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“Shall noble fidelity, courage and love,
Obedience and conscience – all rot in the ground?
No room be found for them beneath or above,
Nor anywhere in all the universe round?
Can Fatherhood cease? or the Judge be unjust?
Or changefulness mark any counsel of God?
Shall a butterfly’s beauty be lost in the dust?
Or the skill of a spider be crushed as a clod?
“I cannot believe it: Creation still lives;
The Maker of all things made nothing in vain:
The Spirit His gracious ubiquity gives,
Though seeming to die, ever lives on again.
We ‘rise with our bodies,’ and reason may hope
That truth, highest truth, may sink humbly to this,
That ‘Lo, the poor Indian’ was wiser than Pope
When he longed for his dog to be with him in bliss!”
Book One – Chapter Seven.
Leaving Home
From what I have already told the reader about Harry Milvaine, it will readily be gathered that he was a lad of decided character and of some considerable determination. A boy, too, who was apt to take action at the first touch of the spur of a thought or an idea.
What I have now to relate will, I think, prove this still further.
He left his uncle – a younger brother of his mother – and his father one evening talking in the dining-room. He had bidden them good-night and glided away upstairs to bed. He was partially undressed before he noticed that he had left a favourite book down in the library.
So he stole silently down to fetch it.
He had to pass the dining-room door, and in doing so the mention of his own name caused him to pause and listen.
Listeners, they say, seldom hear any good about themselves. Perhaps not, but the following is what Harry heard:
“Ha!” laughed Uncle Robert, “I tell you, brother, I’d do it. That would take the fun out of him. That would knock all notions of a sailor’s life out of the lad. It has been done before, and most successfully too, I can tell you.”
“And,” replied Harry’s father, “you would really advise me to – ”
“I would really advise you to do as I say,” said uncle, interrupting his brother-in-law. “I’d send him to sea for a voyage in a whaler. They sail in February, and they return in May – barely three months, you see.”
“Indeed, then I do think I’ll take your advice. But his mother loves the dear, brave boy so, that I’m sure she’ll feel the parting very much.”
“Well, well, my sister’ll soon get over that.”
Harry stayed to hear no more. He went back to his room without the book, and, instead of going to bed, lay down upon his sofa with the intention of what he called “doing a good think.”
For fully an hour he lies there with his round eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Then he starts up.
“Yes,” he cries, half aloud, “I’ll do it, I’ll do it. My father will see whether I have any courage or not.”
He goes straight to the little money-box kennel that stood on the mantelpiece.
The canary and pigeon business had been profitable with Harry for some time past.
He was very wealthy indeed. More so even than he imagined, for now when he counted his horde it ran up to 4 pounds, 15 shillings, 6 pence.
“Splendid!” said Harry to himself; “I couldn’t have believed I was so rich.”
Then he knelt down and said his prayers, far more fervently than he was wont to do. Especially did he pray for blessings to fall on his dear mother and father.
“I don’t think it is quite right,” he said to himself, “what I am going to do, but it will be all right again in a few months.”
He lay down in bed and slept soundly for hours. But the stars were still shining thickly when he awoke and looked out of the window.
There was snow on the ground, hard, crisp snow.
Harry lit his candle, then he got out his small writing-case, and, after some time and considerable pains, succeeded in writing a letter, which he carefully folded and addressed.
Young though he was – with his tiny fowling-piece – a gift from one of his uncles – the boy could tumble either rabbit or hare, or bring down a bird on the wing, but he was not particularly clever with the pen. I wish I could say that he was.
He now got a small bag out of the cupboard, and into this he put a change of clothes. Having washed and dressed, he was ready for the road.
He opened his door quietly, and walked silently along the passage, boots in hand. He had to pass his mother’s room door. His heart beat high, it thumped against his ribs so that he could almost hear it. How he would have liked to have gone in, and kissed his dear mother good-bye! But he dared not.
Not until he was quite out of doors among the snow did he put on his boots. Eily, not knowing him, made a rush, barking and fiercely growling.
“Hush, Eily! hush!” he cried; “it’s me, it’s Harry, your master.”
Eily changed her tune now, and also her attitude. The hair that had been standing up all along her back was smoothed down at once, and as the boy bent to tie his boots she licked his hands and cheek. The poor dog seemed really to know that something more than usual was in the wind.
There was a glimmer of light in the east, but the stars everywhere else were still very bright.
Harry stood up.
Eily sat motionless, looking eagerly up into his face, and her eyes sparkled in the starlight.
She was waiting for her master’s invitation to go along with him. One word would have been enough to have sent her wild with joy.
“Where can he be going?” she was asking herself. “Not surely to the forest at this time of night! But wherever he goes, I’ll go too.”
“Eily,” said the boy, seriously, even sadly, “I’m going away, far, far away.”
The dog listened, never moving ear nor tail.
“And, Eily, you cannot come with me, dear, dear doggie.”
