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.