A Little Hero Part 1

A Little Hero.

by Mrs. H. Musgrave.

CHAPTER I

He was eight years old, and his name was Geoffry. But everyone called him Jeff. The gentle lady who was his mother had no other children, and she loved him more than words can say; not because he was a good or pretty child--for he was neither--but because he was her one little child.

Jeff had big wide-awake, brown eyes, that seemed as if they never could look sleepy. His hair was yellow, but cut so short that it could not curl at all.

This was very sensible, for he lived in the hottest part of India. But his mother certainly thought more about keeping him cool and comfortable than about his good looks. His hair would have made soft and pretty curls all over his head if allowed to grow longer. Jeff had no black nurse, like most little boys have in India. An old Scotchwoman called Maggie, who had left her northern home with Jeff's mother when she was married, did everything for the little boy that was required. She certainly had a great deal of mending to do, for Jeff was active and restless, and tore his clothes and wore holes in his stockings very often. And Maggie was not always very good-tempered, and used to scold the little master for very trifling matters.

But she loved her lady's child dearly for all that, and Jeff very well knew that she loved him and that her cross words did not mean much.

I think everyone in his home loved the little lad. He was so merry and bright, so fearless of danger, so honest and bold in speech, that he won all hearts.

His life had been a very happy one till now. But one day all the brightness and happiness came suddenly to an end, and Jeff thought that he could never feel quite so light-hearted again. He could never be sure that anything would last.

"Mother dear, do tell me, why are you getting me so many new clothes?"

he said one morning, resting his elbow on his mother's knee, and playing with the soft blue ribbons that trimmed her white dress.

Upon the table there was quite a big heap of new s.h.i.+rts and dozens of stockings all waiting to be marked.

"I am sure I cannot wear all these things here, because they are quite thick and warm, and I know we are not going to the hills this summer, for I heard father say he could not afford it."

Maggie came in at this moment with another tray piled up with collars and handkerchiefs. Then the mother put down her book and drew her little boy's head closer to her breast. He could hear her watch ticking now. Jeff heard, and felt too, that her heart was beating quickly. He smiled upwards at the loving grave eyes.

"But you know you haven't been running, mother." And he laid his little brown hand against her breast. Poor heart! aching with a grief it dared not express, bursting with an anguish it had long concealed.

"My little lad, how can I let you go from me?" she said very softly, still holding him near to her. He raised himself out of her arms quickly and looked with wondering eyes at Maggie and the heap of clothes.

"Where to? Where am I going?" he said, with all a child's eager curiosity s.h.i.+ning in his eyes. "But not without you, mother?"

Then the poor mother turned away with a sob, saying,

"Maggie, you tell him. I can't--I can't."

And when Jeff recovered his astonishment he saw that his mother had gone out of the room.

"My bairn, we're going over the water together--you and me--to England--to your grandmother's."

Old Maggie's nose was rather red, and it seemed to Jeff, not used to a.s.sociate her with sentiment, that her voice sounded queer and choky.

What could it all mean?

"Who is going?" he demanded imperatively. "Father and mother, and you and me, I s'pose?"

"No," said Maggie, beginning to sniff, "your father isn't going."

"Then mother is going, and you too, Maggie, will be there to mend my clothes," he said in a satisfied way.

"Yes, yes, I'll gang wi' ye, my bairn, my bonnie laddie--I'll no leave ye in a strange land by yersel'--but not your mother."

Jeff threw a look of extreme disdain towards the guardian of his wardrobe, and cried out angrily:

"Not mother! I don't believe you, Maggie. You can't know anything about it. Mother _must_ be going. You know she has never left me since I was born."

Then he flew to the door and shouted down the pa.s.sage in a boisterous way, his pale face growing quite red and angry with excitement.

"Mother, you _are_ going to England. Say you _are_ going, and that Maggie doesn't know."

No answer came. Perhaps in that short silence a dim presentiment of the terrible truth was felt by this little boy, so soon to be separated from all he so fondly loved.

Jeff was soon rattling the door-handle of his mother's room in his usual impetuous way.

"Mother, mother, open quickly!"

