CHAPTER VII.
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. Surely someone 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, I am 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, how could I 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 and something over it under hard and difficult circumstances."