock and remain for hours, listening to the wonderful tales told him by the crew.

The little boy's brown eyes were round and stretched in amazement. The captain did not take long to draw from him some of the marvellous narratives and chapters of accidents that had been told to him.

"No, my little fellow, I don't think much of it is true either. We allow sailors to spin yarns and only believe as much as we like." Jeff was much better satisfied to feel that a hero was not an impossible being, and that these rough and ready, hard swearing, rollicking men were not in reality the stuff out of which was moulded true heroism, endurance, and nobility. He took comfort now in laughing at their "make believe" tales of miracles and chivalry.

At last the voyage, which had been all pleasantness to Jeff, came to an end, and he felt very sorry to think of parting with so many kind friends.

On a fine April morning, with a deep blue sky and an easterly wind, the great steamer went up the Thames and was berthed in her dock. Naturally there was a great deal of stir and much excitement amongst the passengers, many of whom had not been home to their native country for long years. Most of the travellers had friends to meet them and were anxiously on the look-out. Those who had not were attending to their luggage. Very few were passive spectators of the busy scene. Jeff was greatly amused by all the bustle and agitation. He might have been even more so had he not felt so cold. The April winds blew very keenly on his sensitive little frame, unseasoned to such a piercing air. Still he tried to see all he could; it was novel and amusing, and he would write a long letter to mother to-night and should like to tell her all about it. She must know all these things of course, but then she might have forgotten.

"Well, my little man, and what do you think of London town?" said Captain Clark approaching Jeff and waving his hand towards a distant cloud of smoke.

"Is that London?" said Jeff with an air of deep disappointment. "Oh, how dirty it looks! it's nothing half as grand as Bombay."

A tall thin gentleman with whiskers beginning to turn gray had walked past Jeff twice, casting a scrutinizing glance towards him. The little boy had noticed the stranger because he was so oddly stiff and very stern looking. At this moment Maggie came up the companion steps and started towards this gentleman with a cry of recognition.

"Mr. Colquhoun, here we are, sir!"

The angular gentleman, who stepped so carefully over coils of rope and the obstacles of luggage, looked precisely as if he had come out of a bandbox. He was so very much starched, indeed, that Jeff could not help wondering if a summer in the plains would make him less stiff. As he came nearer and put out a hand to the little boy, who was his wife's nephew, it seemed like a piece of wood with mechanical joints.

"So this is Mary's son," he said in a formal way. "How do you do, little fellow. You're not much of a specimen to send home. I suppose they have spoilt you pretty well in India. What is your name? Ah, yes, Geoffry, to be sure; after your father's family, I suppose."

Jeff did not like the way in which Mr. Colquhoun spoke his father's name. He was quickly sensitive to a tone or look. In after days he wondered much why an attitude of hostility was always tacitly assumed towards his father.

"My father's people have always been brave soldiers. Two of his brothers were killed in the mutiny; they were heroes, I think. They were called Geoffry and Roger."

The little boy made up his mind that he should never like the new uncle. The disparaging accent on his father's name was an insult.

Mr. Colquhoun had married Jeff's aunt, his mother's eldest sister, and lived at Loch Lossie with grandmama, under whose roof Jeff was to be.

But Jeff did not know yet that grandmama was only the nominal ruler there.

The little boy began to wonder at once if his young cousins would speak in the same dry methodical way as their father. It was just like measuring off words by the yard. How very tiresome it would be to listen to all day.

And would all people in England be so clean and precise as this new uncle?

During the short railway journey up to London from the docks, Jeff watched Mr. Colquhoun with an uneasy stare that would have been embarrassing had the object of this attentive scrutiny become aware of it. Old Maggie's nudges and whispered remonstrance produced no effect.

This was finished and posted before his uncle returned, and Jeff felt very much relieved that it was safe beyond recall. Those cold critical eyes might have glanced over the contents: and the little boy was aware that his candour regarding his newly found relative was not flattering. Maggie and Jeff slept in a Pullman car that night and arrived at Lossie Bridge early in the morning.

Tired and cold as was this delicate boy his mind was open to receive an impression of wild beauty in the surrounding country. He thought he had never seen or even dreamt of anything so beautiful and grand. His animated enthusiasm and undisguised pleasure seemed to warm something in his uncle's breast. He even smiled.

The tears rose to Jeff's eyes. Ah! yes, he could understand now why that dear mother, so far away, pined for her native hills and lakes.

The mists lifting from the rugged mountain sides, with the morning sun shining bravely on a glittering lake, was a sight most glorious. The sound of running brooks, the swish of cascades--sounds most strange to Jeff's ears--made music everywhere.

He was silent with wonder and enjoyment during the long drive from the station. Grandmother's house on Loch Lossie was a fine stone-built residence, facing the lake on the south.

It was backed up by the stern heather-clad hills, which sheltered it from rude north winds. A carriage drive wound along the side of the lake for nearly a mile, and Jeff was amazed at the orderly aspect of the shrubberies adjoining it. Everything was clipped and pruned. The wild luxuriant tangle of Indian jungles, the richly sweet smell of tropical growths, and the brilliant colouring of foreign flowers were all so different to this.

Maggie recognized the familiar features of the landscape with repeated cries of surprise or pleasure. Her hard and wrinkled face beamed with the joy of a returned exile.

"Why, Maggie, you never talked about Scotland to me at all," said Jeff in some astonishment as he saw actual tears glistening in her eyes.

"It isn't them as does the most talking as feels the most," she said sharply, dashing away the unusual moisture.

As they got nearer to the big house, which looked so cold and bare, Jeff saw that a boy and a little girl stood under the portico awaiting their arrival.

It was now past seven o'clock and the sun had dispersed the last thin veil of mist over the mountains, and was shining with might on the glittering windows of the big house which was to be Jeff's new home.

"This is your cousin from India, children," said Mr. Colquhoun, as he lifted Jeff down from the back of the dog-cart, where he sat with Maggie.

Then the little traveller saw that the other boy wore a kilt, and was not at all like his father. The girl had on a sun-bonnet, and Jeff only got a glimpse of a pair of rosy cheeks.

Uncle Hugh was one of those very discreet people who never attempt a reply to children's questions.

"Go into the house, Brian, and take your cousin to have some breakfast in the nursery. Is your mother up yet? Mind you both come down tidy in time for prayers."

Alas for poor Jeff! His pleading was not heard. He had yet to learn the firm and obdurate nature of the starched gentleman with whiskers.

"Brian, obey me at once. Show your cousin the way upstairs."

And then Jeff, further constrained by old Maggie's hand, was marched away up two flight of stairs, through a long corridor and double baize doors, then down another narrower passage into a large square room. It seemed to Jeff that there was a great deal of heavy furniture everywhere, and thick carpets, and an excess of light flooding the rooms. In India the sunshine was always excluded.

Breakfast was laid on the table in the nursery. There were steaming bowls of porridge and a large glass dish of marmalade set out. An odour of bacon also was perceptible.

"Isn't my governor a stiff one?" said Brian in a jeering way, as his cousin drew near the great coal fire and drew off his little worsted gloves--the gloves which mother had knitted.

"Is your governor a tyrant too?"

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