Eily threw herself at his feet, or rather fell; she looked lost in grief.
He patted her kindly.
This only made matters worse. She thought he was relenting, that his words had been only spoken in fun. She jumped up, sprang on his shoulder, licked his ear, then went gambolling round and round him, and so made her way to the gate.
It was very apparent, however, that all these antics were assumed, there was no joy at the dog’s heart. She was but trying to overcome her master’s scruples to take her along with him.
Harry followed her to the gate.
“It must not be, Eily,” he said again; “I’m going where you cannot come. But I will come back, remember that.”
His hand was on her head, and he was gazing earnestly down at her.
“Yes, I’ll come back in a few months, and you will meet me, oh! so joyfully. Then we’ll roam and rove and run in the beautiful forest once more, and fish by the river, and shoot on the moorland and hill. Goodbye, Eily. Be good, and watch. Good-bye, goodbye.”
A great tear fell on Eily’s mane as he bent down and kissed her brow.
Eily stood there by the gate in the starlight, watching the dark retreating figure of her beloved young master, until a distant corner hid him from view, and she could see him no more.
Then she threw herself down on the snow; and, reader, if you could have heard the big, sobbing sigh she gave, you would believe with me, that the mind of a dog is sometimes almost human, and their griefs and sorrows very real.
Hastily brushing the tears from his eyes, Harry made the best of his way along the road, not daring to look behind him, lest his feelings should overcome him.
He kept repeating to himself the words he had heard his uncle make use of the evening before. This kept his courage up. When he had gone about a mile he left the main road and turned into a field. A little winding church-path soon brought him to a wooded hollow, where there was a very tiny cottage and garden.
He opened the gate and entered.
He went straight to the right-hand window, and, wetting his forefinger, rubbed it up and down on the pane.
The noise it made was enough to awaken some one inside, for presently there was a cough, and a voice said —
“Who’s there?”
“It is I, Andrew: rise, I want to speak to you.”
“Man! is it you, Harry? I’ll be out in a jiffy.”
And sure enough a light was struck and a candle lit. Harry could see poor faithful Andrew hurrying on his clothes, and in two minutes more he had opened the door and admitted his young friend.
“Man! Harry,” he said, “you scared me. You are early on the road. Have ye traps set in the forest? D’ye want me to go wi’ ye?”
“No such luck, Andrew,” replied the boy. “I’ve no traps set. I won’t see the forest for many a long day again.”
“Haud your tongue, man!” cried Andrew, looking very serious and pretending to be angry. “Haud your tongue. Are ye takin’ leave o’ your reason? What have ye in that bag? Why are ye no dressed in the kilt, but in your Sunday braws?”
Then Harry told him all – told him of the determination he had for many a day to go to sea, and of the conversation he had overheard on the previous evening.
Andrew used all the arguments he could think of or muster to dissuade him from his purpose, and enlarged upon the many dangers to be encountered on the stormy main, as he called it, but all to no purpose.
“Mind ye,” said Andrew, “I’ve been to sea myself, and know something about it.”
Honest, innocent Andrew, all the experience he had of the stormy main was what he had gained in a six hours’ voyage betwixt Granton and Aberdeen.
But when Andrew found that nothing which he could adduce made the slightest impression on his young friend, he pulled out his snuff-horn, took two enormously large pinches, and sat down in silence to look at Harry.
The boy pulled out a letter from his breast-pocket.
“This is for my dear mother,” he said. “Give it to her to-day. Tell her how sorry I was to go away. Tell her – tell her – .”
Here the boy fairly broke down, and sobbed as if his heart would break.
My hero crying? Yes, I do not feel shame for him either. The soldier or sailor, ere journeying far away to foreign lands, is none the less brave if he does pause on the brow of the hill, and, looking back to his little cottage in the glen, drop a tear.
Do you remember the words of the beautiful song —
“Mid pleasures and palaces tho’ we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek thro’ the world, is ne’er met elsewhere.
“An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain,
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call,
And give me the peace of mind dearer than all?”
Andrew, when he saw Harry crying, felt very much inclined to join him. There was a big lump in his throat that he could hardly gulp down. But then Andrew was a bit simple.
Harry jumped up presently and took two or three strides up and down the floor of the little room, and so mastered his grief.
“It won’t be for such a very long time, you know, Andrew,” he said.
“No,” said Andrew, brightening up. “And I’ll look after your garden, Harry.”
“Thank you, Andrew, and the turning lathe and the tools?”
“I’ll see to them. You’ll find them all as bright as new pins on your return.”
“And my pets, Andrew?”
“Yes.”
“Well, look after those too. Sell them all as soon as you can – rats, mice, guinea-pigs, and pigeons, and all.”
“Yes.”
“And, Andrew, keep the money you get for them to buy snuff.”
“Good-bye, Andrew.”
“Good-bye. Mind you take care of yourself.”
