A Little Hero Part 7

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 old _Graphic_. 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 fort.i.tude 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 antic.i.p.ations 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 pa.s.sages 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 pa.s.sed 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed over the sweet face.

"Darling, no one _will_ ever 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, you _shall_ know," burst from Jeff. He spoke in a hoa.r.s.e 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 if _she_ knew, if _she_ approved.

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 kins.h.i.+p to young Captain Scott. But Jeff only spends a short time occasionally in Scotland; most of his leave is generally pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionate 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.sail him, who fulfils his duty and _something over it_ under hard and difficult circ.u.mstances."