“What, in not being a hero? My dear, you are a true hero in the eyes of us old mothers; but I am afraid that is poor comfort. My Jock, does it go so deep as that? Giving up all that for me! O my boy!”
“It is nonsense to talk of giving up,” said Jock, rousing himself to a common-sense view. “What chance had I of her if I had gone to India ten times over?” but the wave of grief broke over him again. “She would have believed in me, and, may be, have waited.”
“She will believe in you again.”
“No, I’m below her.”
“My poor boy, I didn’t know it had come to this. Do you mean that anything had ever passed between you?”
“No, but it was all the same. Even Evelyn implied it, when he said they must give me up, if we took such different lines.”
“Cecil too! Foolish fellow! Jock, don’t care about such absurdity. They are not worth it.”
“They’ve been the best of my life,” said poor Jock, but he stood up, shook himself, and said, “A nice way this of helping you! I didn’t think I was such a fool. But it is over now. I’ll buckle to, and do my best.”
“My brave boy!” and as the thought of the Magnum Bonum darted into her mind, she said, “You may have greater achievements than are marked by Victoria Crosses, and Sydney herself may own it.”
And Jock went to bed, cheered in spite of himself by his mother’s pleasure, and by Mrs. Evelyn’s letter, which she allowed him to take away with him.