There never was a repulse to that appeal. But the door was opened without even a gentle word of expostulation, and Jeff was drawn into a darkened room. The mother had got up from her sofa, for there was a mark on the cus.h.i.+on where her head had been. She stood in the middle of the room, now quite still, with her arms thrown about her boy. He did not see at once how very pale she looked, nor did he notice how her lips trembled.

"You will not send me away from you, mother. Oh, I will be good. I will never be naughty or troublesome any more if you will come to England with me. Mother, I _promise_. I cannot go without you; oh no, I cannot!"

Jeff was sobbing loudly now. The silence oppressed him. He felt instinctively that a solemn time had come in his life.

"Do not break my heart, my boy. Come on the sofa and sit beside me, and I will try and tell you what you must know."

Then as he sat very close to her, clasping her thin hands in his own feverish little fingers, she told him why it must be. Jeff knew quite well that a great many children were sent to England from this station in the plains and that they never came back. He had lost many little companions in this way, not when they were quite babies, but just after they began to run about and to grow amusing. There were none as old as he was left here.

When his gentle mother began to remind him of the last summer's heat, and recalled how he sickened and drooped in the sultry breathless days, he remembered all he had suffered and how very tired and languid he felt. Now the summer would soon be here again, for it was the end of March already, and the doctor had said that if Jeff was not sent away to a cooler climate he would certainly die.

"We are not rich, my darling, your father and I, and he must stay here this year through the summer. I could not take you up to the hills as I did last year when you were so ill. You are everything to me--you are all I have got, my darling--" her voice broke a little. "You would certainly get ill again, and you might even leave me altogether--you might die--if I kept you here. Your grandmama knows my trouble, and she has written to ask me to send you to her. You will live with them all at Loch Lossie till some day we can come home." The pretty lady sighed and pushed her soft brown hair away from her forehead.

"Two or three years, Jeff, my darling, will pa.s.s soon--to you and me.

I shall hope to hear that you are growing strong and well, and that you are mother's own brave lad, waiting patiently till she is able to meet you again. Be a man--do not grieve me now, my own little lad, by any tears. There are many things I want to say to you before you go, and if you cry--well--I cannot say them."

The little boy's face was quite hidden on his mother's knee. She felt him sob once or twice, and then all was quite still in this great shady room. So still that at last the poor mother thought her noisy active Jeff must have fallen asleep. Her hand was resting on his head, while her beautiful sad eyes gazed through the open window and across the parched bit of garden towards the high hills far away. Oh! if only she could take her child up there to the mountains and rest peacefully with him near the melting snows, and see the colour come back to his pale cheeks in the beautiful green gardens. She did hot weep, though her heart was very sore. For it seemed very cruel to send the child so far away to kinswomen who were strange to him--who she knew were not gifted with any loving tenderness towards childhood, any compa.s.sion or sympathy for waywardness. They would not understand Jeff. Might not the cold discipline warp all the n.o.ble generous instincts of her child's nature?

Then her hand began softly to stroke the quiet head. She could not see his face, but his little body quivered more than once at her touch, and she knew then that he could not be asleep. She did not speak to him any more--she had no words ready--her heart was so full.

Presently Jeff lifted himself slowly from her knee. His glance followed the direction of her eyes. He did not look her in the face at once.

"Mother, dear, indeed I will remember. I have been saying it over and over to myself, not to forget. I will be brave; it is a great thing to be a brave man father has always said. When you come to fetch me you shall see that I have not forgotten what you say, but--but do not let it be too long. It is so hard to be a man--for a boy to be a man--to be really brave--oh, so very hard! I wish I might cry, you know, but now you have asked me not to--I cannot--I _will not_."

The mother rose up quickly and paced the room backwards and forwards, with hands clasped and eyes bent on the floor. The little boy remained quite still where she had left him.

"Jeff, not to-morrow, but the day after is when you are to go. Your father will take you down to Bombay and see the steamer. We have so short a time together, you and I, and, dearest, I can never say all the things that are in my heart. You could not remember them if I did, and even if you could they would only sadden you. It would be a cruel burden to lay upon you, to tell you of my sorrow."

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 n.o.ble thing to be brave." Then, with a heart-rending sob, "Mother, oh mother, do not be very long before you come!"